Someone such as myself, college educated, active blogger, slight predilection for alcohol but no serious addictions, would normally think himself a cut above the average scrapper.
We wear the same dungarees with a patina of rust across the upper thigh from hiking water heaters onto trucks, and our dirty shoes have the same oil drips and scuffs from work.
But are they spending their evenings reading up on historical San Francisco or are they dulling their minds with Internet pornography?
Do they develop their palettes at the City’s freshest restaurants, sampling exotic Japanese cuisine, drinking sophisticated cocktails mixed without soda, ever?
I think not. But ever since that stack of wood fell on me I’m limping around, grunting and moaning as I bend, pulling myself up on the truck with great effort of my upper body, and really, I see I am a fallen man.
It was my vigor that gave me the cockiness. It was the physical stamina, the perfect body that rose above the stooped and derelict husks of men on the tailsides of career addictions and poor diets.
The stiff right knee forces a hop with my left leg, a kick and a swing to gain momentum. People notice. A wounded man, grimy hands, torn work clothes chosen for thrift, not fit.
The world falls apart as you grow old and the next generation calls the rubble home, but it’s sadder to be rendered unfit due to injury rather than age.