A MAN NAMED HANK

       They must have thought I was hard of hearing. At least for that first week, it took some getting used to. “Hank!” they would shout over the din of heavy construction machines. “Hey, Hank!” And a couple of seconds later I would stop in my tracks realizing they were shouting at me. That was my new name. That was what I told Corky, the project foreman, when he leaned back in his chair and said, “What’s your name son?” I needed to stay sharp on this.

      Having pounded the pavement in downtown Denver for a few days, looking for any kind of job, I finally landed a position as a busboy at a Greek diner working the lunch shift. The pay was near nothing, and though the complimentary meal helped a lot, it wasn’t going to cut it. Rent at the Melvin Hotel was twenty-five a week and my wallet was running on empty. I had to find a better-paying job and quick.

    That was when I came upon the construction site. A fifty-story skyscraper was being built. They were at the foundation stage, the beginning. An entire city block had been dug out, a huge square pit excavated at least fifty feet deep. Looking down from street level, there were construction workers scrambling from one end of the pit to the other. Dozens of hard hats doing their jobs in ear-splitting noise and continuous muscular motion. Huge machines spitting out brown exhaust. Bulldozers pushing dirt, pile drivers pounding steel shafts, welders shooting sparks of blue light. A huge crane occupied the center, lifting and moving heavy supplies of steel pipes, re-bar, lumber, and pallets of 100-pound cement bags. Large trucks grinding up the ramp, filled to the brim by a relentless back-hoe. And across the site, on the far side, perched a mobile home on a wooden platform. Men with clipboards and rolled-up blueprints, wearing different colored hard hats came and went from there. None of them anywhere as dirty as the men below. These had to be the bosses. And that was where a man got hired if he wanted a job. I had nothing to lose by asking.

       Walking the perimeter of the pit, making my way to the mobile home, I was thinking how to approach the man inside. I had seen the other bosses walk away, so the main boss was alone. That was to my benefit. It’d be better one on one. I had to make a good show of it and figured confidence would be the best selling point. With that in mind, I picked up my pace, turned the last corner, and strode straight for the office door, head held high. Halfway there I cleared my throat a few times, thinking to lower my voice and toughen the sound. Then, just as I arrived at the wooden steps, I jerked to a halt. I couldn’t use “Larry” as my name. What kind of name is that for a construction worker? I bet you couldn’t find a single “Larry” anywhere in the country who worked construction.

     The man inside would say, “What do you want?”

      “I want a job.”

       “What’s your name?”

       “Larry”.

       “We don’t hire Larrys. Get out and don’t come back.”

        I had to think of something else and fast. Lingering just outside the door, turning in circles and rejecting every name that came to mind, a rising wash of panic began to bubble up inside of me. The Boss could step outside any second and catch me standing there, mouthing silent name options. “Brad… Scott… Bob…Ernie…Edward…” No, No. No. None of these worked. It had to be perfect. I wasn’t a big guy, so my attitude had to do the trick, and there was no way that attitude could begin with “Larry”. But nothing came. Drawing a blank and feeling conspicuous, I turned around and began walking away. But after a few steps, a thought suddenly clicked in my mind and I stopped. I had it. I had the answer. Right there in my middle name. Henry. And the diminutive of Henry is Hank. And Hank couldn’t be a more perfect name for a construction worker.

       Clenching my fist and punching the air, I did an about-face and marched back to the wooden steps of the trailer. Taking a couple of deep breaths, I remembered a phrase I’d read somewhere, “The Gods favor the bold.” I was about to find out how true that was. Bounding up the steps, I stopped at the entrance. The door was open, and there was the main boss sitting behind a cluttered desk, making pencil marks on a piece of paper. He was facing in my direction, but without looking up, and before I could knock on the door frame, he growled,

       “What?”

       I took a large step into the trailer and shouted, “My name is Hank.”

       There was a pause in the air before the boss man looked up. When he did, he stared at me for a few seconds, and then said,

       “Hank?”

       “Yes sir, my name is Hank.”

       He continued to look at me and I could tell he was assessing the alien presence that had just entered his world. But I stood firm and waited him out, fixing his stare boldly with my own. After a bit, he set his pencil down, and, leaning back into his chair, a slight smile cracked through his hardened face.

       “Well, Hank. What can I do for you?”

       “I want a job. I’ll work hard. And I’ll work for less than what you pay the union guys.” These last words stumbled out of my mouth without permission. Biting my tongue, I hoped I hadn’t just ruined my chances. He might be a union guy himself. But the boss man didn’t throw me out. He cracked an even broader smile. Leaning further back in his chair, he lifted his right boot onto the desk, reached over to his coffee mug, and took a sip. I stood there waiting, my mouth dry as sand. Then he said,

       “Well, Hank, I have room to hire you, but I’m sorry to say, if I do, I’ll have to pay you what I pay the union guys. Would you still want the job?”

       It took a couple of seconds for what he just said to sink in, but when it did, I nearly jumped out of my sneakers.

       “Yes sir, yes. I would, very much. Yes.”

      The boss man stood up from his chair and said, “My name is Corky. I’m the project foreman. You see that table over there? There’s a stack of application forms. Take one and bring it back filled out tomorrow morning. I’ll expect to see you 8:00 am sharp. We work an eight-hour day, plus half-hour lunch. The pay is five bucks an hour, can you handle that? Oh, and don’t let anyone know you’re not in the union, the reps get a little touchy about that.”

         Stunned at my success, nodding affirmatively, I said, “Yes sir. Mums the word. Eight am. I’ll be here at 7:30. Thank you sir.”

       Crossing to the table, I picked up an application form and then crossed back to the door. Just as I was stepping out of the trailer, I heard,

       “Hank”.

          But already preoccupied with how rich I was going to be at five bucks an hour and how good a steak dinner would taste after I cashed my first paycheck, I continued to step through the doorway. Then I heard again, this time a little louder,

       “Hank.”

        I stopped. For two seconds. Then wheeled around and said,

       “Yes sir?”

       Pointing at my sneakers, Corky said,

       “Wear boots tomorrow. You can’t work on a construction site wearing sneakers.”

       Looking at Corky, then at my feet, then back up at Corky, I stammered,

       “I don’t have boots. These are all I got.”

       “Well, shit,” Corky said. There was a pause and my heart began to sink. Then he said, “Okay, just don’t step on anything sharp for the next two days. You can buy a pair of boots after work Friday, which is payday.”

       “Yes sir. Boots. Friday. Will do. Thank you, sir, thank you.” Turning to leave, thinking the steak dinner would have to wait a week, I heard Corky again,

        “Hank?” I stopped. For two seconds. Then spun around,

       “Yes sir?”

       “Are you hard of hearing, Hank?”

       “What?”