Terminal

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.”