The Work of Others

Some people see a task that has to be accomplished and do it, because it has to be done. Other people see a task that has to be accomplished and leave it, because someone else will do it. The world works because there are still enough of us that fall into the former category.

Most of us work for a paycheck. Ultimately, though we might take pride in what we do and consider it our own, at the end of the day we’re getting something done for somebody else. It can be a dangerous mentality since that which we take ownership of could be taken from us at any time. Yet it’s a gamble to swing to the opposite extreme, and I left my last job with my head held high, knowing I was gone for financial reasons and that I always made my deadlines and turned in the best work I could produce, even up to my very last day. It’s a fading work ethic that I’ve picked up from my parents, even if their generation might consider me somewhat lazy since I don’t do a lot of physical work.

It’s always been hard for me to go home at the end of the day. It’s a given that I stay until I finish everything I set out to accomplish, or as much as possible, but on days where I’ve done everything and more, I have a sense of guilt. Driving home, it’s like invisible tendrils still connect my brain to the computer in my office, and I wonder if there’s anything I’ve forgotten. I spent the last few years working late consistently thanks to extra projects given to me by certain parties, so normal hours take getting used to. Thankfully, the further I get from the office, the more of those invisible strands snap, and by the time I reach home my brain is clear to focus on other areas of my life.

Weekends seem to be when my mental slate is most clean, at least in the Winter. Most of the year I’m playing music for others, in the bands of others, and traveling to places where others dwell. It’s nice when I get a free day to go where I want to go, a day when I can stay home and go no place at all if I like. Circumstances beyond my control will occasionally make such a day impossible.

Last year, my dad allowed mover friends of his to park some trucks on his lot in exchange for moving my mom’s piano for a decent price. The stay wasn’t to be indefinite, a few months at the most, but as time went on they seemed to be putting more instead of less on our property. One truck became two. A van and a car were added. The moving company had gone out of business, and undelivered items began piling up in the driveway. A stack of wooden skids grew almost as high as our garage. My dad asked nicely, and repeatedly, but it wasn’t until he sought the advice of local authorities and put up a “No Parking; Violators will be towed” sign that they moved the trucks. They found somewhere else to park but, having sold their warehouse, apparently had no place for the skids. There was room for a roofer to get in and make much needed repairs to the garage, one of the reasons my dad was anxious to have his property clear again, but the pile of wood and old blankets were an eye sore.

My dad made phone calls. He left messages. More months passed. Apparently, they didn’t care. Last week he even had me place an ad online asking if anyone wanted free wood. There were one or two phone calls, but the people weren’t looking for what we had. And so, when work that no one else wanted to do created a vacuum, responsible types like my father and I were swept in.

I didn’t mind spending a Sunday afternoon helping him out. With or without me, he was going to go, and with the amount of heavy lifting involved it was definitely better that I was there. When I saw how he handled a chainsaw, wearing no goggles and cutting wood that was sticking out on top of a stack, I knew at the very least I had to be there to call an ambulance if need be.

We soon worked out a system. He showed me how he had slid a few skids to the ground earlier in the week by himself, and how he was separating the cross pieces with a crowbar. Some of the wood had rotted from the rain, but some was surprisingly sturdy. I opted to climb a ladder and slide the skids off the pile away from me, rather than pull them down on top of myself the way he’d apparently been working. Once on the ground, I went to work with the crowbar, putting the long pieces in one pile for him to bundle and the six foot square flat pieces into another pile to carve up later. It was good, physical work and I was enjoying being outside. The one thought that I occasionally verbalized though was, “We shouldn’t have to do this.” I thought about all those situations in life, times where people take advantage or are simply negligent, and it is unfair that people like us will step up every time. “Who else is going to do it?” was my dad’s reply.

In three hours, we perhaps got through a third of the pile. It’s going to take a few more visits, but the fact is my dad’s question answers everything. In life, there are things we want to do and things we have to do. We can’t always do what we want, and sometimes we have to do things that we shouldn’t. There are jobs in life, tasks that must be accomplished. It’s been two months since I lost the use of a company gym, and my arms and legs were definitely sore on Sunday night from all the lifting, carrying, climbing, and demolition. I know it’s ironic coming from someone who still lives with his parents, but I can’t fathom people who leave a mess for someone else to clean up. But when we work, we’re always working for others. Even if I ran my own business, I’d have to put in extra time to be successful, and I’d have bills to pay and people to answer to. More often than not, work is something we do for someone else and believing otherwise is based solely on our mindset. At the end of the day movies, television, video games and more can remind us that we work for others, but we play for ourselves.