The best birthday present this year was a bag of springrolls. It was from a coworker I'll call Mario Andretti, not because he's Italian- he's Philipino- but because he drives his rock truck really really fast all the time. Even in total whiteout conditions like last night. But back to the springrolls.
On Monday, Mario asked me how I was. I said I's okay, considering it was only the first shift, it was my birthday, and I would rather be home with my wife.
The next night, on the bus, Mario patted his seat, inviting me to sit with him. Then he surreptitously handed me a plastic bag with a brown bag inside it- and inside the brown bag were warm springrolls. Nice! He didn't want me to have to share them, hence the sneakiness. But I shared some anyways- have to spread the good vibes around, right?
A little character sketch is in order here. Mario is around 55, and though he has been here for 25 years, he still has a nearly-impenetrable accent. And I'm not convinced he finds our accents totally comprehensable, either. I remember my first shift back after my honeymoon last year, when Mario was still a fairly new driver. I had just settled into the operator's chair on shovel 8, getting into a groove. I heard a loud thump, which I didn't really pay much attention to. But in my peripheral vision I saw the big orange box of a rock truck much closer than you ever want to see one.
"I think he hit me!" I said to Vic, the operator. So I honked him out and got up to investigate. But Mario just pulled ahead and started reversing for a second try- right back where he was. I lay on the horn again, and call him on the radio to hold it there. He pulls up, and again the backup lights come on as he backs up again. Honnnnnkkkkk! Thinking he finally got the message, Vic and I get up and were just exiting the cab to check the damage, when here he comes one more time! I had to literally dive over the seat, grab my radio mic, where I yell into it, loud as I can "STOP! JUST STOP!" The entire minesite came to a dead stop. Turns out the damage was fairly minor, so no big deal other than a couple of tense moments.
Fast forward to six months later, and he hit me again! This time I was in shovel 10, the new one, and again, I didn't really notice (which gives you an idea of how big these machines are), I just heard a thud. Later on my subconscious kind of nudged me, and I started thinking to myself, "What was that thud, exactly?" So on the bus going home that night, I asked him, "Mario, did you run into me again today?"
Looking like a kid caught in the cookie jar, he sort of jumps, and says, "Just a little bit."
Despite his repeated attempts at crushing me beneath his 12-foot tires, Mario and I are good friends. Who couldn't love a sweet, kindly old fellow who crashes his motorcycle, comes to work wearing a red bandana beneath a skewed baseball cap, gangbanger-style, and gives me springrolls for my birthday?