The daily use of Dad's car continued. I drove the truck to work once or twice, but there was always something that made me feel that it was not quite as dependable. The crop-dusting cloud of burning oil behind it as I climbed the bridge of the causeway into Flour Bluff didn't help either.
It seemed like life would be going like this indefinitely, well until the "turnarounds" which were the 12 hours on 12 hours off days just before the new section of the refinery started up for the first time.
Working every day now for months with Jeri was a tug of war of wills. He was fire-testing every aspect of what made me who I was, and I did my best to defy in passive-aggressive areas in which I could get away with it. Of course, work was one thing, he was my fitter and I needed to follow his instructions. I pulled out the stops of my youth put some frustration into the work and used it as a drive to make things happen. He noticed this, and I was starting to understand what it took to succeed in work like this. From that point, I knew that it is not easy, you just have to fight to win every moment.
Socially however, it seemed as though I was still 13 years old, sitting in the Franco-American club, sipping on ice-filled glasses with 3 molecules of Coca-Cola in them undergoing the drilling of my mother's boyfriend Richard of how I needed to buckle down and make something of myself now. I was programmed to defend myself by offending the dealer of this wisdom. The shock value of my decision to do the opposite frustrated and bewildered them. Looking back, I feel bad for them because their hearts were in the right place. I also feel bad for myself, because undoing such poor behavior took so long to deconstruct.
Despite all, I loved Jeri. He was a mentor to me. I felt bad about one day during lunch. There was a little shack about a mile from the refinery where we sometimes got a lunch sandwich. When we got our food, the Chrysler would not start. Jeri slid under the car to jump the starter with a screwdriver. I closed the heavy driver's door, not knowing that his hand was where the door and the fender met, crushing his finger. Several minutes of screaming in pain and walking around in circles followed. I felt so awful.
At home, Dad's focus on family was so acute, that he reminded me of the steady and stern father I knew when I was 5. I arrived home on the island one night and he reported that Little Jimmy, the first person I ever met in Port A had gotten abruptly done working for the Public Works department. He said that if I moved fast, there would be no doubt, I could secure that job and end the over 100 miles of driving I was doing every day.
I was a shoo-in for the position. The months I had spent in the refinery were a gift. Had I just gone from sitting home playing guitar like I did the last quarter of last year, and then going to work for the City of Port Aransas, I probably would have not adjusted so well. Fortunately, I spent 4 months in a rough neighborhood with 100's of other construction workers. Working for the city was nearly like coming home. I did have to learn to drive larger trucks, tractors, and other equipment, but the social aspect was good. I would get to learn the machinery. Other than that, I was still a clueless 19-year-old. Right turn.
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