Twenty-eight down. Twenty-eight up. Fifty-six sheets of plywood. Honeycombed between by two by ten floor joists cozied within fiberglass batting. Glass is perfect nesting material for mice. And the reason for the bottom layer of plywood. Not that Emil didn't like mice. Even thought they were cute little, beady-eyed buggers. Just that he knew in the deepest reaches of his soul they'd be happier living outdoors and dining on food the good Lord had planted there just for them. Also seemed to have little appreciation for mouse turds on his kitchen counter. Preventing those droppings was my introduction to the cockroach.
The day began with pencil and steel tape marking off the last of the hangers. Lots of hangers to carry lots of eight foot joists. One hundred-eighty hangers, each tacked in place with roofing nails. Eight nails per hanger. Tap-tap-set. Again and again. A mantra of repetition. Each of us bent to the task like monks in prayer. Shirts off, tool belts filled to the gills with the stubby, gray, galvanized nails. All in all, a morning's work. And nothing more than a warmup for the fun awaiting in the afternoon.
"Seeing as how this may be your last lunch on earth Archie me lad, what might your pleasure be?
Spam and eggs or eggs and spam?"
Of course I said nothing of the kind. What I did say was, "You cook it, I'll eat it so long as there's enough."
As he fired up the Coleman, Emil began, "The dying cockroach wasn't really a company sized punishment. No, it was usually reserved for after hours and restricted to a few of the chosen. First off you have to understand the nature of a DI, that of being eternally pissed off. Didn't matter what the reason, if any, they just were. The Drill Sergeants also had eyes in the back of their heads. And one one each side. They'd ofttimes catch an innocent doing some nonsensical thing incorrectly and not say a word 'til after duty hours. We'd have our boots off getting ready for the next day's misery when Smokey would come storming up the stairs just to mess with our minds. Took a minute's worth of ranting with all of us standing at attention and trying our best to be invisible. Finally, the man'd call out the chosen and have them assume the position. Flat on their backs, arms, legs and head raised off the floor in prayer to a greater power. Much like a dead cockroach. Laying there would be easy at first. Then harder and harder 'til it turned painful. 'Spose any of us could have tried to call their bluff and stood up, only we figured doing so would simply lead to some further, unseen misery of an increased intensity.
"When we're finished stringing the joists this afternoon or tomorrow morning that's the very position you are going to assume. Only, for you it'll be under the joists and holding a sheet of three-eighth inch thick plywood while I set a few nails. Sound like fun?"
The world grew small during those two days. As though the beauty of forest and stream around us no longer existed. Our view was either looking down to string and hammer the joists or on our backs working opposite the wishes of gravity. Each joist was trimmed for a snug fit, whacked in place and secured to each hanger with eight more nails. Thousands of simple steps followed by thousands more, each one important.
Next came the misery. Like all misery, placing and securing the under-decking loved company. Made it a lot easier sharing the work with my uncle. Once a sheet was corner-trimmed to fit jigsaw puzzle tight to the posts, it was my task to position and clamp it in place from beneath while laying atop a rack. The rack was there 'cause my legs and arms weren't long enough to reach the joists. While I laid there, stretched to the max, Emil scampered around me tacking each corner in place. Once a sheet was secured we both hammered away with eight penny nails. She was a neck cramper extraordinaire. Each of the twenty-eight sheets required called for a short break before we started on another.
Two and a half ten hour days took us from the start of the banding to being ready to lay the subfloor. And was also time for us pigs off to head to town for civilized food, a lumber order and grocery shopping.
I'll not belittle those hours by calling them easy. At best they were tolerable but only in retrospect. Since those days I've done more difficult things. However, there was an almost giddy joy to finally being shed of a difficult task and looking forward to fried chicken at the Hub Cafe.
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