“You ever hear of a thing like that? A man being built into a house?” Sarge asked.
“Well now, I heard of a man bein bilt nto a football star and a scholar and even a soldier. But, I aint never heard of no man bein bilt nto a building,” Jed replied with more than a hint of scoff.
Sarge didn’t crack so much as a smile.
“Certainly, certainly. Cuz a man aint made out of the right materials for a building, like he is for an athlete or scholar- now, I don’t know about no soldier. Seems to me man aint mad out of the stuff for that neither.”
“You and me don’t agree, sirs,” the man said in that quiet, detached voice, his eyes two blue voids.
The two men slowly turned, pivoting on the man’s glazed stare. Then, they shut off the generator and walked to Jed’s truck. As the headlights swept back over the skeletal structure they blinked on the vision of the man standing, still and straight, an outline against the night sky. He was positioned between two of the exposed vertical beams, holding rank with them; preparing for war.
That night, laying in bed, contemplating the meaning of life as only those drifting between wakefulness and sleep can do, Sarge’s subconscious inserted a new, unfamiliar question into the usual list. Who am I? What’s the point? How will I be remembered?
What do I want to be built into?
------------------------------
The camera zooms in on the man’s face, moving in on his left eye in those jumpy clicks typical to low-budget, documentary films. It shakes, blurring his cold gray gaze, and zooms out again, as if struggling to focus on the subject.
Jim Searth knows his way around the camera. His film student naiveté is deliberately affected.
A microphone suddenly jump into the shot, thrust into frame.
“Tell us, sir, what exactly are you doing here?” a disembodied voice asks.
“I’m being built into this building.”
“Why? Let me clarify, why here? Why now?” the voice is eager. He came to this site to expose something groundbreaking.
“I’m being built into this building so my family will have a place to live, a place of our own. I’m providing for them because I want to and because I always knew I would.”
“Are you aware that what you’re doing is considered trespassing and is illegal?”
“No.”
“What do you think of the current housing shortage? What’s the affect on our community?”
A full minute of silence. The man stares straight into the lens.
Click. Jim looks at his partner, the voice from the film.
“We got nothing.”
“That asshole.”
--------------------------------
The construction crew arrived each morning at 4. They drank their coffee, smoked their cigarettes and began their various tasks. They talked and joked, they ate the lunches their wives or mothers or sisters had packed in their igloo coolers. Some days they listened to the radio and reviewed blueprints and charted revisions and plans. Some days they made their own music, a symphony of hammers, drills, backhoes and machinery.
They were aware of the man, sometimes working in the same room as him. He never moved on their account, and they never interacted.
“What do you think of what he’s doing?” Jim asks the foreman.
“It’s strange, we’ve had intruders on sites before. Racoons, rats. We made friends with those.”
-------------------------------
“Well now, I heard of a man bein bilt nto a football star and a scholar and even a soldier. But, I aint never heard of no man bein bilt nto a building,” Jed replied with more than a hint of scoff.
Sarge didn’t crack so much as a smile.
“Certainly, certainly. Cuz a man aint made out of the right materials for a building, like he is for an athlete or scholar- now, I don’t know about no soldier. Seems to me man aint mad out of the stuff for that neither.”
“You and me don’t agree, sirs,” the man said in that quiet, detached voice, his eyes two blue voids.
The two men slowly turned, pivoting on the man’s glazed stare. Then, they shut off the generator and walked to Jed’s truck. As the headlights swept back over the skeletal structure they blinked on the vision of the man standing, still and straight, an outline against the night sky. He was positioned between two of the exposed vertical beams, holding rank with them; preparing for war.
That night, laying in bed, contemplating the meaning of life as only those drifting between wakefulness and sleep can do, Sarge’s subconscious inserted a new, unfamiliar question into the usual list. Who am I? What’s the point? How will I be remembered?
What do I want to be built into?
------------------------------
The camera zooms in on the man’s face, moving in on his left eye in those jumpy clicks typical to low-budget, documentary films. It shakes, blurring his cold gray gaze, and zooms out again, as if struggling to focus on the subject.
Jim Searth knows his way around the camera. His film student naiveté is deliberately affected.
A microphone suddenly jump into the shot, thrust into frame.
“Tell us, sir, what exactly are you doing here?” a disembodied voice asks.
“I’m being built into this building.”
“Why? Let me clarify, why here? Why now?” the voice is eager. He came to this site to expose something groundbreaking.
“I’m being built into this building so my family will have a place to live, a place of our own. I’m providing for them because I want to and because I always knew I would.”
“Are you aware that what you’re doing is considered trespassing and is illegal?”
“No.”
“What do you think of the current housing shortage? What’s the affect on our community?”
A full minute of silence. The man stares straight into the lens.
Click. Jim looks at his partner, the voice from the film.
“We got nothing.”
“That asshole.”
--------------------------------
The construction crew arrived each morning at 4. They drank their coffee, smoked their cigarettes and began their various tasks. They talked and joked, they ate the lunches their wives or mothers or sisters had packed in their igloo coolers. Some days they listened to the radio and reviewed blueprints and charted revisions and plans. Some days they made their own music, a symphony of hammers, drills, backhoes and machinery.
They were aware of the man, sometimes working in the same room as him. He never moved on their account, and they never interacted.
“What do you think of what he’s doing?” Jim asks the foreman.
“It’s strange, we’ve had intruders on sites before. Racoons, rats. We made friends with those.”
-------------------------------
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