The gray-haired man spread grease over the path of a worm wheel. He lovingly took Vaseline from the crook of his palm onto his fingers and stroked every place where the iron was to touch iron. The mechanic babied his machine like a mother would a child. Each piece had its faults, every position had its kink, nothing worked right the first time he tried it.
The mechanic pulled out the traction teeth and began brushing them with steel bristles. He went on brushing until his overalls were pouring with sweat. The mechanic wiped himself with the same cloth he polished the metal piece, and put the metallic teeth back together.
He took the lid of a can into his mouth and poured the oil lightly in the lubrication tank. The old hands moved the gears, waiting to see a shiny film of grease over the iron teeth. He checked with his hand where his eyes could not reach. The mechanic pulled out a slick hand, pleased with the result. The man worked carefully, tuning the machine like a piano. Any unusual noise would have betrayed a problem.
Satisfied with the work, he fastened the metal panel back into the chest of the machine. He closed up the panel with only two screws. The old man knew the next problem would come from behind the same panel.
He opened a beer and sipped proudly. With a brown bottle in one hand and a dirty rag in the other, the mechanic wiped the oil off the machine. "Better to have a bit on the outside than not enough on the inside," thought the old man. It wasn't going to be sufficient, the machine would always ask for more.
Hot air was passing through the old man's gray hair as he cursed it with clenched teeth. He looked irritated at the vent which could no longer cope with the heat.
From behind came, in a whirlwind, a man in an unironed shirt, from the other end of the hall. The unshaven man had a grimace on his face.
"Sir," the mechanic greeted his boss.
The engineer pretended not to see the beer and tapped him on the shoulder.
"What do you think, John, will it work?"
"It will," the mechanic answered confidently.
"We have work to do."
"Good, that's what we're paid for."
"No, it's not good, in fact it's pretty dire. I have commissions for every single cutter in the hall and the new ones fuck up so badly, you wouldn't believe it. I set them up, put on a couple of test sheets and within 5 minutes they are already decalibrated, I reset them, test again, and they work well for another 5 minutes, then they just stop."
"It's the heat, that's why they muck up."
"This antiquity is the only one that still works in this fever."
"Yes sir, I've been meaning to tell you, we aren't at the beach, maybe you should stop the hot air blower," the old man said pointing at the AC.
The engineer nodded thoughtfully and broke the bad news.
"This whole mess will fall on your head."
"What?"
"You and the old hag need to get us out of this. It's a big order, John. I can stall for time, but I have to give them something. You'll have to ride her hard until these shitty new cutters recover."
"Yeah," the mechanic replied tersely.
"I'll get you a kid."
"For what?"
The bony engineer turned his back and repeated gruffly.
"I'll bring you someone, God damn it."
The mechanic pulled the control levers out completely. He inspected and fixed them in place with a measuring billet. He tossed a galvanized sheet onto the workbench and started the machine. The apparatus cracked mechanically over the metal sheet. The old man brood unhappy with the result, the machine had made a crease along the cutting line. He scratched the raised edge with his fingernail, then removed a screwdriver and scraped clean a clearing ditch. The metal sheets wouldn't even sit straight because of the heat. Another crack and the sheet was cut in two. The old man measured the cutting indication and contemplated the result.
He felt a look at the back of his neck and turned nervously. A young boy brought him an armful of cut plates.
"Good morning, I brought the models."
"Leave them."
The boy carefully placed the pile of molds next to the machine and waited for the mechanic to turn around.
The old man unscrewed a blade from its clamps and inspected a few grappling screws. He got out of the machines' belly with the guillotine and tried it with his fingernail.
"What do you want?" he asked the boy, seeing that he was not leaving.
"Well, the engineer told me ..."
"What did he tell you? Get on with your work, go."
The old man fixed the blade to the grinder and began to work it. After a few minutes, he put the blade back and glanced at the molds left by the boy. The new templates had strange, complicated shapes. The machine was not designed for them. The old man gritted his teeth and placed the first template on the work bed.
He measured and set the control levers to the new positions and then pushed two iron wedges to force the machine to work with the difficult format. He listened intently. The first sheet came out badly. He loosened the screws leaving a small play for the machine to choose its own path. The second sheet came out better.
There was a screaming question from the other end of the hall.
"What do you say, old-timer, will it work?"
"Yea sure bring me the crappies templates and expect everything to work out," thought the mechanic. He ignored the question and kept looking from the machine to the plate and from the plate to the machine, searching for a solution.
She was capable, she just needed to be tickled the right way. He knew what she liked. The machine once ate zinc plates like hotcakes, but not these types of patterns. The old man didn't know if she would manage the new frames. The work had become more and more difficult, he needed a work plan with several passes while the new machines did the job in one run. But what can you do? They wanted complicated designs. John and his machine had been abandoned in the back of the hall, and the rest of the factory was waiting for both of them to die. "The old hag" was still working but only small and unpretentious orders, whatever the newer cutters had missed or messed up.
John and his machine had worked hard enough, they had been pulling on zinc plates for decades. The machine had lost its accuracy, the clamps and the step teeth were spent. He was left working with the spare flywheel, but it didn't matter, John had to retire and his machine, old as the devil, had to be retired as well.
With his departure, it would become scrap metal. She had done her job well, but now she was a museum piece.
"They don't make them like they use to, but maybe that's for the best. No one else will have to suffer you," whispered the mechanic.
"John, I brought you a boy. Where is he?"
The man shrugged his shoulders.
"He's not a bad kid. He's young and wants to learn. He's a mechanic, I smelled it on him."
"What does that have to do with me?"
"Isn't she a two-man job," the engineer said staring at the old cutter.
"She is."
"Well, what other incentive do you need? Take him in."
The chief left and the silent young man appeared behind John once again. The mechanic felt a growing sweat stain envelop his back.
"Kid you better make some noise when you move around, you're going to give me a heart attack."
The boy stood silent while John looked him up and down. He was missing the first phalange on his right index finger.
"Sit down, I don't know why they brought you in."
"I'm just here to help, you might need another pair of hands."
"She was in need of two pairs of hands 10 years ago, but they only brought you in today. I don't want you, and I don't need you. I've managed on my own long enough."
"I also heard you've wrapped up your years. You could retire," the boy dared.
"You don't say, I'm glad you've told me, I had no idea."
John looked at the boy, the boy was speaking straight.
"Make some room next to the machine, clear away all this junk, we'll start tonight."
"Tonight?"
"Didn't the boss tell you? You listen to me now. We'll work at night, it's cooler."
The boy gathered the rubbish, making neat piles of all the rusty bits, and then swept the floor clean.
"What's your name kid? What do they call you?"
"Andrew, but they call me the piano man," said the boy, pointing up with what remained of his index finger.
The old man burst out laughing.
"Ha, those asses, they do know their nicknames. I'm not calling you that, but don't you be calling me sir either, John and that's it.
"Okay ... John."
"Feels a little too friendly? You'll get over it."
The old man took one of the models and placed it on the desk. He adjusted the rulers and turned a wheel with a handle. The crank passed the machine through all the working steps. The mechanic turned the lever tenderly, waiting for a final snap, and then hurried curiously to see the result. One by one, the mechanic took each sheet and studied the conclusion. After he went through the handful of plates, he turned to Andrew with a wry smile.
"Do you know what's the best part of sitting in the back of the plant? We're closer to the exit. Let's take a break. Do you smoke?"
"Not really."
"Even better, you can enjoy our fine industrial air"
*
It was a hot day outside, the air was coming at them in waves from every direction. The old man pressed the asphalt and felt it soften under his feet. On the street, the trucks were pulled to the right, waiting for the cool of the evening to continue on their way. John retreated into a shady corner and lit a cigarette.
"What do you think?" asked the gray-haired man.
"It's a little better outside, at least I can use my lungs."
"It's bone dry, that's why you can breathe. After the pricks go home, we'll roll out the big door. The air conditioning might work in the assembly line, but that air doesn't reach us."
The engineer came out from behind holding the test models made by the old man. He slammed the door and looked for the mechanic. Blinded by the light, he put his hand to his eyes trying to find him.
"John, I looked at the AC, it's pretty much baked, it can't handle the heat. I opened one up and the wires were melting inside it. I don't know what else we could do, maybe dig ourselves into the dirt like moles.
"All right, pick the ones that are urgent and leave it to me. My hag doesn't mind the heat. I and the kid will stay tonight and work on them."
The engineer looked at the test models.
"They'll be straighter tonight," John said, looking at the templates.
"It will take more than one night."
"However long it takes."
The engineer nodded without saying anything, the hand that was rubbing his chin ended up scratching the back of his neck. He was adding things up.
"Okay, free til' nightfall."
*
The mechanic and the apprentice returned to the hall. The air in the hall was filled with hot oil and diesel. Like a crab in a soup, the mechanic crawled up to a wooden bench and laid down. He crumpled his overalls in the shape of a pillow.
"You'd better take a nap, we'll be pulling an all-nighter."
The boy looked curiously at the old man, you couldn't pay him to sleep at this hour. He went on looking for work elsewhere.
*
When evening came, the two set to work. Andrew loaded the sheets on one side and John lifted them on the other, checking them against the model from time to time, adjusting as he went.
"We are ants in a great colony, Andrew," the old man said over the noise. "And when you are an ant, sacrifices have to be made. You have to break your back, for the good of the colony."
"So this is an ant's life?"
"Well, aren't we carrying stuff from left to right? That's ants' work. That is how we covered the earth."
"What if I don't want to break my back?"
"You could have been a cricket, but it wasn't meant to be. We here are ants, the ones above are crickets. They sit on branches of bone, and look at us with hunger in their eyes."
"And that's fair?"
"I didn't say it was fair, I was just saying we are ants."
"Any escape from this ant's life?"
"No, I don't think so, no escape. We have to endure, that's it. On the other hand, will rejoice when we croak, that's when all our suffering will pass."
The men worked all night occasionally taking cigarette breaks. With the arrival of the sun, the machine began to growl unhappily. The mechanic looked at the last stack of sheets as the light began to shoot down the hall.
"No more kid, that's enough. Take these up-front and go home. I'll finish up."
Andrew picked up the stack and hesitated as he left. The old man waived with his back turned.
"See that you get some sleep."
"I would sleep standing up after tonight."
The mechanic looked over the machine, rolled up his sleeves and untied the metal panel held up by two screws.
*
When he returned at dusk, Andrew found the old man lying on the bench with a hat on his face. He stared at the open panel and stretched his neck inside, inspecting the machinery's guts.
"She'll bite your nose off if you're not careful," the old man said from under his hat.
"I was just curious what you were working on."
"You should be happy that's not your concern, she's my migraine for now, but your time will come, don't you worry."
Work on the second night came at a familiar, lighter pace. The boy wanted to put on more plates, to speed up, but the old man tempered him. Every few plates the mechanic took out a ruler and measured the cuts, stopping Andrew from work as well.
"She is plowing along nicely, but you should be careful she doesn't slip right under you. In the end we might realize we did all that work for nothing.
The mechanic looked over the last plate and frowned.
"Look," and the old man pointed to the edge.
"Yes."
"Can you hear her?"
"I don't know."
"She wants to fumble."
Andrew pricked up his ears and listened, then put his hand on the machine, imitating the old man.
"You'll hear it after she chomps on your ear for a couple of months. Go get some oil from the big hall."
"All right," and the boy hurried off.
"You know what to get, right? I don't want you to come back with their kitchen oil."
"Oh come on..."
"Well it wouldn't surprise me, go on."
Halfway through the walk the boy decided to return and grab an empty canister as a model. He returned to the hall and saw the old man with his sleeveless hands deep inside the machine.
"What are you doing, I told you to leave."
"What happened?!"
"Go away!"
The boy approached and saw the old man's hand stretched rigidly into the machine's insides. Blood was dripping in between the old man's fingers over a pair of sprockets. He jumped trying to pull the mechanic out.
"Did she grab you?!"
The old man broke away and slapped him, knocking the boy to the ground. He picked up one of the dirty rags next to the cutter and tied off his hand.
The boy was speechless. Drops of blood were frozen on his face. The mechanic sat down on the bench, holding tight the rag being tinted with rosy hues.
"Don't you ever listen?"
"What were you doing, pops?"
The old man scratched his forehead with his fingernail, trying to find his words. He looked at the dirt on the fingernail and wiped it on his overalls.
"Well don't you just want to know everything. Very well. If you want to work with this machine, you should know. She doesn't want oil, she wants blood."
"Have you gone mad?"
John smiled and took a transmission chain in his hands. He began to count its rings like a string of rosaries.
"Look at her purr. She'll run fine for a while. She just needs a bit of human lubricant from time to time. I pinch a vein, and then she runs smoothly. She doesn't ask for much oil, but she does want a bit of your soul. Go on, have a look, see how she runs."
"She's going to stall."
The plates the machine was spitting out were once again perfect, but with a crimson film spread all over the cut edge. The machine finished all the raw plates, and Andrew got up and added a few more blanks to the work table. Every sheet she spat out was spotless.
The old man leaned back, leaving the boy to convince himself. Andrew, with his eyes peeled, was putting more and more blanks on the stack, but the machine was just going faster and faster.
"What the hell?" Andrew whispered as the machine picked up speed.
The boy approached the old man, and he motioned him to sit down. He fell beside the mechanic, puzzled by the cutter quietly chopping up molds.
"She'll be fine for now."
"How?"
"Didn't you see, that's my blood inside her. It knows what to do."
"How long have you been doing this?" Andrew turned, looking warily at the old man.
"How long? Ever since I got her. The last geezer showed me, and I am showing you. She's been running on the blood of everyone that's worked on her. This machine has all of us inside her, all the way up to the last man."
Andrew stood up as if bitten and looked over the old man.
"I'm not doing that."
"Did I ask you too? She's my cutter, I'll take care of her. When you have one of your own, you can do whatever you want. You can shit in it for all I care."
The boy left furiously picking up the finished sheets as he went.
"I'm taking them up-front."
The work was easy that night, the machine was running non-stop. Andrew was feeding her and retreating waiting for the catastrophe. Smoke, fire, the machine coming apart in two, but nothing, nothing happened. It was impossible, the machine was running better than ever. As she was going now, completely reliable, she could be operated by a single man. Old man John didn't need anyone else as long as he had blood in his veins.
With the sunrise, the pile of sheets was double that of yesterday.
"She's working as fast as the new cutters," the young man said cautiously.
"She'll do better tomorrow. She's just limbering up, I'll show you what she can do."
*
The next day, after all the day laborers had gone home, the old man untied his bandage and dug deep into the clotted blood with a knife. He pressed hard into the crust until it split in two, and a few drops fell to the base of the machine. Meager offerings. He widened the wound by turning the knife and letting a string of cherry blood drip into the belly of the machine.
"John."
"Don't worry, it's not a big deal."
The blood was sprinkled inside the cutter, blessing it with movement and intelligence. A willow smell of hot oil mixed with blood filled the hall. Andrew turned his back, trying to control a pulse of vomit. He threw himself on the sectional door chain, tugging at it frantically. With the door wide open, new air managed to replace the old.
"That's it, I'm done," said the old man, wrapping a bandage over his wound. Tonight we're overtaking the new cutters.
Andrew got to work and the old man retreated to the bench, staring blankly through the walls, somewhere far away. The old man was smiling absently. She was hungry for work now, she would chew and spit out everything she got. The clunky mechanical movements from the start turned into a fluid flow and the work stacks melted one after the other. The machine was moving so fast that it needed, once again, two people just to keep up with her. The old man joined Andrew picking up the finished plates.
Andrew worked tirelessly. Sweaty and spent, the old man pulled him up on the bench to take a break.
"She's a beast," Andrew spat wearily.
The old man nodded, not wanting to talk bad about the machine.
"Why don't you tell me how you managed to get rid of that finger?"
The boy rubbed his shortened pointer on the scar as if it had been itching.
"A cutter in the big hall."
"She didn't like you at all."
"I just put my hand in when I shouldn't, that's all."
"Listen, all these machines have souls. They are like women, don't laugh, it's true, some are sane and some insane. If you want to make them work, you have to get along with them, give them what they want".
"Cut myself like you?"
"Learn to listen, pay attention to what they need, learn how to read them. It's not enough to have a mechanic's hand, you also have to have a mechanic's ear and eye. Understand?
The old man continued to a whisper as if to keep a secret.
"You can get rid of her if you want, you can tell everyone she's broken, no one knows how to work her anyway. You will find a place somewhere else, you're young, you can always find more work."
"Pops, I lost half my finger in the big hall, and they threw me here with you, do you think anyone else wants me around?"
"Work slowly. Do everything slow at first. Learn each step and understand why it's taken. They will forgive you if you move slowly but do the job well. You can gather speed in time," the old man muttered, taking his place next to the machine.
*
The week passed unnoticed, John splashing the guts of the machine night after night with Andrew keeping watch behind him.
When the time came for the old man to take his hand out of the machine for the last time, the boy took out a clean handkerchief and tied it over his wrist. Andrew bandaged the old man swallowing hard. John, too tired to protest, smiled at the boy.
"You're mothering me."
"That's enough, John. You're completely spent."
"Yea, but we finish tonight. We showed them all, didn't we?"
"Yes, John."
"Stop sighing like a midwife, we'll finish by morning. Imagine, the two of us better than the whole damn factory. They dilly-dally all day and we work all night.
John poured water from a bent plastic bottle into a kettle and put it over the engine.
"I'm making coffee. Want some?"
Andrew watched the old man in silence as he dragged his feet back and forth.
"I'll make you some," the old man concluded, looking for another sachet of coffee.
The water from the kettle began to splash on the walls, and the old man poured two envelopes inside. He spun the coffee around in the kettle, looking for two containers. He turned two cups out of a drawer and blew the dust out, then poured the coffee.
"It's hot, if we drink that we'll sweat like hogs."
"That's right, that's how the Bedouins used to cool down", and John handed him the cup.
With the coffee, the old man seemed revived and began to work side by side with Andrew. He checked the plates cheerfully and answered his questions with a smile.
Another night with record production. One machine covering the work of a whole division.
With the arrival of the morning, a thread of cold air reached the feet of the two.
"It's going to be cooler today. They might get the new cutters to work. What do you think?" Andrew asked John.
"Maybe."
"What is it, John?
"It hit me all of a sudden. I'm ... I'm tired. Age, what can you do? I didn't think the day would come when I wouldn't ... man I'm dizzy. I can't stay up as I use to. I think I better go home now, haven't seen the old bed in a week.
"Let me help you, John."
"Leave me alone, go and finish up. You're a good lad. You did well."
"Okay, John, see you tomorrow."
The old man walked cautiously past the long hall up to the road. There he dragged his feet up to the bus station. John looked for the bus hiding in the sunlight. He closed his eyes only for a moment and the pains and aches finally forgave the old man. The bus passed on.
Andrew finished the plates, filled the oil tank, and began wiping the machine. With the end of work the tense metal began to relax. Black streaks made their way through the joints. Andrew took a cloth and passed it over the traces, spreading them in a layer of burgundy red. He rumpled the cloth and continued wiping until all the residue was gone.
The lanky, wavy-haired engineer appeared out of nowhere, behind Andrew.
"You did a great job, you pulled us out of quite a mess. I'll make sure some dough comes your way. I can't just leave you guys hanging. Where's the old man?"
"At home," Andrew answered dryly.
"Aha ... you two got along nicely. You'll get his cutter after he retires, and he has someone to pass the trade to. Everyone wants to leave something behind."
"Don't you want to scrap her anymore?"
"Scrap her after she saved our asses? No, but, it's not up to me, the boys on top have the last word. Go on, run home, if you keep loitering around I'll have to put you on spring assembly."
Photo by Werner Weisser - Avantrend
Versiunea în română: Sânge ruginiu
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