James Hunt: Broken Lines

The floorboards creaked when Mike stumbled from the bed to the bathroom. He tripped over one of Anne’s heels and cursed under his breath, kicking the shoe out of his path. He turned around to make sure he hadn’t woken her up. She was still drooling on her pillow.

Mike crammed himself into the tiny bathroom. His legs smashed up against the side of the tub when he closed the door. He splashed water on his face letting the cold shock him awake. Droplets of water speckled his reflection in the small mirror above the sink. He cracked his knuckles, wincing with each pop.

He showered, shaved, threw his boots on, kissed Anne on her forehead, and did the same with his daughter, Kalen, and son, Freddy, then was out the door.

Dirt and bits of rust and metal flew up from the cloth seats of his truck’s cab when Mike sat down. He pulled the handle of the glove box open. He shoved a small bag out of the way and pulled out a badge. He pinned “Yard’s Steel Mill” to his chest. Scraps of metal and steel rods rolled and clanked in the truck bed as he reversed out of the driveway.

The blue digital lights of the dashboard clock glowed 6:11a.m. The view of the Pittsburgh skyline from the interstate was still outlined in grey without the morning sun. Mike’s fingers twisted the radio tuner, searching for a station. Static and scramble came through until he finally landed on an AM station

“Good morning, Pittsburgh. It’s a beautiful Wednesday morning here at 560 WFRB. Traffic right now is clear on highway 62. The first day of summer should be a hot one as temperatures are expected to get into the mid-eighties this afternoon, so taking the kiddies to the pool to cool off might be in order now that school is officially over.”

Mike pulled into the parking space of an empty lot outside a small, fading brown one-story building. He walked through the empty parking lot up to the automatic sliding glass doors. A smiling receptionist gave him a wave when he entered.

“Hey, Mike.”

“Hey, Nicole,” he said. “Is my dad ready to go?”

“Should be. He was finishing getting ready when I walked past him this morning. I’ll give him a buzz.”

“Thanks.”

A few elderly folks with walkers emerged from the hallway into the waiting room where Mike sat. Their liver-spotted hands gripped the steel-grey handles of their walkers. The green tennis balls at the bottom slid across the carpet propelled by their slowly shuffling feet.

Ulysses walked down the hallway weaving in and out of the shrunken, hunched over, elderly obstacles and walked right past Mike without looking at him. The automatic sliding glass doors chimed open when Ulysses passed through them and headed for Mike’s truck.

Mike’s eyes went from the exit back to Nicole, whose lower lip was protruding, still watching Ulysses walking to the truck.

“Pirates lose last night?” Mike asked.

“Yeah,” Nicole replied.

The sun was rising in the east, coming up over the skyscrapers in the foreground. Beams of orange light hit Mike’s and Ulysses’ faces through the windshield of the truck. Blinkers and taillights flashed in front of them in the thickening traffic. Mike flipped on his left blinker to merge. A horn blared and sent Mike swerving back into his own lane and sending Ulysses’ shoulder slamming against the door.

“Jesus Christ,” Ulysses said, adjusting his seat belt.

“You all right, Dad?”

“I could have driven myself.”

“The doctor said you wouldn’t be able to drive after the tests.”

“Tests. Pills. Needles. Activity time. You know I helped construct half the buildings in this city?”

“Dad, I told you to just come and stay with us. We have the spare bedroom.”

Ulysses waved him off. He twisted a thick gold band around his wrinkled fingers.

“I won’t be anybody’s burden.”

The clock dashboard flashed 6:55a.m. when Mike pulled into the hospital’s drop off lane.

“The doctor said the tests should only take a few hours. I’ll come and grab you on my lunch hour and take you back to the retireme—” Mike started, but Ulysses spun his head around. Mike knew he hated that word.

“Back to your place, okay?” Mike finished.

“Yeah, okay,” Ulysses said.

“Hey, and don’t give the staff any trouble if they have to bring you out in a wheelchair this time.”

“If I can walk out on my own steam I’m going to do it. I don’t need a goddamn wheelchair.”

Ulysses flung the passenger door open, climbed out, and slammed the heavy metal truck door behind him.

The steel mill was already filled with the sounds of cranes, trucks, and the shouts of supervisors giving orders. Mike joined the line of men waiting to clock in. A solid row of hardhats and baseball caps were ahead of him.

Paul White, an elderly man almost his father’s age, squinted down at a computer screen. His large hands fumbled with the icons on the touch screen.

Don, a twenty-something man in a greasy jumpsuit, shifted from side to side. His eyes drilled into the back of the old man’s head.

“You just hit clock-in, grandpa,” Don shouted.

Paul stayed focused on the screen. His finger hovered over dozens of tiny icons. He jumped a bit when Mike grabbed his shoulder.

“It’s usually easy to find my name, but I’ve never seen this screen before,” Paul said.

“It’s all right, Paul,” Mike said.

Mike pressed a few different icons and pulled up Paul’s name. He hit ‘clock-in’ and a large green check mark appeared.

“Thanks, Mike,” Paul said.

Paul hobbled off into the yard and Mike walked back to his spot in line.

“I’m surprised you were able to figure it out, Mike. I figured once they got rid of that old punch card reader half the plant would retire,” Don said.

“Let me know if you need help getting your welder running, Don. I wouldn’t want you to burn your hand again.”

Mike grinned walking back into place listening to the rest of the line chuckling behind him.

White, yellow, and orange sparks flew into the air from Mike’s torch. Two pieces of metal he was working on fused together. He turned the torch off and flipped his welder’s mask up. He tore off his gloves and wiped the dripping sweat from his eyes, smearing dirt and soot onto his cheeks.

The lunch whistle blew. The continuous motion of loading steel girders, pouring lava-hot metals, and welding ceased.

The cafeteria’s tables were crowded with men, shoulder to shoulder. They dug into the lunch pails packed with sandwiches and leftovers. Their heads, hair flattened from their hard-hats, bobbed up and down over their food as they ate. Mouths full and laughing.

Mike bit into his BLT, the crunching of bacon and crisp lettuce filling his ears, when suddenly the lights shut off and the cafeteria went dark. The humming of lights and machinery went silent. The men groaned collectively.

Mike pulled out a small flashlight on his keychain and pressed the power button. Nothing. He could hear the clicking of the button, but no light came on, no matter how many times he hit it.

Once Mike’s eyes adjusted to the darkness he joined the rest of the workers exiting the cafeteria. He looked up into the corners of the walls where the emergency lights were installed. Why didn’t the emergency power go on?

The yard was eerily quiet. Steel beams being moved from the yard to trucks teetered in mid-air from cranes. The hum of the furnaces was silent. Workers opened truck hoods checking the engines that stopped. A gathering crowd formed around Glenn, the foreman. He had his hands up trying to calm the men around him.