Yesterday morning, I heard two construction refit workers arguing in a parking lot next to their utility trucks. One looked and sounded typically Californian, while the other was Hollywood’s interpretation of a Bronx hoodlum: musclebound, bandanna, prison tattoos, body piercings, and a deafeningly loud, apishly guttural New York accent, unusual out West.
Apish New Yorker was the smart one.
“Dang, it’s hot today. I want an inside job,” said Californian.
“You’re a f***ing idiot,” said Apish New Yorker. ”We got da perfect jobs. In 10 years dere ain’t gonna be inside jobs. Dey all goin’ ta India, and da recession jes’ makes ‘em go away faster. Dey ain’t comin’ back. You work on a phone or a computer, you history, you gonna be lining up to work for guys like me. The face-ta-face job, dat’s da job dat sticks, ‘cuz dey can’t move it offshore. Get wit’ da f***ing program.”
I might have put it differently, but pretty accurate.
