The Star-Spangled Banner
I was hired by Geep Mechanical in 1999, and little did I know I wasn’t just hired to a company but instead had entered what would be a six-year university. Everyone at Geep Mechanical was at least twenty years older than me.
The first few years at Geep Mechanical were probably when I acquired some of the most critical education a boy can receive on his path to becoming a man. These lessons can’t be taught in a classroom or by reading a book; no, this education can only be conducted in the “real world” by professors at the school of character building. Two of the main courses taught at this university were The Art of Laughing at Yourself and Identifying when Someone is Messing with Your Head.
At Geep Mechanical, there were many instructors of these courses, and because I was the only student at this particular university, I received everyone’s undivided attention. I did, however, have three instructors who gave me special attention daily.
First was Mike Callan, the Operations Director, and Plumbing Supervisor. Mike taught me what was expected of an employee and made sure to follow through with punishments and rewards. One thing about Mike Callan was he could be a real asshole, but he was a consistent asshole. What I mean by this was that he was the nicest guy on the planet unless you pissed him off, and he was consistent about what pissed him off. So don’t do those things, and you will be fine.
Second was Oldman Tom, who was my direct line foreman. Tom made sure I was taught things like the importance of being to work on time and helped to thicken my metaphorical skin. Tom was sixty-four when I met him at the age of eighteen. His very first words to me were, “I am too old to be training a new greenhorn. You’re either going to quit or die.” For the first few years, it seemed he was trying to make me quit by trying to kill me. He even gifted me my first nickname, “Zero.” Let’s just say it wasn’t a compliment.
Last was Len Monger, a guy from a completely different department, who often worked on the same job sites with me. Len took it upon himself to teach me pretty much everything else. Those lessons began my very first day at Geep Mechanical and continued long after I left.
When I started at Geep Mechanical, I was hired as a plumber’s helper; back then, you didn’t have to be an apprentice to work toward a journeyman license. I was fresh out of high school and didn’t know the first thing about the construction world. On my first day, Mike Callan decided to put me with Len and his partner Don who were actually part of the air duct installation department. He chose to do this so he could call Tom and inform him he was getting a new helper. This was information Tom wouldn’t be happy to hear. That day Len gave me my first taste of what was in store for my future at Geep Mechanical.
On the morning of my first day. I was sitting in Mike Callan’s office, when he called Len in from the hall.
“Len, will you come in here for a second,” Mike Callan called out.
Len stepped into the office, “What’s up, Mike?” Len said
“Meet our new guy, Michael McGarrey. Think y’all can use him while I give Tom the good news,” Mike said plainly.
“I would love to hear that conversation,” Len returned with a laugh. “Sure, we can use him.” Then Len looked at me. “This is Don,” Len pointed to a guy in the hall as I stood up to be introduced, “go out and help him load up the van.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied sharply and began to follow Don out to the shop.
Don and I stopped in the breakroom on the way, “Do you drink coffee?” Don asked.
“Yes, sir,” I responded.
“You don’t have to call me, sir, but I get it. Grab yourself a cup. It’s not great, but at least it’s free,” Don said. So, I did, and we continued on out to the shop.
“How old are you?” Don asked.
“Eighteen, sir,” I replied.
“Cool. Did you just graduate?” Don asked further.
“Yes, sir. About two months ago,” I answered.
“Well, I had better warn you about Len,” Don began, “He is an awesome guy, but he is on some sort of medication for mental issues. However, if he forgot to take his meds, he can get unpredictable. Last time he threw a guy off a roof.”
I laughed a little bit and said, “Yeah, sure.”
But Don didn’t laugh. He just looked at me stone cold and said, “No, really.”
Len was six-foot-two-inches tall and easily weighed 250 pounds. And thanks to a lifetime of cutting thick sheet metal with tin snips, he had forearms like Popeye. He had a large belly from years of drinking beer and an underlying sleep apnea issue. His back was hunched from all the years of lifting things that were probably too heavy, and he had a lazy eye. The skin on his face and arms was tanned and weathered, and while at work, he always wore a baseball cap, a maroon t-shirt, blue jeans, and lace-up boots.
I, on the other hand, only stood about five-foot-eight on a good day and weighed a mere 140 pounds at the time. It wasn’t hard for me to do some quick math and layman physics to determine that if Len wanted to throw me off a roof, not only could he do it, but I would probably land on the moon.
Don and I finished loading up the van, and Len came out.
“All set?” Len asked.
“Yep,” Don replied.
“What do you like to go by?” Len asked me.
“Mike is fine,” I replied.
“Nope, already have one of those; choose something else,” Len said.
“Um, Michael, I guess,” I replied.
“Okay, Mikey, it is,” Len said. “Hop in.”
“Nah, I can drive; Don told me where it was,” I responded.
“Nonsense. Save your gas. You can ride in the middle with us,” Len ordered.
I think it is important to point out that gas was only eighty-six cents a gallon at the time in Fort Worth and where we were going was less than ten miles from the shop. But I wasn’t going to argue.
The company vehicle was your typical construction van: white with the maroon Geep Mechanical logo, company phone number, and address on the sides. The van only had a front cab, and the back was bare except for an assortment of tools and materials. Because of this, my seat was between Len and Don on a five-gallon bucket.
I sat down on the bucket with my coffee in hand. Len asked me the usual questions. How old was I? When had I graduated? What jobs did I have before this one? And, more importantly, what high school I graduated from? This turned out to be in my favor because Len and I had graduated from the same high school, just a lifetime apart. So, then we talked about some high school football for the remaining ten minutes of the drive. Everything seemed pretty okay, “I guess he took his meds this morning.” I thought to myself.
We arrived at the job site and began unloading tools and material. We put all the hand tools in the bucket I had previously been sitting on and moved them over to the wall of the building. The building was a one-story commercial property already in use.
“Here, Mikey, take this rope and come with me up to the roof,” Len said.
I took the rope and followed Len, not thinking anything was out of the ordinary.
Then Don walked by me and whispered, “Watch out, I don’t think he took his meds.”
After we got on the roof, Len and I walked to the edge to pull up the tool bucket and materials. I was following Len when he began to mumble – “Why is he so close? He shouldn’t be so close…” – before twitching his head and neck like a crackhead tweaking out.
Naturally, I made sure to keep my distance and never took my eyes off Len. Of course, this made it pretty challenging to be of much help or get anything done. Len continued this behavior the rest of the day. Once he even put his big, meaty hand on my shoulder, and I nearly jumped off the roof myself. Finally, it was time to head back to the shop. While Len was telling the customer we were done, Don and I loaded the tools and the parts we replaced into the back of the van. It was at this time Don bestowed a task upon me for the ride home.
“Clearly, Len forgot to take his medication this morning, and he refuses to let me drive back to the shop. Now, Len tends to fall asleep while driving, especially this late in the day. Normally I can slap him in the shoulder to wake him up, but you’re riding in the middle so that responsibility falls on you,” Don said.
“Are you kidding me?” I asked, genuinely concerned, looking at Don trying to get a read on whether he was messing with me or not.
“Not at all. Len will run us right off a bridge if you don’t keep an eye on him,” Don urged.
“What kind of hell is this?” I thought to myself, trying to wrap my head around this responsibility.
Len stayed awake at first, but things started to fall apart once we got on the freeway. He would start to drift onto the shoulder of the highway, and then his head would drop. Panicking I elbowed him in the ribs to bring him back to some form of consciousness. This was repeated several times, and a few of the times, Len actually yelled at me, “Stop that!”
We finally arrived back at the shop, and I made a beeline for Mike Callan’s office, “Sir, I don’t think I can work with Len anymore,” I said.
“Oh really? Your first day and already telling me who you can and can’t work with?” Mike said. “Tell me, Michael, why can’t you work with Len?”
“Because, sir,” I began, “the guy is crazy! And not just a little crazy but batshit crazy! Look, maybe Len is okay when he remembers to take his medication, but today he didn’t, and I swear I think he would have killed me twice. Once intentionally by almost throwing me off the roof, and then again unintentionally by nearly falling asleep while driving on the freeway.”
Mike instantly started laughing, and I knew right then I had been the target of an elaborate prank.
“Len, will you come in here for a second?” Mike called out into the hall.
Len entered Mike’s office and said, “What’s up, Mike?” His shit-eating grin stretched from ear to ear.
“Stop fucking with the new guy. He doesn’t know any better yet,” Mike directed.
“Sure, thing Mike,” Len said sarcastically. Then Len walked out of Mike’s office laughing.
Mike Callan then turned to me and said, “He isn’t going to stop. It’s probably best to assume, for the foreseeable future, that if Don starts a conversation with you, it’s because he is setting you up for one of Len’s schemes.”
That was my very first day at Geep Mechanical. As you can see, there wasn’t any mercy for my naivety. In my defense, it was my first day, and I had no reason not to believe Don. I hadn’t been trained to know when someone was messing with me. On top of that, Len and Don were professionals in the art of straight-faced bullshit.
Over the years, many more situations like that would occur. But as much as Len messed with me, he also looked out for me. It was perfectly acceptable for Len or another one of Geep Mechanical’s professors to teach me a lesson. But no one else outside the company had better try. He also took me under his wing outside of work, introduced me to the world of Texas music, and invited me to events where the fact that I was under the age of twenty-one was conveniently overlooked. He helped me to develop my own quick wit and always reminded me that I was still new to the game of messing with people and hadn’t entirely paid all my dues yet. It didn’t take long before I began to see Len as more of an uncle than anything else. I have many stories of Len, but one of them stands out most of all.
In late July of 2001, Tom, Len, Don, and I were all working on a project together in a suburb of Fort Worth called White Settlement. I had been with Geep Mechanical for about two years, and the chip on my shoulder I had graduated high school with had been whittled down to a splinter. Although, to this day, Tom can still turn that splinter into a sequoia tree with just one or two words.
At this point, I had received my second nickname, Gump, which had been given to me by a group of my most beloved instructors, Len, Tom, and our female plumber Mary. We were on another job site prior to the White Settlement project, gathered around the plan table at the end of the day when Len asked, “Hey, who does, Zero, look like?” I stood there, petrified to hear what responses might follow.
After a few minutes of everyone just staring at me, Len finally blurted, “Forrest Gump! He looks like Tom Hanks from Forrest Gump!”
Everyone began to laugh, hell even I began to laugh. Then Tom added, “Yeah, he is about as smart as Forrest Gump, too.” I then stopped laughing.
From then on, my nickname was Gump. I wasn’t to upset about it, though; it was a big step up from Zero.
Around 9:00 a.m. on this late July morning, Len, Don and I were taking a break at the White Settlement job. We always took a morning break on this job to purchase our morning poison from the food truck we dubbed the Roach Coach. Sitting in the back of Len’s van, like we always did, we had begun talking about the Star-Spangled Banner and the different people who had sung it at sporting events including the Roseanne Barr version. All of a sudden, Don asked me, “Okay, Gump, you sing the Star-Spangled Banner.”
“Hell no! Len has ordered me never to sing. Not even in the shower,” I replied quickly.
“That’s true. I have and trust me; I have single-handedly saved the world,” Len said.
“Okay, then say the words to the national anthem,” Don countered.
“I can’t say it; I can only sing it,” I responded, trying to navigate my way out of this obvious trap.
“You don’t know the words do you?” Len chimed in, halfway yelling.
“I know them; I just can’t remember them at the moment. It’s one of those songs you need the music in order to sing along,” I pleaded, but I knew I had just stepped into Len’s snare.
“What?” Len exclaimed. “You can’t remember them! What are you a damn communist?”
“No, damn it! I just can’t remember the words. You’ve put me on the spot, and now I am like a damn deer in the headlights!” I yelled.
“Bullshit, you’re a damn commie! Otherwise, you’d have those words tattooed on your soul!” Len bellowed.
“Oh yeah, then you sing it!” I fired back, certain that I had just saved myself from the gallows.
“No way! I am not helping a damn communist learn our beloved anthem!” Len returned.
About this time, Oldman Tom stepped out of his truck and walked past us, headed back into the job site.
“Hey Tom, did you know Gump doesn’t know the national anthem?” Len yelled.
“Are you serious?” Tom replied to Len.
“What, are you a damn communist?” Tom then said to me, “I don’t want a commie working on my job-site! You’re fired!”
“Tom, I am not a damn communist! I just can’t remember the words!” I exclaimed.
“Sounds like something a communist spy would say. Don’t you think so, Tom?” Len chimed in.
“Yeah, I am commie spy, sent here to gather intelligence on the American construction worker and their drinking habits,” I shouted at Len.
“Nope, I knew something wasn’t right about you. What’s a Latin speaking, piano playing, twenty-year-old doing working as a plumber? You have commie spy written all over you. Get off my job site before I get my gun and kill my first Ruskie!” Tom yelled.
I stood there perplexed at what had transpired in the last ten minutes. They all were so emphatic I began to question my own patriotism. Was I a commie, and didn’t know it?
“Tom, I am not a communist,” I tried once more.
“Get off this property, Michael, or should I say Mikhail,” Tom ordered.
I walked to my truck, got in, and drove out of the parking lot headed to the shop. I was so confused. Surely, this is just one of Len’s pranks. I pulled out my brand-new Motorola flip phone and called Mike Callan.
“Hey, Gump. Want to work this weekend?” Mike asked when he answered the phone.
“Um, sure? But Tom just fired me.” I responded.
“What? Why?” Mike asked.
“Well, basically, because I didn’t know the words to the national anthem,” I stated. I was expecting Mike to tell me Tom and Len were just messing with me again and to go back to work.
“What, you don’t know the words to the Star-Spangled Banner? What are you a damn communist?” Mike shouted.
“What?” I yelled. “Did Tom already talk to you?”
“No, but Tom is right. We don’t want any communists on the payroll. This is a proud patriotic company. You are fired! You can come to get your final check tomorrow after 3:30 p.m., as usual. Just be glad I am not calling the F.B.I,” he said, then hung up.
I was so confused. What the hell was going on? They can’t really fire me for this, can they? I was so twisted up I missed my exit. Hell, I missed the next three exits. How was I going to explain this to my friends and family? Were they going to think I was a communist spy, too?
Finally, I snapped out of it. “This is bullshit. It has to be a prank. Fuck it, I got booze at the apartment. I’ll get a call in a few telling me it’s a joke,” I said to myself. I caught an exit and made my way home.
It took me thirty minutes to get home and still no phone call. So, I poured myself three-fingers of Jim Beam over some ice, sat on my couch, and called my friend, Sam.
“What’s up, man?” Sam answered.
“A lot, actually. I’ve been fired,” I responded.
“What? Why?” Sam asked.
“I’ll tell you later. Wanna go out and have some drinks when you get off work?” I asked.
“Sure thing, it will probably be four o’clock before I get off,” Sam replied.
“That’s cool. Will you come by and get me? I’ll be good and drunk by then, considering I am already having a bourbon, and it’s not even noon.” I asked.
“Sure thing. See you then.” Sam said, then hung up.
Sam finally showed up at my apartment around 5:30 p.m., and I told him about the events that had taken place earlier.
“Dude, this has to be a prank. No one gets fired for that kind of shit,” Sam said.
“That’s what I thought, but I haven’t had a phone call saying otherwise. So, as of now, I have been fired for not knowing the Star-Spangled Banner,” I said.
Then Sam looked up at me from the drink he had poured himself and said, “I gotta ask, man. Are you a commie spy?”
He laughed, I laughed, and then I threw my boot at him.
Sam and I left to go play pool at a local pool hall where we knew all the waitresses and the bartenders, which meant we were able to drink, too. It also helped that at the time, I was dating one of the bartenders, and when she heard my story, I got to drink for free. Sam and I played some pool and laughed about other events that were going on in our lives. For a little while, I forgot about my day. Around midnight, Sam had to call it a night because he had to go to work in the morning, unlike me. At home, I couldn’t go to sleep, so I grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels from my well-stocked bar and headed to the swimming pool. I drank for a few more hours, then went back to my apartment and passed out on my couch. I woke up about 1:00 p.m. and looked at my phone. Still no call. “I guess I really am fired,” I thought. Then decided to get cleaned up and head to Geep Mechanical.
When I arrived a little after 3:30 p.m., I saw that Tom’s truck and Len’s van were already there. Since it was payday everyone else’s vehicles were there, too. I parked my vehicle and headed toward the offices through the shop. As I walked through the shop, Mary and Termite, the dedicated shop guy, glared at me as though they were looking at the devil.
“I guess they got the news that I am a communist spy from Russia,” I said to myself.
As I walked into the offices, half the Service Department was standing in the hall. When they saw me, they damn near knocked me over trying to get out of the offices and into the shop. It reminded me of a scene from an old western when everyone knows there is going to be a shoot-out, and they want to get out of the line of fire.
I turned into Mike Callan’s office and saw Tom and Len were already sitting there.
“Should I close the door?” I asked Mike.
“No, I don’t think that’s necessary; everyone already knows what you are,” he replied.
“You really had us fooled, Mr. McGarrey,” Len said.
“If that’s his real name,” Tom added.
My heart crumbled. Len had never called me by my name before. I had gotten so used to being called nicknames that being called by my actual name hurt my feelings more than being called Zero.
“We’re going to follow you out so we can make sure you don’t steal anything,” Mike said.
Then they all rose from their chairs. I walked out the door and shuffled down the hallway toward the shop. My head was hung low, my heart was in my boots, and it was taking everything I had not to burst out in tears and beg for my job. I was so ashamed that I didn’t know the Star-Spangled Banner. I still couldn’t believe this was happening.
We passed through the breezeway between the offices and the shop. I opened the shop door and saw the big roll-up door was closed.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY GUMP!” everyone shouted.
There were three coolers full of beer, and everyone had a beer in their hands. I almost had a heart attack. My knees buckled, I collapsed to the floor, and I began to shed a few tears. I had completely forgotten about it being my birthday. Len, Tom, Mike, and Don had all done such an excellent job of getting me worked up about being fired; it didn’t even cross my mind. Sam, who worked for Len’s brother at an electrical company was also at the shop. Len covered that base, too, making sure Sam, didn’t mention my birthday while throwing in a jab about being a communist.
After Len stopped laughing, he handed me a beer and said, “Happy birthday, Gump. Meet me at my apartment tonight, and we will go out and celebrate.”
“No, problem. It will take until this evening for my heart to settle anyway,” I replied.
Mike informed me that Len had set the whole plan in motion a few weeks before when he found out my birthday was the day after his.
I turned to Mike and asked, “So, I still have a job, right?”
“Jesus, Gump. Yes, you still have a job. I would ask you to work this weekend, but Len has already informed me that’s not going to happen,” Mike responded.
After about an hour, everyone finished their beers and before leaving they each handed me a five-dollar bill to buy a drink with later.
It’s like Mike Callan had told me on my very first day: “If Don starts a conversation with you, it’s because he is setting you up for one of Len’s schemes.”
After this, Len and I would almost always get together on our birthdays, usually, at a bar of Len’s choosing. At 11:59 p.m. on August 6th, I would buy two shots of Crown Royal, give him one and wish him a happy birthday. Then at 12:01 a.m. on August 7th, Len would buy two shots of Crown Royal, give me one, and wish me a happy birthday.
Len would continue to be a mentor long after we both left Geep Mechanical. More importantly, Len was instrumental in making me understand that one of the critical keys to not only surviving life but enjoying life is being able to laugh at yourself. Granted, he taught me this lesson by making me the target of most of his jokes and pranks but to be fair, I was an easy target.
For Len Monger, so that he might live forever.
Borden Leonard “Len” Monger
August 6,1955 – May 22, 2012
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