I got a job in a factory that made
industrial air-conditioners. They rode around
on tracks overhead in a mill, sucking lint out of
the air, to protect the equipment. I worked with the tracks.
4” I-beams 20-some feet long. We’d put them through
a sandblaster to get the rust off. The sandblaster used bird shot.
We’d shear the ends off at an angle in a press brake and grind the burrs off.
We’d spot-weld metal brackets on to hold a cable harness. Then we’d send them to
the paint shop to be degreased in trichloroethylene (a known carcinogen) and painted.
Handling these big boys took two men. I was the only white guy on an all-black crew.
Either I didn’t have any rhythm or they busted my chops because I was white, but none of
them could work with me without dropping their end a little late, or a little soon.
They never let up on me. I was the outlaw in their stock. I thought I’d pass a test,
but I never passed, I just kept on being tested. It was endless.
They’re there now and I’m not. I got a better job
and left them to their own devices.
They would work fine with me for awhile,
trying to lull me into a false sense of security,
and then fuck me up. You could wrench your back
or lose a finger. I never let them catch me. I grinned
my death’s-head grin when they would try to fuck me up.
As if to say, Surprise. Imagine that. This must be my fault.
You are as innocent as the day is long. As anyone can see.
You are blameless. You are the injured party.
They knew I knew I was full of shit.
Mind games, the man with the better mind wins.
You can’t shit the shitter. Who do you think I am?
Captain Charlie? Do I look like some artificial insemination baby,
strained through a sock? Some paper-asshole with a necktie on? I’m not.
I have been in sorrow’s kitchen and licked out all the pots.