George

George
George hunched deeper into his ‘Hi Vis’ padded jacket as he walked out from the cabin that served as the site café in his steel toe-capped rigger boots  It was cold on the site and as they were still at the groundwork stage, there were no walls to give protection from the February wind. It would not do though, to show that he was weak enough to feel the cold in this macho, tough world “on the buildings”. He was strong, well muscled from his weight lifting training. He could swear as well as the rest of them, drink most of them under the table and hold his own with the footy questions at the weekly pub quiz, he was the star of the “Dumpsters” team.
He walked back to his loading shovel, climbed into the cab and started the big diesel engine that powered the hydraulics. He inched the tracks forward a metre and then swung the jib ready to pick up half a tonne of muck in one bite and load it on to the Volvo dumper waiting by his side. The cab was noisy from the great Cummings below, over the 86 dBA limit, so George had to wear ear muffs all day. This suited him, although they could get a little sweaty at times, as he could use them to hold his shuffle ear buds in place while he passed the day listening to his favourite music.
At the moment Allegri’s ‘Misereri’ was playing. This always brought a clutch to his heart as the treble reached up for that wonderful high ‘C’ and then the ‘16’ swooped down through the cascading scales in response. It was nearing the end and he was hoping the shuffle would move on the majestic, yet worrying, opening of Mozart’s Requiem and then perhaps St. Matt’s Passion, by the father of course, George loved his tunes.
He was always careful not to let the other lads know what he was listening to, it might spoil his image.