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Show son nothing I could do for Chuck and I didn't want to talk to Fergusc so finally I went back to my presses with the idea that I would just sort of take it easy, coast. And I'd been down the line once, real slow, and was pulling lens caps on four when I realized that Chuck's machines were still going. I couldn't see them but I could hear them, the hissing of the steam as they went up and down, the heavy scrape of the molds going in and out, the bang-slamming of the lids, back against the press then down and shut hard. And they were going a lot faster than Chuck ever worked them. I left the lens caps and went around to see what was going on. There was Donny on twelve, pulling the mold that got Chuck's fingers, jerking up the heavy lid like it was made of cardboard. He unloaded it, bottle caps or maybe they were radio knobs, I don't know, threw in some rubber stock, dropped the lid, and had the mother back in that press right now. Then he moved on to thirteen, sweat dripping off his nose, without looking up, without so much as a sneeze in between. "He's gone bongo," says Ferguson who was leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette, watching. "He's running all six of them, doesn't know what he's doing." I didn't say anything, just watched poor Donny making time on Chuck's machines, the extra flesh on his arms and chest shaking like a fat woman's ass as he pulled and pushed and pounded out those last factory blues. "Look at the fat fucker go!" Ferguson yelled, his hands cupped |
