4.09.2010

Arc-Welding for Dummies

When our welding instructors down at the hall told us not to hit the booths right away on that first T-shirt worthy spring evening we thought we'd been spared. Maybe by some rare ounce of God-given luck the two middle-aged pipefitters delegated to lead us simple apprental nothings into plumbing oblivion had decided that it was too nice a night to not be drinking beer on a porch somewhere. As is usually the case with over-confident apprentices almost out of their time, however, we were wrong.

"Alright, boys. Before we go down and weld tonight I want you to drag all of those fallen limbs on the lawn out to the street. The town's supposed to be coming to get them this week."

As if we hadn't had enough fun cleaning our own yards after the brutal storm; now we had to do it all over again--us, the fifth-year guys who'd be graduating shortly. It seemed a menial task for some first-year bums who could barely sweat pipe. The presence of a thirty-pack would've made it more palatable. Again, though: wishful thinking.

I already had a dozen inch-thick branches in my arms by the time the others had gone to their vehicles for work gloves. Union guys. Hate to say it, but some of them take the Working Like Gentlemen philosophy to the extreme. A little bark never killed anybody.

"Shouldn't the people who mow the damn lawn have to clean this shit up?" one of my brethren asked me.

"You must not know who's got that contract."

I waited stubbornly for it to sink in, but the response never came. Only the same blank stare.

"I'll give you a hint: it's the same guy who's having us clear the lawn for the sake of the guy who's going to mow it."

"Holy Christ, this hall's corrupt," my buddy said. "It's like we're slave labor."

"And in a few months' time we'll be promoted to overpaid hired guns."

It was pleasant to think about. A real sense of completion. Journeymen. Mechanics. Whatever you want to call them. It was the title in store for us eight men who toughed out the five-year program. It wasn't a college degree, but it was something. A trade. A livelihood. A second chance.

"Alright, fellas. That's good enough," our ringleader hollered from the entrance of the union hall. "Let's get going with the second half of the night. The sooner we get done welding, the sooner we'll get out of here." It was like a stubborn general on foreign soil trying to console his men with the news that the town was out of whores, but the prophylactic shipment hadn't been delayed by the bombardment. We could already taste the alcohol by the last load of sticks we'd piled high. That bubble had burst with a couple brief sentences. We groaned and descended to the depths of our union hall.

Our other instructor, the one who doesn't talk as much, snuck into my booth as I was finishing the final pass of my weld. My face shield and the loud sizzle of the arc rays prevented me from knowing he was observing my work. I felt a spark land on my arm but wanted to get those last two inches of steel stitched up. Something about my demeanor that night had been different; for once I cared about the trivial task at hand. There'd be no test, there'd be no failing, and in June I'd be graduating regardless, but that night it felt good to be focused on something other than what had been on my mind all week.

"You could've stopped to brush the spark off your jacket," he said in his gruff voice when I'd finished. "I smelled cotton burning, then hair, then skin." The crack-lipped grin he followed his sentence up with would be the only form of credit I'd get, but it was good enough for me. "You could be a good welder if you kept trying. Too bad you got such a late start."

"My joints look more like staggered nickels than a stack of dimes," I said, taking off my mask. And he was right: if any of us cared enough to try we probably would produce far prettier practice runs in that dark basement two nights-a-week. But the truth is that with most of us out of work and no real merit to our efforts it all seems such a farce. The same eight-inch piece of pipe over and over. The same blue sparks. The same smell of burning swordfish. The same steel cut, welded, and thrown out every week. They say that anyone can master a skill after five thousand hours of experience. I'm not so sure that's true without a bit of desire to kick it in the ass. "I'm taking a break," I told my instructor as he inspected the inside of my pipe with his flashlight.

Out back it was all the same routine: most guys were smoking, waving their dirty hands over sports games and woman troubles. I went through my barrage of text messages while craving one of their coffin nails. What did my cell phone have in store in the way of news? A good night to see grandma; what was for dinner at the bachelor ranch; this week's flavor of major malfunction. Maybe it's the predictability that I like.

When I returned to my station my teacher was still there. Something on his face told me it was for a reason. That dry smile was gone.

"Hey, I forgot to ever ask you. How'd you make out with that crisis?"

"She'd already left by the time I got there."

"Jeez. They're all crazy. I'd rather drink beer and go fishing with the boys. They understand me, nothing's ever an issue. If it wasn't for the sodomy part I'd gladly be gay." It seemed a bold statement for a rough-and-tough old construction worker to be making to a kid half his age and a quarter as wise. I appreciated his honesty and almost feel bad for mentioning his confession here. It is, after all, the nature of my beast, though-- myself not unincluded.

One of my classmates kicked my shin as he walked by, sending me into a crouching wince. "Oh, come on. I didn't get you that hard."

"It's a little sore from something else," I replied, grabbing the spot where the scab had formed. Already receiving my fair share of unsolicited advice for the evening I let the wound and its origin remain a mystery, despite the quizzical look on my buddy's face that was waiting for some work-related injury sob story.

The lights flashed off and on three times. That was the signal to clean up and get out of that dungeon. Deliverance at last.

On my way home I was given a rare opportunity to intervene on behalf of another lost soul. There on the side of the road was a white sign with red lettering, one like politicians' henchmen overzealously litter every intersection with during election times. The message on this one, however, was quite out of the ordinary. "Mary, will you come back?" It was hard to believe that someone had been that desperate. It was harder to admit that I hadn't thought of it during my own years of pining. Images of rock bottom flashed in my head: the solitary drinking; the reclusive nature; the weeks between shaving. I pulled over into the shoulder, put my truck in reverse, and did the sorry bastard a favor. Mary would never see the sign, her ex would be spared the torment of dealing with her again, and I would be sure to dispose of it properly as soon as I got home.

A few hundred yards down the road two dead ducks laid in the road, a male and a female. At least they both got it at the same time-- the driver was merciful. I doubt he drove a Mercedes with a Jesus fish on the back. Add that one to your scavenger hunt list. Cross "man blessed with another chance" off of it.

They say that insanity is repeating an action and expecting a different outcome. I say that's faith.

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