Point: I have been forced to carry the spirit of Pierce on my shoulders. Counterpoint by construction worker: I have been forced to carry Pierce on my shoulders
By Daniel Moattar
Aug. 2, 2013
Point: I have been forced to carry the spirit of Pierce on my shoulders.
By Oliver Wateringcan II
With the construction of the University of Chicago’s new North Campus drawing nearer by the day, I fear few of my esteemed schoolmates – perhaps none of them! – will cherish the memory of our storied dormitory in the manner it deserves. Soon, its proud concrete frame and august intellectual legacy will be no more: farewell to Pierce 418, where Carl Sagan first made eye contact with a woman, his RA; goodbye to Pierce 302, whose carpet still bears traces of a love beyond description, and seven tallboys of Miller Genuine Draft, and half a Nalgene worth of Wolfschmidt Genuine Vodka, which was genuinely something, although possibly not vodka.
Alas, the task falls to me. I have composed this paean to Pierce and buried it under a patch of grass beneath the dining hall back door, that it may return to the earth, and in so returning, bear the spirit and soul of this mighty building into the next life. I will be the Homer of Pierce, or its Virgil, or possibly its Proust, weaving a tapestry of memory reclaimed from debris. Perhaps, in the manner of a Viking funeral, I will cast Pierce Tower’s empty husk aflame. Perhaps I will sit upon its roof one last time, play a mellow chord on my harmonica, and fade gently into the night.
Counterpoint: I have been forced to carry Pierce on my shoulders.
By Charles “Chuckie Boy” O’Neal
Well, it’s about three o’clock, three-fifteen. Guess I’ve been clocked in since quarter to eight – you know the union got us paid lunch breaks, so we don’t got to punch out for lunch these days. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Hauling these forty-pound chunks of concrete and iron girder cross-sections looks like a good time, huh? I bet it does. I’m gonna tell you something: it ain’t. No, demolition is no night out at the demolition derby.
I don’t know why these slick-acting, corduroy-wearing chowderheads have got me breaking my back to tear down a perfectly good building like this one. Chief, I’m not as young as I used to be. Seventeen an hour, no dental, four mouths to feed, and just between you and me, my wife eats for two. This job is no picnic, but I’m lucky to have it, the economy being how it is. My pop used to talk about the Daley days, when you got twenty, full benefits, workman’s comp for the taking, and half your shift you sat around shooting the breeze with some goombah foreman whose granddaddy prowled the streets with Al Capone. But that Rahm Emanuel is no Mayor Daley.
Construction isn’t any safer than it used to be, either. You won’t believe what we gotta put up with. Get a load of this: last week, my buddy Andy gets nailed right in the wahoonie – by an exploding toilet. You hear that, boys? There he is, tearing up drywall on the seventh floor, and bam, a blown-up toilet!
There’s no justice in this world.
