As we reach the home stretch

The value is the friendship

I’ve heard it said many times, dear reader that everybody hates a tourist.

That may be so for I am not everybody.

And?

As a tour guide?

I love tourists.

I don’t ever want to be one.

Recently though, I’ve been a tourist - a tourist in Ricky’s world.

He’s there full time and has seniority and great pay.

I’m there as a stop gap until I can collect EI then focus on getting ready for next season as Dartmouth’s most irreverent and absurd ambassador.

So to be clear about Ricky - what I write here is lies and truth.

Well..

Three or four lies then a massaged truth.

I tend to pin some of my worst behaviour on Ricky. Much like Cartman is a projection of Trey Parker and Matt Stone’s worst characteristics, Ricky manifests a lot of my douchebaggery.

For example, while complaining about other drivers Ricky might say: What the hell is that guy’s problem?

Pretty reasonable rants eh?

My reply:

Dude knows that you have an incredibly small penis and shrivelled up balls. So small that ants need magnification to see it. I mean, you could be milked by aphids your cock is so damn small.

And Ricky?

He puts up with me.

He shakes his head wryly, trying not to smile or laugh.

So me?

I’m there laughing for two. First I’m laughing at the magnificence of my insult - milked by aphids? That shit is comedy gold.

And then?

I get to laugh at Ricky’s reaction, to my terrible joke.

My god I’ve been having fun dear reader.

Ricky?

Sometimes.

But me?

Oh my, I’ve had a blast, at some cost to Ricky’s dignity.

But I guess that’s the price you’ve gotta pay to hanging with this fool.

Is it terrible to make such jokes?

Yes.

And that’s the whole point.

That truck is like a locker room on wheels.

But it’s also a classroom.

There, I’ve relearned the value of both a dollar and daylight.

I’ve learned that I’m not as sure footed as I once imagined.

I’ve learned that even the most remarkable fool can get ground down by a global corporation.

Most of all, I’ve learned about Ricky.

Twelve hours.

Over and over.

In the dark.

In the cold.

In the kind of weather that makes your mom call and check in to make sure you actually survived the day alive.

And here’s the part that people don’t understand, dear reader:

I didn’t take that job because I love trucks.

I didn’t do it because it was good money.

I needed some stop gap work.

I knew this job was here.

And?

I took it because I knew Ricky.

I like Ricky.

And I figured spending twelve hours a day with him would be… well… fun.

Not “fun” like a waterslide.

Fun like a prison yard friendship.

Fun like two idiots laughing at the same stupid things day after day, while the world tries to grind you into dust.

Ricky brought me along.

That matters.

It’s easy to forget how much it matters when someone opens a door for you and says, “Get in, you clown.”

I needed the work.

I reached out.

And he let me step into his world.

That’s the thing about being a tourist in somebody else’s life:

You get the experience.

They keep the consequences.

Soon I’ll be laid off and Ricky will keep going.

I’ll go back to planning for the summer—back to being Dartmouth’s most irreverent and absurd ambassador, filling the world with stories that are two truths and a lie.

And Ricky?

Ricky will be out there at the end of the road, freezing his balls off alone.

Same truck.

Same dark.

Same long day.

No tourist.

Just citizenship.

And that’s where the value of a dollar and a day hits you right in the teeth.

A dollar isn’t just money.

It’s time.

It’s your back.

It’s your mood.

It’s your patience.

It’s whether you’ve got anything left in you when you finally get home.

And a day?

A day is a whole damn life when it’s twelve hours long.

Here’s the truth:

I’m not going to miss that awful truck.

I’m going to miss Ricky.

I’m going to miss the bonding.

The shared suffering.

The dumb jokes.

The little moments where you realize you’re not alone in the world because there’s another idiot standing beside you, doing the same miserable thing, and somehow that makes it bearable.

We worked through peak.

We did a season.

And it left an indelible impression on me.

Which is a fancy way of saying: it got under my skin.

And when it’s over, I’m going to be sad.

Sad for both of us.

Just… less sad for me.

Because:

1. I’m a tourist there. I get to leave.

2. My cock is way bigger than his.

Not that we’ve compared.

I just know.

That’s the kind of confidence you develop when you’ve spent enough time around a man to realize he’s got the soul of a saint and the patience of a monk…

and therefore, statistically, the penis of a garden gnome.

Anyway.

If you ever want to learn what something is worth, don’t read a book.

Work a season.

Spend twelve hours a day with someone you actually like.

Then watch what happens when you get to go home… and they don’t.