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Sheetrock Ballet


We say they work in the trades. It’s the catchall label we assign offhandedly to those who build, maintain, and repair our homes. The label is inadequate. Such people are more than utilitarian functionaries with gravity challenging tool belts; they are unrecognized poets and performers, with each specialty possessing its own artistry and unique language and rhythm.
Consider the drywall hangers who helped convert our cement-walled basement into living area. Only a two-person team, the lead was a slender, average-height man whose tool pouch spilled over with a shop’s worth of gear: electric drill, oscillating saw, metal tape measure, utility knife, pliers, handsaw, and other drywall-appropriate pieces of apparatus. From his drill and saw, serpentine fifty-foot electric cords twisted and writhed beneath his feet.
But his feet were not flesh and blood feet. He was a man-machine atop three-foot aluminum stilts, maneuvering in fluid, untroubled steps from measurement to measurement. The power cords must have respected his skill and purpose, for they never threatened his progress.
The men’s gestures were practiced and poetic. From the lead’s hand, the metal measuring tape snaked out in smooth repeated casts, its tip landing in the corner of the room like a carefully placed fishing lure. “Click, scrape, whip,” the tape extended along the ninety-degree angle where floor met wall, as the tape’s increments increased until the lead man bent it to a stop and read the resultant number to his partner. I heard the words but didn’t comprehend; the cited values and fractions of inches overwhelmed my rudimentary Spanish.
The partner—a bit shorter and smaller boned than his chief—repeated the measurement, and in a moment, slapped his own tape on a sheet of drywall and cut it. His movements, like his leader’s, were confident, efficient, and final. In a quick gesture, his carbide-tipped utility knife sizzled along the length of twelve-foot sheetrock board, and he broke off the unneeded piece in a decisive snap. I heard a slight grunt as he picked up the remainder, almost eighty-pounds, and carried it to his boss.
 Together, the sounds of their work—calculating, communicating, cutting—scripted and choreographed a ballet in which these slender men, one on stilts and one on a short ladder, seemingly wished piece after cumbersome piece of drywall up to the ceiling and effortlessly fixed them in place.
The cadent process repeated and continued with unfailing precision. Unlike many other workers, they played no music to break the monotony of their work, and they attended one another’s need without fault or interruption. Recorded and played back at faster speed, their verbal interactions could have been exotic lyrics with mechanical background sounds offering a catchy rhythm. Set to music, their skill could have led them to an American Idol performance.
I remain in awe of their talent and await debut of their video.

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