Concrete Theory

Word Count: 620

         Why does concrete have to be poured in the summer? It just doesn’t make sense. It was the first day of summer, and the thermometer said that it was already in the mid-nineties, with seventy percent humidity. In other words, it was just plain hot. The steamy Alabama sun beamed down on us.

         We had all gathered together to help pour a concrete slab for a friend’s new house. The first truck was supposed to arrive around eleven. It was twelve now.

         It’s always like this, it seems. The truck is always late, or there’s some other problem. We were sitting in plastic chairs, in whatever shade we could find, waiting. Like we had been doing for over an hour. There was nothing we could do but wait, so that’s what we did. I was starting to get worried that everyone would be so drunk when the truck came that we wouldn’t be able to do anything. Just as I was thinking this, the heavenly tones of the big concrete truck’s diesel engine reached my ears. It was time to get to work. We raced to put on rubber boots, and get in position.

         Now, before I go any farther, I feel I should explain some things about concrete. Concrete, and all those who mix it and deliver it, have a sadistic sense of humor. It’s true! It also comes with it’s own version of a burning fuse. You have only so much time to work it, and that time is never enough. The drivers, because they have other things they want to do, dump the concrete in a pile in one corner, and leave it up to you to move it around. They also like to eat a sandwich and laugh themselves silly over your frenzied antics. And then there’s the problems fate throws in your path, as you’ll find out soon.

         We guided the truck back along the forms, trying to get it around so that the shoot could reach the back corner. But (of course) the fill ground was too soft, so we got the truck as close as possible, and carted the concrete in wheelbarrows. It was back-breaking, some of the hardest work ever! And I wasn’t even pushing the wheelbarrow. We had emptied about a third of the truck, when the sound that had seemed heavenly before became reminiscent of a funeral march. The second truck had arrived.

         It was then that we knew we were in trouble. We worked quickly, frenzied even, I dare say, ignoring the choking laughter of the driver. We emptied the rest of that truck in record time, and started working on the second one. Shoveling the concrete around, we did our best to smooth out the sluggish gray mounds. We finally got the second truck unloaded, and the concrete smoothed out pretty good. We then sat down and waited on the last truck. And waited. And got something to eat, and waited. And took a nap, and waited. Finally, four hours after the second truck left, the third truck shows up. The driver apologized, saying that he had been stuck in traffic, all the while hiding a smirk.

         We got the truck in position, the driver opened up the shoot, and… nothing came out. We got a shovel and pierced the hardened concrete, releasing a slow stream. We became a blur, too fast to see clearly. Occasionally, someone would pause long enough for me to see the bluging eyes, the sweat dripping off the nose, before he dashed off again.

         Well, the concrete was eventually gotten into the forms, and we finally got it looking fairly decent. I’m sure that the peaks can be knocked off without a problem.