Brian Keene - Terminal

That morning, while I stood there sweating and aching, I wondered if maybe the foundry had given me cancer. Maybe Michelle and I could sue them. Then I lit up another cigarette and decided that it didn’t really matter one way or the other where I’d gotten the cancer. The Number Two line mold machine—specifically, a ten-foot-by-fifteen-foot steel-and-hydraulic monstrosity—was called The Hunter, since that was the name of the company that manufactured it and because “compression mold maker” was too much of a mouthful for some of our more illiterate coworkers. It compressed tons of black sand into small four-foot-by-four-foot block molds. These blocks had a pattern inside of them. In my case, the pattern was of a power steering gear. The molds exited the machine and traveled down a roller belt to the pouring department, where they were filled with molten metal and sent to the next department via conveyor.

The sand entered the machine through a funnel at the top. Beneath this funnel was a small, cramped space where the pattern was kept. When the sand poured in, the pattern, along with the other three walls of the space, would squeeze together and form the mold. Around ten that morning, I was wedged into the space between the pattern and the walls with a socket wrench in hand. I had to change patterns because we were starting production on a different mold after lunch. The machine was locked out, a safety procedure that involved the operator shutting off the power and putting a big red tag on the power button, warning everyone that turning it back on would be a very bad idea.

Except that Juan didn’t know it would be a bad idea because Juan couldn’t read English, including the warning in English on the lockout tag.

Juan was a good guy. He threw darts with his crew down at Murphy’s Place on Friday nights, was willing to trade lunches, and had been teaching me to swear in Spanish. We’d gotten as far as Chocho, Chíngate, Chinga tu madre, and Hijo de la gran puta. Now I was learning how to use them in a complete sentence.

That morning, he stopped by my machine, noticed my line of molds was getting low, looked around, and didn’t see me inside the machine. Figuring that I was in the bathroom or on break, and being the good guy that he was, Juan decided to help me get caught up on production. He removed the lockout tag and turned the power on.

I was still inside when I heard the hydraulics kick in. The motor shrieked to life a second later. I immediately dropped my socket wrench and sprang for the funnel. Juan pressed the first button and I heard a heavy rustling as two tons of sand filled the hopper above my head. I shouted, but with his earplugs and the noise from the furnace, he never heard me. Clearing the funnel, I grasped the angle iron and pulled myself out. I slid down the ladder, and he finally noticed me cursing at him in both English and Spanish.

“Juan! What the fuck are you doing, man? You could have killed me!”

“Yo, I’m sorry Tommy!” He held his hands up in front of him. “I didn’t know you were in there. I figured I would—”

“Save it, man! For fuck’s sake, dog, what the hell were you thinking? Don’t you know what this is?” I fingered the lockout tag.

“I couldn’t read it.”

“Well you better fucking learn!” I grabbed him by the shirt, and his eyes grew wide. He pressed against me, and I shoved him backward, slamming him into the machine. His teeth clicked together, and I saw the anger building inside him. It was boiling inside of me as well.

“Let go of me, puta!” he shouted.

“Chinga tu madre, motherfucker! I’ve got a fucking wife and kid, man.” I ranted. “You want them to have a husband? Huh, bitch? You want them to have a father?”

He brought his knee up to my groin, but I blocked him. Enraged, I threw him to the ground. Juan landed in a pile of greasy shop rags and rolled to his feet, fists clenched. Growling, he circled toward me. I came in low, feinted left, and plowed into him with a right. He went down again.

“I. Could. Have. Died.” Each word was short and clipped, and punctuated with my fists.

“Don’t hit me no more, Tommy! I’m sorry, yo!”

He flung his hands up in front of his face, and I realized what I was doing. What the hell was wrong with me? I was fucking dying anyway! Why take it out on Juan? Was this one of the seven steps of coming to grips with my terminal illness, beating the shit out of my coworkers?

I dropped my fists to my side and stood there panting.

“I’m sorry man. You just scared me is all. Dammit, Juan. Look for these things from now on, all right?”

He nodded, mumbled something in Spanish, then let me help him up. He limped away toward the bathroom, still muttering under his breath. I finished changing the pattern, then zoned out till lunch, not thinking, not speaking. An automaton.

After we were done teasing John about his hairy dick, we filed out of the lunchroom. I was on my way to take a leak when Charlie had me paged.

“Thomas O’Brien, please report to the office. Thomas O’Brien, please report to Mr. Strauser’s office. Thank you.”

Charlie Strauser was the plant manager. I didn’t know him well, but he seemed like a decent guy. I got the feeling that when he had to give us shit, he was just following the shit dished out on him from above. And you know what they say about shit and hills and the force of gravity. I knew what this was about—the fight with Juan. It had to be. Somebody saw us and reported it, or maybe the little fucker had decided to drop dime on me. I didn’t need this shit, and to be honest, I couldn’t see getting fired for it. Last year, Big Greg and Marty got into a knock-down, drag-out brawl over Dale Earnhardt Junior forcing another driver off the track, and Big Greg put Marty in the hospital for three days. But they didn’t lose their jobs. Still, at the very least, I’d get a few days’ suspension—probably without pay. And that paycheck was the one thing Michelle and I really needed right now.

I opened the door to the plant offices and stepped through it, savoring the air-conditioned coolness. The door swung shut behind me, and the silence was loud. Gone was the whine of the machines, the buzz of the grinders, the roaring furnaces. They’d been replaced by the quiet sounds of typing, and a phone ringing somewhere behind one of the closed doors. I walked down the hall, my boots leaving black footprints in my wake. Reaching Charlie’s office, I knocked on the door and waited. There was no answer, but I heard a voice inside, so I opened the door and peeked in.

Charlie was seated at the desk, his back to me while he talked on the phone. Without looking, he motioned for me to come in. I closed the door behind me, and stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do next. Finally, I sat down in one of the oversized chairs and tried not to eavesdrop.

“No, I don’t think it’s what needs to be done. For Christ’s sake, Steve, you’re talking about half my work force. Half! And yet you don’t expect me to cut production. The night shift is shorthanded as it is, and attrition on the day shift always goes up in the summer…”

I tuned him out and looked around. On the desk was a family portrait; Charlie, his wife, and their two kids. Both looked about my age, maybe a little younger. Pencil holder from one of our vendors. Stapler. Big computer with the company logo flashing as a screen saver. Coffee mug, also with the company logo. A Far Side calendar. In-and-out basket. A few assorted other items. All in all, it was much cleaner than my work area.

But what really caught my eye was the wooden desk plaque. It read: I have gone out to find myself.

If I should get here before I return, please hold me until I get back.