Here's the other thing that happened. Last month, a guy died on the job here at the airport. It was truly a freak accident. There was only his own good-natured, enthusiastic, can-do spirit to blame. That, and the heedlessness an enthusiastic, can-do spirit sometimes generates.
The guy--- I'll call him Dave, because that was his name ---was just jumping in to help out and do a crummy job on a really busy day. He was driving what we call a tug, these low, beefy little vehicles used to tow airplanes around. At the moment, however, he was towing what we call a lav cart, which is a portable unit used for servicing the potties on the aircraft, and he backed himself under a wing of a Falcon-900, a powerful private jet with low-slung wings. Dave was not going particularly fast, but fast isn't really necessary under those circumstances; it's a tight space and it was sudden enough, regardless of his speed. He basically wedged himself back under the wing, slamming his trunk forward, down onto the steering wheel of the tug.
The force was enough that it broke the steering wheel, and he cut his arm badly. That appeared to be the main injury, and since we have first-responders right on the airfield always, he was attended to within moments of the incident. There was a lot of blood from the cut, but he was conscious, talking and worrying about whether he would lose his job. The paramedics quickly realized there was more going on than the cut, likely chest trauma. Dave was promptly life-flighted out, but he apparently suffered cardiac arrest on the way to the trauma center and died within hours.
And that was the end of it. Just a good guy, showing up to do his best and be a part of the team, and one careless minute and he's a footnote. No wife, no kids, two very, very nice sisters, and supposedly, not a lot of friends. One sister said he'd been a bit of a loner, maybe a little bit of an oddball most of his life. But all these people came out of the woodwork to mourn his passing. I'm talking about a standing-room-only funeral. Almost no one claimed to know him very well. He was just a friendly, positive, upbeat guy who was always willing to help out, and that's what everyone remembered him for, appreciated him for. That was some comfort to the family. And to those of us who worked with him.
But it was also a stick in the spokes of the workaholic frenzy we marinate in around here. We liked Dave because he worked hard, and he was willing to work. But Dave is dead. Dead, dead, dead. He left virtually nothing behind but this legacy of his willing work ethic. He had few personal effects, because he was not motivated by "stuff," or driven to acquire. His family gave his car to his girlfriend.
I've got little more than that. My kids could fight over my car, which is currently in the shop, and my shitty shack of a house with the plumbing problems. But after those, what's the difference between me and Dave?
I'd leave kids who wanted more, a husband who hoped for better, friends who would have loved to have a minute of my time... really, I would HAVE friends if I'd give any of them a friggin' minute.
WHY DO I WORK LIKE THIS??? Why does anyone? This is a form of violence, I tell you. It is wrong. It is bankrupt. Nobody appreciates it, or even respects it. And I guarantee you, if I suddenly end up with my ribs woven into some steering wheel, my last goddamn thought is not going to be about how the incident is going to affect my job performance ...
One of the other directors went to the hangar where we stored the plane involved in the incident, and Dave's bloody hand prints were still on the front wing edge, where he'd lifted up his hands while wedged under there, groping for a way to free himself.
I didn't actually see that myself, but I have repeatedly imagined it, imagined those handprints as if they were mine, bloody and desperate and grasping for some meaning...
...and not finding it. Not there.
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