It’s just politics, eh? No. It’s not. It’s war. And it’s a fight to the death. As soon as you hear the “just” quip in any conversation you can safely stop listening to everything thereafter.

Everything I know about politics I learned when I was in my 20s working in the excavating and real estate development industry in New York. Back then I was regularly messing around with brutal unions and vindictive governments. It was violence at absolutely every level. When I describe details of the experience I had (survived, actually) to friends most times they respond with the following sarcastic quip: “Oh, yeah, I know. It’s just politics!” And with that bit the conversation always seems to fade, which I’ve come to believe is likely the intention. The reality is that politics is war. And it’s a fight to the death. It’s not “just” anything. To think otherwise is to have a brain the size of a walnut.

I remember working this site. It was a 100 home subdivision. We had two machines — my Cat 953 track loader below and a Cat D6 dozer. The D6 did most of the deep digs and road grades (stuff I really couldn’t do with my machine) and I cleared and loaded trees and dug shallow foundations. At this site a concrete truck fell into a hole, dumped its load, and wrecked a massive footing already in place. I had to dig him out. What a mess. Took half a day of work and cleanup. The driver was young and he just misjudged the ramp, got too close to the edge, and flipped himself over. Damn near killed himself in the process too. More excavating here.

Hardware and hydraulics only, baby. No software. No bugs. No updates. No screens. Just diesel power and steel. The tools of developers. More excavating here.

I always worked late. Leaving the site when it was already dark made for a very long night of cleanup, calls, accounting, scheduling, and prep for the next day. Then I was back up running before dawn. That was all normal. More excavating here.

Finishing a backfill in the rain. Had to be careful because the loam is soaked and heavy and can break the foundation if the concrete is still green. Sometimes we’d brace the walls. That was a 120 home subdivision. More excavating here.

On the other side it’s straight down 30 feet, 15 feet below grade into gorgeous ivory white beach sand. Shocked we didn’t hit water. One day I dug a sump like this and we hit water (survey error). Then oil came up! That’s bad. Probably leaking gas tanks from storage. More excavating here.

I would often eat lunch sitting in the bucket. It gave me a sense of the utter violence that took place in that space. Same with sitting on the tracks. Not the most comfortable places around but real nevertheless. I never ate in the cab. That was for work. More excavating here.

I dumped the hinge ramps that made this move easy. They were too heavy to lift at the end of every day. But 15 tons hanging off that tail of the trailer got unnerving as the machine rocked into place. Slow! The tail didn’t break but I reinforced it with massive steel underneath. More excavating here.

I had a dream recently about two guys I met in real life years ago out on a construction site like the one below. I think of those guys from time to time even now. And, occasionally, a dream bubbles up to just enhance my memory. Here’s how it all went down that day.

I was busy working a small residential subdivision lot clearing trees when these two guys drove up in a truck and then ran on to my site. That’s generally not a good sign in the construction business in New York. I was working alone, too. One guy had a foot long metal pipe in his hand. He was yelling at me. He wanted to “talk” to me, he said.

Oh, God, again? This was getting to be a habit. They always wanted to “talk” to me, which really meant they wanted to threaten me and force me to join their fucking union — or they’d ruin my business, of course. I passed on their kind offer many times previously explaining that their kickback bonds were too expensive by multiple orders of magnitude, I wouldn’t be forced to join anything at the point of a gun, I’d work my own jobs and not theirs, I wouldn’t be coerced into hiring their people, I’d choose what kit to buy and where to get my loans, and I just didn’t like them as well. Maybe that last bit got them, I don’t know.

Anyway, pipe guy ran ahead of the other guy, who seemed to hang out around the truck on the street. I said to myself, my goodness, these guys are right out of Central Casting. Then pipe guy ran in front of my machine, which is actually a pretty dangerous move. That machine was fully hydraulic and I could have easily killed him with one quick turn on purpose or by accident. He should have known that by just looking at the damn thing. But he really wanted to stop my work. Ok, I got the hint. It’s better than jail.

So, instead, I shut down, jumped out of the cab, and attacked him. He seemed pretty surprised! I guess bullies don’t like getting attacked when they are trying to intimidate you, eh? Tough. I knocked him down and kicked some dirt in his face and then he ran off, cursing me all the way back to his truck. The other guy had some choice words for me as well from his safe distance of about 100 feet away.

I quietly walked to their truck intent on “talking” to them just like they wanted to “talk” to me, but they took off in a huff. Back then we didn’t have handy cell cameras to catch the plates! It was a red truck, though. I’ll never forget that bit. An old dirty, rusty pickup.

After my day’s work I stopped by their local union hall. I didn’t see my two little friends from earlier, but I did have a chat with some others and I told them what happened. They laughed. They knew what happened, obviously. The rest of the conversation didn’t go very well, but I couldn’t push it too far because I was outnumbered badly and I was in their shop. So, I figured I’d walk around their space a bit to look as aggressive as possible. It felt good. This was an ongoing conflict with these goons and I was trying to figure out how far I could go while alone. Ultimately, I just needed to deliver the message that there was no way in holy hell I was giving in — no matter how many times they threatened me. I’d never join their piece of garbage union. Never.

After that experience I did make it a habit of keeping a shiny new 18 inch pipe wrench in the cab of my machine, you know, the ones with the big heavy head at the end. Just for fun — and for protection. When union ghouls attack you on site the best response is overt violence directed right back at them.

Oh, btw, in case you were wondering, going to the police and reporting these guys really wasn’t an option. Not in New York, anyway. I mean, think about it.