Car Guys

My dad and I have done a lot of stuff together. We've eaten deep-dish pizza in Chicago, seen Simon & Garfunkel in concert, and watched the Jazz battle Michael Jordan a few times, too. But when I think of signature activities for my dad and I, more often than not I think of driving cars. My dad loves cars, and so do I.

Over the years, one of our favorite father-son activities has been to go on test drives. It's actually one of the first things I remember doing with my dad. My mom and sister were out in Cleveland visiting my aunt one year, and while they were away I talked my dad into test-driving a Pontiac Trans Am. I was way too young to drive myself, but I do remember being underwhelmed by the experience. I guess I've always been more of a handling guy over a straight power guy.

I don't think the Trans Am was really his style, either. My dad has always been a bit more forward-thinking than the rest of the car buying public. He was one of the first people in Utah to have a BMW (long before driving a BMW was any kind of status symbol). When I was really little, we had a blue Saab, and later, were one of the first families to get a Honda Accord. There was also that stint with the Chevy Citation, but no one's perfect, I guess.

In the years since that first drive, we've taken out everything from a 1958 VW Bug to a '91 Lotus Elan. He was with me the first time I ever drove a BMW (a red '88 325 convertible), and when I finally drove a '93 Mazda RX-7 after lusting over them for six years ("Free Bird" was even playing on the radio when I took it on the freeway). He was with me when I stalled a Miata a half-dozen times in front of a bunch of amused car salesmen, and he was with me when I zipped a Honda S-2000 in and out of traffic on I-15 at 90mph a couple summers back.

The crazy thing is, ever since that ride in the Trans Am, I've always been the one behind the wheel. Type 1 Diabetes left my dad legally blind back in the mid-'80s, and he hasn't driven since. One afternoon after a dangerous close call, he came home, tossed my mom the keys to his brand-new Honda CRX, and told her he was done.

Ever since, I've tried to capitalize on the opportunities he lost. Never was this more apparent than when I bought a '64 1/2 Mustang while I was still in college. We'd been out looking at VW Bugs, and came across an intriguing ad from a guy up near campus. After taking it out and mulling it over, I decided to pull the trigger, and I think my dad was more excited than I was.

The Mustang was a deep maroon color, a hardtop with an early model 260 V8. To be honest, it didn't have a lot of power, but it sounded great (especially in parking garages). I bought it early in the summer, and spent the next few months cruising around Davis County with the windows down while I listened to one of the two AM radio stations that worked on the stereo.

One night late the next January, my dad and I took the Mustang into downtown Salt Lake to see Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young perform at the Delta Center*. The aging hippies put on a three-hour show that pulled out all the stops, especially Neil Young, who hopped around on stage with his black Gibson slung like an assault rifle. This stood out to me because Neil is roughly the same age as my dad.  But while a Les Paul and a Marshall stack might be the best way to make Neil feel young, nothing has ever quite brought back that youthful gleam in the eye for my dad like a quick run through a manual transmission.

The night turned out to be the last triumphant ride of the Mustang, since two nights later I totaled it when I hit a patch of black ice on the freeway and hit the center median at 70mph. In the aftermath of the crash, I felt like I had let down a whole community of classic car enthusiasts, but I never got that vibe from my dad. He and I have always shared a healthy appreciation for material things, but he always taught me that material is all they were.

I keep telling myself that one of these times I'm just going to drive him out onto the salt flats, hand him the car keys, and tell him to go crazy. I almost did it one time, but when we pulled off the main road, the flats were too muddy and we almost got stuck. Maybe some other time, though. I know it would make for a better Father's Day gift than that tie I picked up this year.

Happy Father's Day, Dad...

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*Lifelong regret #217: Deciding not to buy the $4 "Teach Your Children" condom from the souvenir booth at the CSN&Y concert.

The Power of an Icebreaker

In the years since my debacle of a first date at Viewmont High School's annual Christmas Dance, I have been on hundreds of dates with hundreds of girls, but every time I feel like I have something figured out (always open your date's door, never use the word "groin" in mixed company), my next excursion nullifies it. Sometimes dating feels like flunking the same college class year after year, only your professor never actually tells you why you haven't passed.

And yet, there are a few dating tips I feel assured of. One is that you should always cheat when you play pool.

Years ago, before he was married, The Cheetahman and I went on a double date. My date was a Hungarian girl named Alex, who I'd met at my singles ward. Cheetahman's date was a girl named Wanda*, also from our singles ward, who was an avid beach volleyball player. Wanda** also liked ribs. She demonstrated this early in the evening at Tony Roma's by finishing an entire rack of baby backs less than five minutes after they hit our table.

I'm sure there are hordes of men who'd go weak at the knees when confronted by such an awesome display of rib-conquering appetite, but The Cheetahman wasn't one of them...especially when he was footing the bill. Truth is, his presence that evening was more an exercise in accommodation than romantic courtship.

At any rate, by the time the rest of us finished our meal and drove up to the University of Utah campus to shoot a few games of pool at the student union, an odd tone had been established.

Vulgar Display of Rib-Consuming Power + First Date Awkwardness = Odd Tone.

I think that's why about halfway through our second game of two-on-two, I got bored and started cheating. Whenever the girls weren't paying attention, I started pulling out the balls they'd already knocked in and placing them back on the table. Since Cheetahman and I were shooting like crap anyway, our new advantage didn't become immediately obvious. In fact, once he caught on to my plan, we both carried on the exercise for a full ten minutes before our dates realized what we were doing.

When they did finally catch us, something incredible happened. We laughed, our dates pretended to be offended, then they laughed too. The awkward date tension was broken. Everyone relaxed, and the rest of the evening was a lot of fun. On the way home, Wanda*** confessed her love to Cheetahman, and he rejected it and married Alex instead. (About six months later...not that same night).

Vulgar Display of Rib-Consuming Power + First Date Awkwardness + Cheating at Pool = Marriage.

As easy as it is to apply the value of a tension-breaker to dating, I'm going to suggest that the lesson applies elsewhere in life. And I'm not just thinking about board meetings or sports teams, either.

(prepare for profound philosophical/spiritual transition...)

One of the toughest challenges in life, particularly as a Mormon, is understanding the balance of responsibility between yourself and the Lord. We're all required to take initiative, whether it has to do with dating, career, buying leather pants, or most any major life decision, but all the initiative in the world still takes a backseat to the Lord's Timing. This frequently results in an uncomfortable tension and anxiety that leaves a person wondering whether their failure to find a job/spouse/etc. is the result of them doing something wrong, or merely The Lord's Will.

At times like those, I really appreciate those little icebreakers.

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*Not her real name.
**Again, not her real name. But a name you could associate with a woman who was really into ribs.
***Jamie Lee Curtis once played a woman named Wanda.****
****Jamie Lee Curtis was not Cheetahman's date.

Five Closed Restaurants...Five Gaping Holes in My Life

Last week I spent a few days in Seattle with The Cheetahman eating great food, taking some pictures, and catching up with a few old friends. Along the way one afternoon, while deliberating the location of our evening meal, a little burger joint back in Bountiful named Carmack's came up, because there's really no way to have a conversation about food without thinking of some of the great food that has been lost to history.

In an attempt to respect that history, I have produced the following list of favorite restaurants I have lost over the years. In an attempt to be constructive instead of merely complaining, I have also included suggestions for the restaurants that have filled these gaping culinary holes in my heart.

1. Bob's Deli, North Salt Lake

The first time I ever had beef jerky I was twenty minutes removed from a youth soccer game when I was six years old. My friend Steve and I were getting a ride home from his dad, and on the way we swung by Bob Kellersburger's warehouse so he could pick up some steaks. Steve's dad got us some jerky for our trouble. Years later I became such a fan that my mother sent me bi-monthly shipments of Bob's X-Spice jerky for the entirety of my LDS mission to Chicago. Then Bob retired, and Kellersburger's is now an Atlantis Burger.

The Replacement: I've never found a spot-on substitute for Bob's X-Spice, but a friend referred me to Thompsons' Smokehouse outside of Tooele for some good homemade jerky. It's definitely in the ballpark, and hey, any excuse to drive to Tooele, right?


2. Carmack's, Bountiful

Longtime Bountiful residents almost universally hold up Carmack's as the Greatest of the Local Burger Joints, and universally mourn the day the original spot went up in flames back in the 1990s. My only regret is that I didn't enjoy it more when it was around, as I spent most of my youth fixated on generic McDonald's hamburgers instead of appreciating the classic burgers that sprang from Carmack's ancient equipment. A few years after the original burned down, the owners attempted to open a new restaurant off of 5th South, but it wasn't the same, and died a pretty quick death.

The Replacement: Maddox Drive-In, Brigham City (Admittedly a stretch, since Maddox is no one's second banana).


3. R&B's, West Yellowstone, Montana

As a kid, R&B's was noted as the best burger joint in West Yellowstone (at least to my family), and was a traditional stop whenever we'd make our yearly pilgrimage to my grandparents' place in Island Park. Sometime in my teens the place went out of business, and now the building is entirely vacant.

The Replacement: Nothing. Absolutely nothing. There is not a single place I look forward to eating at when I go to Island Park in the summer. If anyone out there in the interwebs has any suggestions, I am EAGER to be proven wrong.


4. Eat-a-Burger, Bountiful/Salt Lake City

As a teenager, Eat-a-Burger had great hamburgers and even better spicy fries. Its locations were shaped like old '50s-style diners, complete with barstools and chrome-lined booths. Over the years they went out of business one at a time...first my go-to spot in Bountiful off 5th South, then eventually the last spot I knew of in Holladay off Highland Drive just a few years ago. I don't know how many times I ate at one of their locations, but the time I remember best was meeting up at the Bountiful spot with my friend Noel shortly after I thought I had been stood up for a date.*

The Replacement: I still miss Eat-a-Burger's hamburgers, and the old juke box that my buddy Brian and I used to play "House of the Rising Sun" on, but the cajun fries at Five Guys are a dead ringer for the spicy fries. And the burgers at Salt City Burger are fantastic. Still feels like swapping a dollar for four quarters, though.


5. Manuel's, Salt Lake City

The photo banner at the top of this blog includes an image of my dad holding a proud infant in a sombrero. That's me. We were at a small Mexican restaurant in Salt Lake called Manuel's that was one of my family's favorite lunch spots for years until it closed its doors well into my twenties. I won't kid around: it was about as authentic as a late '70s Bee Gees drumbeat, but I am as fond of Manuel's as I am of any of the ghosts on this list.

The Replacement: The Red Iguana, obviously.

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*A story that may deserve its own post.

Time Flies When You're Traveling at Light Speed

"Return of the Jedi" was not the first Star Wars film I ever saw. But it is the first Star Wars film I remember seeing. I have a vague memory of my mother coming into my bedroom as a child to summon me for a screening of "The Empire Strikes Back," and according to my parents, I was terrified of the Jawas in "A New Hope" as an infant. But I have very clear memories of "Return of the Jedi." Memories that are now thirty years old.

Ugh...

The memory that keeps coming back over and over to my mind is standing in a ticket line that wound through the parking lot outside the Century Theater with my dad and Steve Jones, my best friend. In those pre-internet days there was little more than vague rumor to prepare me for what I was about to see, but thanks to a quick glance at a novelization my mother had picked up at the grocery store--complete with a half dozen glossy photos from the movie tucked halfway through its pages--I knew two things about the third chapter of the trilogy:

1. The rebels were going to win.
2. Princess Leia was going to wear an iron bikini.

What I didn't know was whether George Lucas and co. were going to stick with this silly idea of having Darth Vader be Luke Skywalker's father. As a six-year-old who was wise beyond his years, I was still unconvinced of Empire's famous plot twist.

"Why do you believe what he said?" I would ask anyone who would listen. "It's DARTH VADER. HE'S A LIAR."

Of course, 45 minutes into the film, Yoda confirmed the relationship, then Ben went him one further and told Luke that Leia was his sister. I was totally fine with this, because as a Han Solo guy*, I wanted him to get the girl in the iron bikini.

The thing I was too young to notice was the Ewok controversy. They were far from my favorite Star Wars characters, but I didn't have any problem with them helping to overthrow the Empire. I think I would have been more disappointed if I'd known Lucas was originally planning for the planet to be inhabited by Wookiees. Live and learn, eh George?

This was also before I grew in my appreciation for Boba Fett, so I wasn't crestfallen when I saw the most notorious bounty hunter in the universe Abbott and Costello his way into the gaping maw of a sunbathing Sarlaac. Strangely, the pattern of not questioning a film in the moment is something that has followed me through to adulthood, though my current employment is forcing a more critical hand.

Even though I attended the opening day screening with my dad, it was my mother who took me the majority of the 19 times I watched "Jedi" over the course of that summer**. I'm sure half of the time it was me nagging my parents to go, but there were just as many times that the motivation came from my parents' own interest. Another lasting image from that summer is my dad swinging our brand-new 1983 Honda Accord up to the sidewalk in front of the old Center Theater on the corner of State Street and Broadway in downtown Salt Lake. Before I knew what was happening, my mom was pulling me out of the car and hustling me through the red velvet ensconced lobby on our way to a spontaneous afternoon screening***. That's the kind of thing I'm talking about when I refer to my mother's influence on my appreciation for popular culture.

But the best family memory of Jedi has to be the time we dragged my one-year-old sister to a screening and wound up on the front row. She sat on my dad's lap and stared bug-eyed at the screen for two full hours.

Man, I really miss the Center Theater. It's an office building and a multiplex right now.

Years later, even though Empire has become my favorite of the three movies, Jedi maintains the closest ties to my childhood memories. One afternoon as a teenager I was riding shotgun with my Priest's Quorum Advisor on the way to a temple activity when I related the story of my dad and Steve and I at the Century.

"I'll never forget it," I said. "May 25th, 1983."

"Wow, that's impressive," my advisor said. "When were you baptized?"

I thought about it for a moment.

"Sometime when I was eight."

Happy Anniversary, "Return of the Jedi." Jacking up my spiritual priorities for more than three decades now.

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*See my blog banner for evidence.

**Yes, I kept track.

***Inside the theater they'd hung a huge banner advertising a film called "The Big Chill." Though I didn't relate to the story of a half dozen ex-hippies reflecting on the aftermath of the '60s in the wake of a friend's suicide, the film's soundtrack pretty much laid the childhood foundation for my musical appreciation, including this song.

A Spoiler-Filled Analysis of Star Trek's Inevitable New Debate

Whenever a director gets involved in an established franchise, whether it's Peter Jackson adapting beloved Tolkien novels, Joss Whedon bringing Marvel comics to life, or even George Lucas returning to a galaxy far, far away fifteen years after his original trilogy, a unique challenge is issued: do you focus on keeping the fans happy? Or do you risk the wrath of the fanboy and make a film that will appeal to a universal audience?

It isn't always an either-or proposition, and most filmmakers (especially those noted above) have tried to satisfy both sides of the equation. Over the last few years, JJ Abrams has been staring down one of the most daunting fanboy franchises of all, and with "Star Trek: Into Darkness," he brings that debate to the forefront.

In 2009's "Star Trek," Abrams laid down the gauntlet with a timeline twist that told Trekkies they should consider his films a unique interpretation of the Trek universe instead of a regimented set of prequels to the original series. By transporting a villain from Trek's canonical future into its ambiguous past, then allowing him to alter that past, Abrams shook off the fanboy tether and got to work telling his own story. One that had Spock hooking up with Uhura and the Planet Vulcan biting the big one long before Captain Kirk could ever climb the steps of Mount Seleyah.

But instead of declare total creative independence, Abrams' Trek films have continued to forge ties to their original source material, offering frequent echoes that suggest certain events in history are rooted, regardless of your particular timeline. (Longtime Abrams fan will note the previous exploration of this theme in "Lost"). This idea is played out to unexpected degrees in "Star Trek: Into Darkness," primarily through its familiar villain.

For months, speculation has swirled around the identity of actor Benedict Cumberbatch's baddie. As the second film of the new franchise, many expected/hoped for the second coming of Khan Noonien Singh, the legendary baddie Ricardo Montalban portrayed in the second film of the first franchise. Others noted parallels to Gary Mitchell, a Federation officer featured in the original TV series back in the late 1960s. It was telling that a completely unique character never seemed to be an option, and even more telling that Abrams chose to give fans a brand-new interpretation of that eugenics superman gone bad.

By choosing Khan as his heavy, Abrams has offered thrills to Trek's longtime fans, but stifled the immortality of his own franchise at the same time. "Into Darkness" is an awesome film that boosts the Star Trek resurgence, and Cumberbatch is an impressive Khan. To rookie Trek fans and casual observers, it's a great movie, and to seasoned veterans, it's even better. But the film's explicit nods to "Wrath of Khan" (right down to Zachary Quinto's echo of William Shatner's most infamous acting moment) that propel it to new heights of meaning also force it to take a backseat to the Montalban film.

Once Cumberbatch revealed his identity halfway through the new film, I couldn't help but fall into a "which is better?" internal debate between the two Khans and their respective films. In the face of superior special effects and imposing marketing, I almost felt defensive on behalf of Montalban and "Wrath of Khan," which I see as "my" film. I guess that is what happens when you write a 15-page paper on Chicano Nationalism through the lens of a 20-year-old sci-fi flick. Or when you retain childhood memories of turning away from the screen when those bugs get dropped in Chekov's ear.

It's amusing that I/we feel compelled to do this whenever confronted with options in popular culture, or anything else for that matter. If it isn't Benedict Cumberbatch vs. Ricardo Montalban, it's Coke vs. Pepsi, or (for my fellow photographers) Canon vs. Nikon. Heck, one of the implicit purposes of the new Trek franchise is to give it more street cred in the Star Trek vs. Star Wars debate. For decades Star Wars movies have been cultural events while Trek releases were attended by a narrow sliver of sci-fi fandom. While this may not mean anything in terms of film quality, profits are what allow our favorite franchises to keep turning out product. Abrams has sought to address that gap, and I think he has made great strides in generating a more inclusive fan base for Gene Roddenberry's baby. (Of course, now that Abrams is helming Star Wars as well, things are about to get very interesting.)

But as far as the Battle of the Khans is concerned, my verdict is this: Cumberbatch is awesome, more than up to the task, and will earn his spot on Star Trek's Mount Rushmore of All-Time Best Bad Guys. But since that particular Rushmore only features two faces, and since the other one is the original version of Cumberbatch's character, the New Khan can only go so far. "Star Trek: Into Darkness" is a film that can stand on its own feet and be enjoyed even if you aren't familiar with Trek history. But if you are familiar with Trek history, "Into Darkness" becomes even more impressive, but also more derivative and dependent as a consequence.

When Cumberbatch glares at Chris Pine with hollow eyes and declares, "MY NAME IS KHAN," it is a powerful moment only to those who already know who Khan is. When Zachary Quinto prods Leonard Nimoy into his Doc Brown Moment later on, the original Spock's reaction is weighted because we too remember what Khan did the first time around. Without the source material, these dramatic moments ring empty.

Of course, rational people will understand that this debate is as pointless as arguing whether LeBron James would beat Michael Jordan in a game of one-on-one. It gives you great fodder for sports talk radio, but it doesn't really mean anything. There's no reason you can't enjoy and appreciate both Khans. But when you enter the waters of such an established franchise, these kinds of debates come with the territory.

For years I've been trying to get my English students to understand the difference between text and context, especially how context can hold so much sway over a text's full meaning. "Star Trek: Into Darkness" may have just become Exhibit A in that lecture.

My Mother the Superhero

I've often thought of my mother as the primary influence behind my appreciation of popular culture. Whether it was the stacks of vinyl records in our basement, the regular visits to the Redwood Drive-In on summer weekends, or the simple fact that my parents were watching SNL when my mom went into labor with me, it's an easy connection to make.

But the influence of my mother has been far more profound than to just give me an appreciation of Motown or the great American tradition that is the drive-in movie theater. In fact, I'm not sure she even remembers one of the most important lessons she ever taught me: that she has super-powers.

I must have been four or five years old when I found myself next to my mom at the checkout counter of the B. Dalton Bookseller in Layton Hills Mall. While she was making her purchase (probably a new Star Trek novel, because this would have been in the pre-Martha Stewart era), I was browsing through the containers of writing utensils and other impulse-buy knickknacks at my eye-level when I became fixated on a set of brightly colored pencils topped with large, multi-colored erasers. The erasers were cut in a variety of shapes, like huge diamonds or stars, and their blue, pink, and purple patterns cascaded down onto the shafts of their pencils. As I sorted through the bin, I noticed that one of the erasers had broken off its pencil, so without a thought, I kept it.

About an hour later I was crouched on the orange shag of my toy room in the basement, slowly turning over the eraser in my tiny fingers, examining it with my curious little green eyes, when my mom walked in the room.

"What is that?" she asked.

"It's an eraser," I said. Duh.

"Where did you get it?" she asked with a tone of suspicion that should have signaled trouble.

"I got it at the bookstore," I explained. "It was broken off a pencil."

Within thirty seconds I was sitting next to my mom in the car on our way back to the mall. A few minutes after that, I was standing quietly at the B. Dalton checkout counter as my mom ordered me to hand the stolen property over to the bewildered clerk. I had assumed that a damaged product was fair game. My mother was instructing me otherwise.

That night I learned that, along with her great taste in music and sci-fi TV shows, my mother had been endowed with some kind of sixth-sense radar that allowed her to recognize a stolen eraser among the Legos, GI Joe action figures, and thousands of other toys and trinkets I regularly scattered across the floor of our toy room. I wish I could say it was the only time my naive youthful logic proved no match against her maternal wisdom.

Philosophers and sociologists have debated for decades whether our behavior is a product of genetics or our environment. I have no idea if that bookstore encounter prevented me from a life of petty theft or grand larceny, but either way, I'm grateful that my mom's super-power prevented me from finding out.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. Here's a musical thank-you from me and Mr. T:

Working Like a Man

When I finished grad school in the spring of 2004, I took a job on a framing crew for the summer. My first reason was practical: the teaching job I’d applied for didn’t start until fall, and I needed money. My second reason was psychological: I needed to prove to myself that I could handle a construction job.

As far back as I could remember I’d held a grudging respect for the world of hard labor. My childhood was dotted with images of men who seemed to have an essential gene I missed, whether it was my dad working on the family car, my uncle building us a shed in our backyard, or the thousand stories I heard about my pioneer ancestors who built up the Salt Lake Valley with their bare hands. Their long hours and difficult feats were badges of honor, and felt like the epitome of manliness. I’d dabble in these tasks here and there—on Christmas morning in the 8^th grade I proudly presented my parents with a set of cast iron hot dog cookers I welded in metal shop—but ultimately I’d bury my inferiority complex in academic success.

So as my last semester wound to a close, I felt like I had something to prove. I got in touch with a friend of a friend, and two days after receiving an MS in American Studies, I was standing next to a concrete-lined hole in the ground above the Eaglewood Golf Course in North Salt Lake City, Utah. For the next three months I would help frame a 1.2 million dollar mansion at the bargain-basement rate of $8 an hour.

In two days I had traded a group of colleagues who prided themselves for their vast vocabularies for a crew who had reduced their vocabularies to variations of the same three words. Mike was tall and lanky with long, stringy blonde hair and baggy jeans that were always being pulled down by his tool bags. Robbie was shorter with dark hair, usually wore shorts, and acted as the crew’s unofficial conspiracy theorist and partier. Arash was the closest I came to a kindred spirit, if only because he was also a rookie. He’d moved to Utah to go to school after paying a man to smuggle him into Turkey from his home country of Iran.

“Iran, not Iraq,” he said the morning we met.

Our foreman was Dave, taller, lankier, and older than Mike, but with less hair. When I first met him I made the mistake of assuming his thin frame translated into an easygoing work ethic. My error was corrected quickly. Every day a lumber truck would dump a load of 12-foot 2X4s in a pile in front of the construction site, and Arash and I were tasked with hauling them up to a more accessible spot. To make the task more manageable, I started grabbing two 2X4s at a time and walking them over to the foundation. But Dave would have none of that. Without a word he stomped over to the pile, wrapped his wiry arms around a stack of eight or nine of the same 2X4s, and hauled them up the hill.

Message received. Framing wasn’t about making the job manageable. It was about getting the job done.

Inspired by that blunt lesson, I took to my new responsibilities quickly, and before long we settled into a routine: as carpenters, Dave, Mike and Robbie did most of the actual framing, while Arash and I carried stuff around and tried to cut boards to size without chopping our fingers off. Then every couple of weeks we would drive out to some work site in Salt Lake where we would meet up with several other crews to get our paychecks, eat free pizza, and hear a lecture on safety standards.

The new routine was tough, but doable, and it quickly forced me into some good habits. Being dressed and on site at 7am was a challenge for a career night owl. And I’d never been a breakfast guy, but the physical nature of the job demanded I eat something before work. It also saved me money, forcing me to pack lunches instead of meet up with a friend for an hour at some restaurant downtown.

But all the good habits in the world couldn’t disguise the moonlighting college professor who lathered up in sun block every morning to protect his pasty skin while his co-workers were draped in deep tans that testified to long years in the sun. I never really knew if my crew resented me for leaving the white collar world to sweat it out on a construction site for a few months. If they did they didn’t show it. One afternoon in July I was sitting around on a break with the other guys when I mentioned something about grad school. Mike shook his head and asked:

“What are you doing here, man?”

I thought about everything I could say in response. That I needed to prove I was man enough to work long hours with my hands in the summer sun, that I was more than a schoolteacher with a red pen. That I remembered working at a grocery store as a teenager when former classmates would come in to cash construction paychecks that were three or four times the totals I was pulling down, and that even though I knew they’d sacrificed their futures by dropping out of school to take their jobs, that somehow standing there in their grime and their grease, they intimidated me.

“I just wanted to learn something new,” I finally said.

Bit by bit, the million-dollar house took shape over the summer weeks, and along the way I scored a 50-cent raise. The cement hole became a framed basement, then a really big rambler, then a crane came by and a sweeping roof capped off the structure. As the pieces fell into place I realized that even if I’d only been cutting 2X4s, I could look at that obnoxious house and know I’d helped to bring it up out of the ground. My sweat was in that thing, and after jabbing my hand on a nail one afternoon, so was my DNA. Maybe the future owner wouldn’t let me in the door, and maybe it was insulting to be making $8.50 an hour with two college degrees, but as long as that house stood, I knew I owned a piece of it.

At the same time, I wasn’t working any harder on the house than I did when I lingered on campus long into the night researching my paper on Chicano Nationalism, or when I graded all my students’ freshman argument papers, or when I sacrificed my Spring Break to marathon my way through five days of sunrise-to-sunset work on my Master’s Thesis. Grad school never gave me a sunburn, but hard work was hard work.

As July neared August, plumbers and electricians started to come by and take measurements as they prepared the house for its next phase of construction. Soon it would be time for the framers to move on to a new project.

One afternoon Dave took me aside to give me the news. “Our next project is going to be down in Payson,” he said. Payson was about 100 miles away. 200 miles of daily commute at $8.50 an hour didn’t carry much appeal, and Dave knew it.

“I could probably bump you up to $9.00, but that’s the best I could do until we trained you as a carpenter,” he continued. “But that’s not going happen anytime soon.”

I don’t think he meant it as an insult, but the last comment still stung. Even if I didn’t want the promotion, I wanted to think I was good enough to do it. Sometimes you don’t want to go to the party, but you still want to be invited.

About three weeks earlier the teaching job I was counting on had fallen through. Quitting framing would leave me with no income and no prospects, since it was too late in the year to go back to school and get into a PhD program. But I knew the Payson job wasn’t an option. I also knew that I didn’t have anything left to prove.

I called the boss two or three times, figuring I owed him a verbal resignation, but eventually I just had to leave a voice mail. A month later I picked up a part-time job teaching for the local community college. It took another year and a half before the house in Eaglewood sold. I’ll still drive by it once in a while, but I’ve never stopped to meet the owner, and I’ll still see pickups hauling tool trailers on the freeway from time to time, but I’ve never second-guessed my decision to leave the crew.

Two weeks after I quit I went to my 10-year high school reunion. I was single, unemployed, and living with my parents. But it didn’t bother me. I knew something about myself that I didn’t know before. Plus I knew that when you go after a stack of 2X4s, you grab eight, not two.