Glamour

                  The fantasy about worlds other than your own is a lot better than living it from within. The romance of a bohemian painter like me is something to dream about in front of a warm fireplace while sipping a Margeaux wine. But living it is a different story. Let me live it for you. I will keep the romance alive and tell you about fame and fortune and how rotten daily struggle can get.

                       It is hot and humid in Miami, really hot. Of course we planned to do the job in wintertime but the project is slightly behind. Every day there is construction going on with loud noises, slamming doors, men yelling and  lots of dust. Marble dust, dry wall dust, any dust. I was lucky to have a bathroom when I arrived at the Alumni-building of the University of Miami but most of the time the only option is a port-o-potty in the back yard.  It slants over to one side and the fumes in the heat makes the stink unbearable. Sitting there doing my business I often think thoughts of my girl friends who are having their nails done in fragrant rooms. 

                      The paint gets everywhere, on the walls but also on me and I do my job in filthy looking paint clothes bought in a goodwill store. I wear no make-up and my hair, which gets full of drywall dust anyway, does not look like a million bucks. To be brief, I look pretty bad when I am working and I could not care less because I care about the my work.                     

                        Not in the case of UM, but very often jobs in construction are not done by highly educated sophisticated gentlemen. In a job in Port Charlotte our crew consisted of a piece of dough just released from rehab, a drunk with a bloody black and blue eye, a starving musician, and a weathered foreman who could curse like a sailor. Aviva and I were the only women on the job and we both revealed an accent while speaking. During one of the lunch breaks the DUI-offender asked us if we had work permits. It made me think that people in glass houses should not throw stones. And yes, we both had green cards.                    

                         The major part of any job is like a nine to five routine. Every day I show up for work, like a farmer going to his land. I feel poor because the deposit has run out, and for days on end I can only afford minimum food and drinks. Sometimes I fuel up with quarters left over from better times. It sounds silly but for most hard workers that is reality. It still is the people behind the desks who are able to count their money, craftsmen wages are gone before the job ends. The longer it goes on, the harder it is to live without pay.

                          One day I was painting a mural in a court yard. It was outside and there was no escaping the heat. Worn out by the physical endurance of climbing scaffolds, painting, and concentrating for hours on end in an August hellish heat, the owner came by to admire the work. Politely making room for him in the dirt, I moved the tall ladder out of the way. On top stood a pan with blue paint which I had forgotten. The motion made the pan tip and from 14 feet high it fell down. It fell on my head while I was talking to John, blue streaks of paint running through my hair and in my neck.

                  His dry remark was, “I guess it’s not such a glamorous job after all.” I wondered why he even could think of painting being a glamorous job. The only moment of real glamour is when the work is done and ready to show off.  It is one brief moment which is mostly shared with totally different people than the ones on the job site. I am a Chameleon, going from rags to riches in a heart beat. Out come the Neiman Marcus outfits, nail polish and high heels. I sure look very different and often somebody asks me “Now, who did the actual job?”

Advertisement