I'm currently at one of our construction company's jobsites in order to interview one of our biggest, baddest superintendents for the company newsletter. This is one of those 6'2", 240-lb Harley-riding types of guys who can make a sub quake with one good stare-down. My goal is to find out something scandalous about him: does he like the feel of pantyhose when he's unwinding in the evening? Can he dance a waltz? Does he remember the name of the girl he took to prom, and does he remember the color of her dress? That's what I'm here to find out.
I arrived at the jobsite about half an hour ago. The superintendent--let's call him Jim because that's his name--had to rush off to some emergency almost immediately, hard hat in hand, so now I sit in a trailer waiting for him while a project manager shows me the bullet holes in the wall next to me. They say the trailer was an accidental hit in a shooting--it was actually a group of guys trying to hit another group of guys, and our trailers just happened to get in the way. As did a few parked cars. Did I mention this jobsite trailer is in one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in northern California? Welcome to Richmond. Since the incident, the trailer has been surrounded by bulletproof bins to protect it. The wail of frequent sirens doesn't faze a soul around here, and a layer of grime coats every surface.
Ooh, he's back! More soon...and hopefully something juicy.
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