Invisible man

            I rubbed away at the gauges, wondering what had brought on this outburst, and was somewhat relieved that he seemed to hold nothing against me personally.

            "Where you go to school?" he said.

            I told him.

            "Is that so? What you learning down there?"

            "Just general subjects, a regular college course," I said.

            "Mechanics?"

            "Oh no, nothing like that, just a liberal arts course. No trades."

            "Is that so?" he said doubtfully. Then suddenly, "How much pressure I got on that gauge right there?"

            "Which?"

            "You see it," he pointed. "That one right there!"

            I looked, calling off, "Forty-three and two-tenths pounds."

            "Uh huh, uh huh, that's right." He squinted at the gauge and back at me. "Where you learn to read a gauge so good?"

            "In my high-school physics class. It's like reading a clock."

            "They teach you that in high school?"

            "That's right."

            "Well, that's going to be one of your jobs. These here gauges have to be checked every fifteen minutes. You ought to be able to do that."

            "I think I can," I said.

            "Some kin, some caint. By the way, who hired you?"

            "Mr. MacDuffy," I said, wondering why all the questions.

            "Yeah, then where you been all morning?"

            "I was working over in Building No. 1."

            "That there's a heap of building. Where 'bouts?"

            "For Mr. Kimbro."

            "I see, I see. I knowed they oughtn't to be hiring anybody this late in the day. What Kimbro have you doing?"

            "Putting dope in some paint that went bad," I said wearily, annoyed with all the questions.

            His lips shot out belligerently. "What paint went bad?"

            "I think it was some for the government . . ."

            He cocked his head. "I wonder how come nobody said nothing to me about it," he said thoughtfully. "Was it in buckets or them little biddy cans?"

            "Buckets."

            "Oh, that ain't so bad, them little ones is a heap of work." He gave me a high dry laugh. "How you hear about this job?" he snapped suddenly, as though trying to catch me off guard.

            "Look," I said slowly, "a man I know told me about the job; MacDuffy hired me; I worked this morning for Mr. Kimbro; and I was sent to you by Mr. MacDuffy."

            His face tightened. "You friends to one of those colored fellows?"

            "Who?"

            "Up in the lab?"

            "No," I said. "Anything else you want to know?"

            He gave me a long, suspicious look and spat upon a hot pipe, causing it to steam furiously. I watched him remove a heavy engineer's watch from his breast pocket and squint at the dial importantly, then turn to check it with an electric clock that glowed from the wall. "You keep on wiping them gauges," he said. "I got to look at my soup. And look here." He pointed to one of the gauges. "I wants you to keep a 'specially sharp eye on this here sonofabitch. The last couple of days he's 'veloped a habit of building up too fast. Causes me a heap of trouble. You see him gitting past 75, you yell, and yell loud!"

            He went back into the shadows and I saw a shaft of brightness mark the opening of a door.

            Running the rag over a gauge I wondered how an apparently uneducated old man could gain such a responsible job. He certainly didn't sound like an engineer; yet he alone was on duty. And you could never be sure, for at home an old man employed as a janitor at the Water Works was the only one who knew the location of all of the water mains. He had been employed at the beginning, before any records were kept, and actually functioned as an engineer though he drew a janitor's pay. Perhaps this old Brockway was protecting himself from something. After all, there was antagonism to our being employed. Maybe he was dissimulating, like some of the teachers at the college, who, to avoid trouble when driving through the small surrounding towns, wore chauffeur caps and pretended that their cars belonged to white men. But why was he pretending with me? And what was his job?

            I looked around me. It was not just an engine room; I knew, for I had been in several, the last at college. It was something more. For one thing, the furnaces were made differently and the flames that flared through the cracks of the fire chambers were too intense and too blue. And there were the odors. No, he was making something down here, something that had to do with paint, and probably something too filthy and dangerous for white men to be willing to do even for money. It was not paint because I had been told that the paint was made on the floors above, where, passing through, I had seen men in splattered aprons working over large vats filled with whirling pigment. One thing was certain: I had to be careful with this crazy Brockway; he didn't like my being here . . . And there he was, entering the room now from the stairs.

            "How's it going?" he asked.

            "All right," I said. "Only it seems to have gotten louder."

            "Oh, it gets pretty loud down here, all right; this here's the uproar department and I'm in charge . . . Did she go over the mark?"

            "No, it's holding steady," I said.

            "That's good. I been having plenty trouble with it lately. Haveta bust it down and give it a good going over soon as I can get the tank clear."