The train stopped at Bang Sue. We’d been on it only 20 minutes, maybe 30. I was trying to sleep but three peers were chatting in a language I couldn’t recognize. Russian? No, I heard “cerveza.” Spanish? Too many “sh” sounds. Catalan? I don’t think I’d recognize it even if it were. Italian? Eh, I give up.
The stop offered picturesque views of parked mopeds and sleepy taxi drivers. But as the train harumphed into motion, we passed cranes. Not the type that flap their wings into ascent, but the type that people build from diagrams and steel. The type that people use to build structures that dwarf the pyramids. The type they built in my hometown.
Dad loved those cranes. He basked in the feat of engineering and was probably proud that they were born in his hometown. He took the route home past the construction yard on purpose, slowing down to extend a 10-second passage into 30. They were lined up, waiting to be sent to Boston, Bangkok, Budapest, and Buenos Aires. These cranes, the kind without feathers, were created with the express purpose of serving a six-foot species that lives far beyond its natural abilities.
I’d almost feel guilty about the exploitation if the cranes weren’t being used for the very purpose for which they were created. Hell, we should all be so lucky.