Sunday School finally pays off.

It was only nine o'clock and already up to ninety-five degrees. The six of us sat in the shade of the school's brown bricks on milk crates borrowed from the adjacent cafeteria. There was no air-conditioning in the building, though even if there was we'd vote to sit outside. The smokers would demand to be in open air so they could effectively ruin their lungs. Majority ruled and coffee break was to be shared together. It was one union tradition not fading faster than the likelihood of steady work in an unstable economy. No one dared challenge it, from general foreman all the way down to apprentice. It felt good not to be the latter anymore.

"Get a load of this," Bill said as he turned his newspaper towards us. "They caught a seven-hundred-pound grouper off the coast of Brazil."

"You sure you didn't add a zero by mistake?" I asked after freeing a chip of bacon that'd lodged itself between two teeth.

"No, man. It says it took ten men to reel that monster in."

It was high time for another chiding voice to chime in with disbelief. As the greenest mechanic on the job there was only so much chop-busting I could get away with without having rank pulled on me unofficially. That voice came shining through without hesitation, without missing a beat.

"I know you can't read a tape measure, Bill," came Matt with a vengeance, "but whole numbers can't possibly baffle you as much as fractions."

"Read the article yourself then," Bill replied in the same tone that his eight-year-old probably used on him when it was begrudgingly bedtime. Things were getting thick in the humid summer air. Scott, a gray-haired old timer, took his cue to jump to the aid of his challenged union brother.

"He's not making it up, boys. Haven't you slobs read the Bible? Remember Jonah and the whale who swallowed him? That wasn't actually a whale; there are none in that part of the Mediterranean. They say that a giant grouper like the one Bill's talking about was probably the culprit." And with that Scott leaned back against the wall, his milk crate up on edge. He was proud of himself for sounding so superior. Someone had to stand up for us lay pipelayers. Why should it not've been me?

"I beg to differ with you there, Scottie," I said with a smirk only convincing on a man who knows which cup the pea is hidden under. "I've read that parable, too, and like much of the Bible it seems to be more of a metaphor than a text to be taken literally." A few of the guys turned their heads at that point. Their styrofoam cups stopped being so interesting. So this was why they heard his nickname was Shakespeare...

"What do you mean?" Scott asked, clearly flustered. His milk crate had lowered itself to the pavement again. A death-blow would still have to be delivered, however. The first harpoon was only to draw blood.

"Well, the 'whale' was probably meant to represent any big, lousy situation that could easily 'swallow' a man..." I replied.

Scott's left eye twitched. The others were listening intently. I'd managed to bring all eyes on myself, whether or not that was a good thing. It was sink or swim for the new kid. I swung hard.

"...this stupid four-week plumbing job, for instance," I concluded with a smile, thus shattering the suspended silence. All six of us laughed heartily at the discomforting fact that summer renovation work was only a temporary fix, that we'd all be back on the bench waiting for a phone call to go to work or our weekly unemployment checks. There were worse things to fear, though. There were bigger, whiter whales.