Print article On a warm spring day in 1980, a friend asked me to come along to the daily laborers’ dispatch at the Fairbanks union hall. We drove downtown, parked on a narrow side street, walked in and sat down in the middle of the room on folding chairs. There were maybe 35 men present, by themselves on chairs or in small groups at tables. They were a diverse lot by race, by age. Befitting a spring day, good humor prevailed. A group of guys at a table were joshing and laughing — or, as my friend put it, “swapping lies.” Suddenly, there was a stir and all eyes turned to the back door. The assistant business agent had entered and was making his way to his office. An older man near me yelled out, “Hey Willie, how is that gas line lookin’?”