11.19.2009

Fun with phonetics.

Why the State of New York
requires these stupid plumbing classes
to deem our apprenticeship program
accredited I shall never know.
It's a sadistic cross between watching paint dry
and witnessing your friends' balls get ripped off
well knowing your turn's next
for three hours a night, two nights a week, five years.
And at the end of it all the eight of us will get our books
have our cards, become journeyman, mechanics
sit on the list waiting to go to work
like the other three hundred bums already there.
My kids will go to (and stay in) college.

"Alright, guys," says my overzealous teacher. "If
an eight-inch pipe is full of unsaturated steam
at three hundred pounds of pressure, what do I have?"

"A hard-on," I say without thinking twice.

The rest of the class laughs in agreement.
My teacher is forced to accept this truth.

"Maybe, but what else?..." and the doldrums trudge on.

Two hours later I've finally managed to fall asleep
with my eyes open when the Soapbox Pipesmith
decides to call on me.

"If a thermal steam trap is stuck in the closed
position, what is it?"

"Fucking hot," I reply after waking from my
fantasy. The peanut gallery remains faithful
saving me from punishment, though that'd
have a hard time competing with what
I'm already being subjected to here
in the name of tradition and state-alotted money.

My teacher gives up on getting a straight answer
out of me and calls on the sorry bastard to my left.

"Jimmy, go ahead and read the second paragraph."

Jimmy blinks his eyes as if it'll help him keep
the smell of beer from wafting from his throat.
It appears he's having flashbacks from
both years he spent in the third grade.

Half-way through the paragraph
Jimmy's questionable reading skills choke
on what is arguably a toughie.
"This reaction is...is...ANAL-OH-GUESS.
ANAL-OH-GUESS? What the fuck kind of
word is that?" he asks in half-drunk frustration.

Two of my classmates look at me.
"Come on, Shakespeare," quips the guy
I've worked with most. He used to catch me
reading my car on lunch break. The nickname stuck.

"ANNAL-UH-JUSS," I mutter, my teacher's eyes
glued to my lips in humbled envy. I follow it up with
"Comparable" to clear any doubts as to the meaning
as eyes widen and grow bright with anger.

"Why the fuck would they use that word in a pipefitting book?"

"What's the sense in that?"

"What are we? Fuckin' scientists?"

"Why not just say 'comparable'?"

"Why they gotta fuck with me?" asks Jimmy
before finishing "his" paragraph.

All valid questions, really
much akin to
"What the fuck am I doing here?"

The answer comes to mind
as I look up just in time
to see the perfect pearly whites
in my teacher's mouth
shine with a devilish grin.

He's won for the night.

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