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A thick dust floated in the air as squealing saws echoed off the brick walls. The space was a SoHo storefront midway through renovation and I was there with two co-workers from the theater dismantling a fifteen by fifteen section of rolling storage shelves, a donation to our theater by the store’s landlord.

Four or five Mexican laborers zipped quickly around the place, drills in hand or hammers, one with a boom box blaring Mexican rap. They had their own work to worry with and their own boss to please. Our only interaction was the occasional borrowing of a tool.

The two guys I was working with had been sent over from the theater’s operations department. They were older than me, both of them career maintenance men, both of them fathers, New Yorkers, blue collar working men. One was an immigrant from South America. The other was black, had grown up in the projects, had served some prison time for dealing drugs in his twenties, was a dependable worker and a respectful enough fellow.

Most people are respectful toward me. Manual labor jobs create a level playing field in which anyone can earn respect by carrying his or her weight, by not being the weak link in the chain. Normally, my work for the theater is limited to the production department. I work with other starving artist types in their late twenties, other college graduates serving as a temporary labor force. Working with those guys is fine but none of them work as hard as either of the guys I was working with from the operations department.

Piece by piece we dismantled the huge shelves. Working as a three-man team, the job took us four hours, non-stop lifting and moving, cutting our hands on the sharp metal shelving, pinching our fingers between heavy sheets of particleboard. We worked so well together, it was almost hard for me to imagine that I wasn’t part of their regular crew.

But the fact of the matter was that my two co-workers had been in maintenance for years. Chances were, they would be in maintenance for years to come. I didn’t know how long I would be working jobs like this.

When I’m not working I’m writing. And when I’m not writing I’m going to plays to see actors I know, or going to stand-up shows to see comedians I’m friends with, or going to concerts to see musician buddies. I just wrote a novel and am working on my next project.

I like labor jobs though. I like them so much I take extra ones on weekends: weeding peoples gardens, raking their leaves, painting their foyers. The people let me ask them about their lives. Just like the workers I helped dismantle the shelves, they tell me their stories.

They have little babies. They have an ex-wife and alimony payments. They have a prison record and scars from the time they fought a cellmate over time at the payphone…

As my aching shoulders strain beneath another load of particle board, my phone rang. The co-worker who was telling me about his time in the pen stopped mid-sentenced as I brought the receiver to my ear. It was my boss. They had a truck run for me. I needed to drive to New Jersey to pick up the lighting for a one man show.

Just like that everything was over for the moment. I said goodbye to the two operations employees, said adios to the construction workers, walked out to the truck and left for more important business.

Sooner or later, I know I’ll be leaving some of these jobs behind altogether.