Innocence.
Our crew was assigned to expose the metal beams of a century-old five-story building for structural reinforcement. The first three floors breezed by. Unbeknownst to us, the outer walls of the upper stories were filled with extra ingredients.
The project was moving ahead of schedule and spirits were running high. We got up to the fourth floor and had started knocking down a large section of paneling and plaster when it happened.
For a split second, we stared up in wonder at a sixteen-foot tower of fluffy grey and white.
In that brief moment of time, my brain tried desperately to connect the dots. "Hey," the right side of my brain thought, "this building is way too old to have any insulation." The left side, meanwhile, started screaming: "Initiate evasive maneuvers!"
Some time long, long ago, pigeons had found their way into the eaves of the roof and started using the wall cavity as their very own special long drop.
It was too late. The mass of grey, no longer held in place by the panels, decided to conform to the laws of gravity before anyone could turn to run.
As soon as the dust cleared, something more disturbing happened. There we were, thigh deep in fossilized pigeon shit, and in comes this clean-cut suit with some kind of gizmo on his hip. "Good news, fellas," he said. "The air is safe to breath. Our lab couldn't find any asbestos particles in your workplace." Our recently lowered moral took an instant dive. The mixture of pigeon crap and feathers settled thick on our skin.
Justice.
a) Management had inadvertently exposed us to Cryptococcus.
b) Management knew there could be asbestos in the building, but sent us in anyway, before the lab results came back.
Envision half a dozen guys pissed off and proverbially buried in ammunition. Morgan, our foreman, had keys to the superintendent's new truck, so we commenced what could be considered an act of turd vengeance.
It's amazing how just many places you can shove caca into a pickup. We did the radiator, the A/C, the vents, the heater core -- any hard-to-clean crevice got hit. Judge as you may, we were very angry.
Events continued to unfold.
Terror.
Gene did not immediately respond to our guano insurrection. No, he was a devious, calculating bastard. The next day he invited us all out to a lunch buffet, his treat. He did the same the day after and continued to treat us to lunch for the rest of the week. The majority of the crew understood "free buffet" to be a personal challenge. So after a few days, most every partaker got into the routine of having a large afternoon dump.
Gene, meanwhile, behaving like nothing ever happened, quietly set up office outside the hall to the john.
One particular afternoon I entered the bathroom and prepared to unleash my payload. I tend to procrastinate while taking care of my dookies, so by the time I crossed the threshold my anus was already beginning to lose the containment battle. Upon entering the stall I noticed there was no toilet paper. I went to the next stall. Same problem. Not only was there no toilet paper in any of the stalls, but there were no paper products to be found in the entire restroom. No paper towels, no seat protectors, no soap, nothing.
Gene was on the offensive.
A claxon began to sound from below, signaling an imminent breach. With no further ado, I picked my stall and meditated dark, evil thoughts about the future.
Revenge.
Some of the crew were able to hold it. Others sacrificed clothing. All of us wore that "I don't feel so fresh" look on our faces.
Gene's counterstroke was malicious and excessive, as it served to escalate the conflict. Everyone on the job site was affected, not just the handful who sabotaged his truck. The ironworkers blamed Gene for the lack of an adequate crapper. The electricians blamed the carpenters for starting the whole mess. The plumbers just smiled. Retaliation often took fecal form. Mistakes were made, innocent people got hurt. It was like the Hatfields and the McCoys.
For years afterward, I would not let my lunch or tool bags out of my site. I would regularly check the bottom of the door handle before getting into my car. No longer did I use the water cooler unless I could personally vouch for its contents. I could not sit down without checking twice. I learned to carry toilet paper and to never, ever trust the boss man.
If you sow the seeds of turd vengeance, you must be willing to reap the harvest. Or at least wipe it up.