“Controlling” the Cement (2013)

(2013 Jul 23)

As the big flatbed truck loaded with hundreds of 98-lb sacks of cement waits, I walk over to verify the number of sacks delivered (“control”) as they are unloaded behind our storage house. Four Haitian men talking rapidly and loudly carry the sacks one by one on their heads as the Haitian on the back of the truck carefully lowers each sack to the crown of a waiting head. They stumble and stare when they realize I’m there to count. I hear fast phrases peppered with “blan” (white) and finally say to them, “mwen compren ou.” I understand you. As the novelty of a pretty woman in a long yellow skirt wears off, they fall into a steady rhythm of playful insults to each other and the slide-drop of unloading the cement bags.

The cement sacks are stored in a narrow, covered walkway behind a little storage building at the corner of our living compound. As they unload the sacks in rows about 6 ft high and filling the walkway wall-to-wall, I and one of the unloaders count the sacks before a new row is begun. We stand close to one other, one hand following the other, counting by twos. He whispers the numbers in Creole and I whisper them in English as we touch every other bag. His hand is dark and leathery, dusty with cement powder. Mine is light, less leathery, and dusty with cement powder. The sacks radiate stored heat from sitting in the sun and it creates an oven effect. I can smell his body and expect he must be able to smell me, too; a mix of sweat and Hawaiian Ginger body spray. How out of place I must seem to him. My fingertips are near-scorched from the hot sacks.

After the first count I say the number in awkward Creole, “san douz” and he answers with,”Dako.” We are in agreement. One turn of counting has me saying, “san….san…” I can’t remember the word as he stares at me. “katoz?” he helps. “Wi, katoz,” I answer. Why can’t I remember “katoz”? And why isn’t “fourteen” in Creole “kat dis” (four ten) instead of “katoz”?

As one bag rips and slowly spills onto the ground and a cloud of cement dust rises around them, they launch into a loud and spirited critique of the technique used by the guy on the truck to deliver the sacks to their heads. The 4-man Creole/Spanish tirade ends in an almost musical “ahhhhhh” where, apparently, some truth was arrived by all. One man coughs the dust out of his lungs and I’m reminded of my own cough. I show them where we can gather the loose cement powder and store it until it’s used.  Despite their hot, dusty, and heavy job, one man giggles at his fellow unloaders as though he’s watching a Pixar movie.

The workers finish their task and I wave the lumbering truck along its way.