It was an impeccably hot, July summer day, and I found myself up on the roof of a single-story residential home with nine other men: some in which I knew rather well and the others I have never seen before. It was my first day on the job; my father owns a roofing company and time finally came about when it was acceptable for me to become a man "or at least learn to work like one "and sow my oats to the family heritage. That day was by far one of the worst days I ever had experienced and I was soon to find out that there were many more to come that summer. But I desert the focus back to the scene where I was that Friday, five days proceeding my first timid and scared steps of the steep mountain top of the roof, and I found myself begging to realize something about these men; a fundamental schism occurred that day for me and was to remain that way the rest of the summer and my life. .
The house was very simple, something out of a colonial architectural magazine, with a big rap-around porch, columns supporting the house, and to my misfortune a steep and jagged rough. I guess it would be a simple, but elegant, house you would expect to see when traveling through the Carolinas. A continual blur rose from the roof, something you would see as you looking off into the distance in a desert from the pounding glare of the sun reflecting off the black shingles. My only friend that I knew that day looked over at me and smiled, saying "This is going to be a fun one day, aye-, the sarcastic look on his face made me giggle. The work began and the clashing of noises proceeded to fill the air with unrelenting forgiveness. .
This is what I remember most vividly from that day, the constant rakety-tak-tak banging of hammers resembling almost the sounds of poorly turned instruments that are being played by toddlers just for the sake of annoying people. The smell of the hot tar as it permeates the nostrils of anyone walking nearby, and even more odious than this comes the smell of roof cement and other adhesive sealers that are used.
