Neanderpundit

In his honor, and because I know he’d appreciate it.

When I was doing my penance inthe steel mils, on summers like this, sweating my brains out in 114 degree heat standing on top of coke ovens, I met a lot of characters.

One in particular, comes to mind: I’ll call him John. We used to call him “the skull” because he looked like a skeleton with some skin stretched over it. I swear, if he stood between you and the setting sun, you could count his bones. John was about three hundred years old, and kept coming to work long past a point where he could have retired because work was all he had left. He showed up, shuffled into the plant, sat at his workbench, and smoked Chesterfields all day. Nobody bothered him because he’d earned the right to sit there, god knows nobody wanted to pester him, he was the grouchiest fucker alive.

The edict came down from above that ALL the boys had to do their turn in the barrel, and so eventually, John had to give up his spot on the bench and grab a tool belt, head off for the field.

I was with him on the first day he had to go afeild in thirty years, and while it was a drag having to schlep toolboxes around in hundred-plus degree heat wearing long underwear and two pair of pants and two shirts, it was at least nice to get out of the damned shop. ANd John was fuill of lore about the place, I learned more in that morning about the operation of what was then Inland Steel than anything else.

About eleven, we sat down on a pile of coal tailings and ate sandwiches black with coal soot, and talked about all the changes Johnnny had seen. He told me about the years he’d spent there, about coming back from Korea to find that his wife had found religion and no longer wanted to have anything to do with him- but would not grant him a divorce. He spent the next thirty years sleeping in separate bedrooms, barely talking to her, and once a week, spending the night with a girl from a local strip joint. He cooked for himself and cleaned fo rhimself, and he said, he was happy as he could be, considering.
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On a Thursday in june (no! Wait! in July!)
a Zonker I know caught some slings going by
As an arrow or two
Zoomed right over his head
“I must stop this now,
or I soon will be dead!”
he thought and he puzzled
at what he should do
and who should be muzzled
and punished (times two)
He smiled as he thought
gave his fingers a snap
he slipped on his shoes
and he grabbed his red hat
He visited Vman and Ellison and Cat
he told them all stories of fire and of fat
he cursed his opponent
and asked for their help
they jumped up and pointed
and said with a yelp
“You fight your own battles
you ungratrful dope!
we have no bad blood
between us and chou chope”
then Zonker returned
slinking, back to his lair
and wondering why he
had had no luck there
he logged in to MT
and posted some drivel
then went off to bed
began softly to snivel
“I must stop this war
so I don’t get delinked”
then he looked out the window
and quickly he blinked
“There’s a whole crowd of people
out on my front lawn”
so he rolled up a blunt
and said ” Fuck it, till dawn”

If I had, I’d know that the three positions on my fuel petcock
(RES, ON, PRI) meant, in this order, “Reserve”, “Normal operation”, and “Fill your crankcase with gasoline”

SHeesh, I hope to hell I’m getting done with this, I want to RIDE this damned thing.