In the 1980s with the economy bad, the mine I worked at had shut down for good, real-estate had went crazy in Park City. With all the building going on I took a job pouring cement. I worked for a fly by night construction company. My friend and I called it Evil construction. Some of the bikers we worked with ran a chop shop at night. My friend and I didn't do drugs, just booze; we kept our heads down drawing a paycheck looking for something better.

These guys hated our guts, making fun of our rural backgrounds. They were lazy bastards too, we did most of the form work, and cement pours. One biker locked his kid in the basement for scratching his bike. I mentally murdered the asshole every time I spoke to him. He was finally arrested for possession of stolen property. Hope he made the "point of the mountain," our state prison, and some skin head was using him for a pin cushion. We quit that fall, and I headed for the oilfield. I didn't know then that a place could be worse than that.