Between semesters and during summers, I worked construction to pay for my share of the rent, beer, and pizza. I imagined stories of my manual labor would spice up my lectures one day and prove to students that unlike other professors I understood the real world. The work kept me tan and ripped without going to the gym.
What a pompous ass I was.
“Hey, professor,” my boss was yelling again, “get that damn thing moving.”
“Okay. I’m going.”
Older. Flabbier. Still giving lectures in my head. A silent class.
The mini backhoe roared to life. No rest for a gravedigger.