Cherry became an ironworker by chance, after the bust-up of a marriage and a move to upstate New York, and even though he betrays his fundamental literacy, he tries as much as possible to adopt the gutteral, monosyllabic speech of his hard-hat, hard-drinking, hard-mouthed buddies. And he succeeds pretty well. The book is surprisingly engrossing -- probably because sedentary intellectuals have a secret fascination for the mystique of derricks, cranes, girders, steel beams and the men who work on the raising crews straddling narrow ledges hundreds of feet up in the air. After all, it's an insane way to make a living: one slip and that's all she wrote. Cherry gets in a lot of technical stuff on construction, feeding it to the reader as he goes from job to sweaty job ""burning,"" ""taglining,"" ""plumbing-up"" and -- the most prestigious and dangerous work -- ""connecting."" He doesn't try to delve too deeply into the psyches of those he works with -- why expose yourself to ridicule? -- but hanging out in the cheap bars after working hours he gets the gruff horseplay, the moroseness, the inarticulate loyalty which cements their solidarity with each other and their very considerable pride in their work. In some ways it's a pity that this is not a more ambitious book -- you'd like to know how these guys feel about their families, their future, politics, race, etc. But Cherry emphatically refuses to play sociologist. And on its own modest terms the book succeeds in conveying the lifestyles and folklore of an industry about which most of us know little.