Skreet

You see that? The concrete that the men just poured right off of Hickman Road in Des Moines, Iowa. Urbandale to be exact.

This spot blocked by cones. A stop light on every corner. A busy road. I drove past and remembered how I used to pour concrete in college. My football coach got some of the wayward ones jobs because he knew that we would not work out on our own. And he probably knew we needed money for booze and weed. Everybody won.

I would wake those mornings to the sweat, to the horseflies, to the sun beating my pale neck. And we would carry panels to build basements that served as the foundations to homes out in the middle of fields in iowa. It had been a long time since I skreeted any concrete.

I’m not sure about the spelling of skreet or even the etymology of the word. I don’t even really know if it’s a word. I only know that this is the way in which you make an uneven surface shine. This is the way you make the rough smooth.

Most of those guys I worked with in my early twenties were rough. A couple of them slept on a sofa in the shop and would say things like back that anhydrous truck up. Those guys didn’t need sleep. Those guys didn’t need brains to check the pins and wedges and make sure the four by eight foot doors stayed locked together when the concrete came pouring in.

This four way stop was different. Three men. Two Latinos and a Caucasian. Now, I don’t know if that is the proper label. I am 48 years old and if either of the aforementioned terms cause some discomfort I will certainly adhere to current suggestions.

All that said, I watched these men on my way to the grocery. They left the poured concrete flat but rough. One man stood in the middle in rubber boots and raked the wet slop back to avoid it spilling over the edges while the other men, one at each side, pulled their edges off the already existing concrete and back into the hole.

I wondered whether they would skreet, but I had to get to the grocery.

On my way back home I saw them again. The hole was perfectly skreeted. Shiny, even. I rolled down the car window. 

“I wondered if y’all were going to skreet that,” I said. “It looks good. Real good.”

One of the Latino men said, “I told you, Tom. Is looking good.”

Tom smiled. The other Latino gave me a thumbs up. I did not see the man in the truck.

From the other side of Hickman Road a car approached. Still a couple blocks from us I had this thought: can’t you have some patience? I imagined the man honking his horn. I judged the way he would never be able to appreciate concrete on a Monday afternoon. I just knew that I was better than him.

I drove away before anybody honked. Then I thought how the mind is able to hold opposing ways of thinking simultaneously. I thought about the pointlessness of letting another’s impatience or my own impatience or anybody’s way of thinking get to me.

I want to write and do things that matter and at the same time I can quickly judge those who want to write and do things that matter. It’s a confusing road. But really it’s not. If what we face is met with love I do not think that I can ever lose.

The interaction with the skreeters certainly came from a place of love. And then I was able to show myself love even after the thoughts that came to me were not so lovely. There comes a joy in watching all of this unfold, in knowing how we get to be there for the moment.

Yesterday I could have written my name. I could have offered a handprint. Maybe I would become a question in the head of a man walking his dog many Mondays from now, after many paths, suddenly hit by the wonder of just who was that who left his hand in the middle of the street.