The summer heat was thick, to stand outside meant to feel sweat bead up on your skin. It was mid-July and I had just returned from a trip to China, my whole understanding of the world shaken. The White House lobby was kind of cool, the working fans spinning at full speed, the others going as fast as they could. It felt good to be in familiar surroundings. Over the past years, the lobby has always had a slow welcoming feel to it; the plants hanging from the ceiling, the orange and white cat weaving between the chairs to greet the old timers. Some days it feels like the lobby itself is an old man, a place that’s already seen its most ambitious and dangerous times, and now sits back, full of stories, waiting in relative peace for the days to pass on.
Since I’d been out of the loop awhile, I needed to get the camera rolling again, get caught up on the happenings of the White House. At Matt’s suggestion, I followed a new employee of the hotel, a skinny young Scotsman named James. 20 years old and loaded with optimism, he told the camera of his plans to improve the White House– to “get it in its prime again.” James had been assigned a new job, the seemingly simple task of making minor repairs to an empty cubicle on the first floor. Confidence in his stride, James dragged wood out from the basement.
First, he set out to repair the chickenwire ceiling. This meant he had to cut some long thin wood slats. (Part of the ceiling had been torn off, almost certainly evidence of someone climbing in from above to steal valuables) Using four steel chair frames, James set up a simple workbench and then selected a hand saw from the tool shed. After measuring, he attempted to saw but his slender arms were not capable of generating the power to move the saw through the wood. He soon took a lengthy smoke break. Upon his return, we found Paulie in the tool shed. It was Paulie’s day off but he had stopped by to check in, he said. When James explained what he was attempting to do, Paulie realized the futility of James approach and took over, intending to educate James on how to use the power saw. As Paulie changed into a work shirt, I noticed massive scars on his chest. Paulie said that he’d had a number of heart attacks which required bypass surgery, and he’d also had a stroke. He mentioned this without any desire to be pitied for his poor health or commended for his knack for survival. It was very matter-of-fact, the same way he’d talk about what he’d had for lunch.
The power saw out, Paulie began to cut the wood, producing a harsh high-pitched screaming sound. Particles of the plywood filled the air like snowfall. It was hard for me to breathe from a distance of ten feet. Paulie, whose face was inches from the saw, didn’t wear a facemask or even safety goggles. Every minute or so he would have to stop sawing and shake his head, causing all the wood bits to fall off his face. Every time he did this I would chuckle a little bit, thinking that he looked remarkably like a giant dog shaking water off his body. I climbed an old fire escape to breathe easier and get an aerial shot, the late afternoon light adding a soft beauty to the moment. The two men worked outside on the small concrete patio, surrounded by old brick walls. Paulie scolded James when he realized James’ measurements made him cut more wood then was needed. This prompted James to leave quickly with the wood, not even thanking Paulie for his help. I followed James inside and upstairs to the first floor cubicle where he made a brief attempt to repair the ceiling, giving up after a few minutes to leave for a long lunch break. I decided to head back down and catch up with Paulie.
