You Make Small Metal Things.
As though he were explaining the concept to a ten-year-old, Larry told me: “I know a trade. I can work anywhere in the world.”
I wanted to be able to live “anywhere in the world,” so this seemed perfect.
Larry’s trade meant that he worked in something called a “machine shop.” I envisioned stores that sold machines – with no idea what kind of machines would need to be sold, or who would buy them, or what those machines did.
“I’m a machinist!” Larry said proudly. Everything he said about himself, he said proudly.
“You make machines?”
Larry laughed. “I make machine parts,” he said.
Larry had been doing this work at a “shop” in Braddock, which is a town near Pittsburgh that one should never visit at night. Sometimes, though, we visited Braddock in order to get cocaine since my connections in Ohio were … well, still in Ohio.
I had never seen Braddock in daylight. But with Larry working there every day and me “free” from college, he suggested that I visit him at work.
“I’ll buy ya lunch!” Larry said. I hoped this meant “beer.” Beer would be worth the ten-minute drive.
When I arrived, I parked in an alley. There was no parking lot. Larry’s motorcycle was in the alley, too.
The “building “shop” resembled a large garage outside. Inside, it resembled my seventh grade shop class, only in a very spread-out sort of way. Every five feet or so was a freestanding machine of some sort. To me, they looked like big blenders or small jackhammers. Many of these machines stood empty.
But the ones that ran were very, very loud. It was deafening in there.
Larry was wearing safety goggles, just like I wore in shop class. I saw Leo, the bass player for Larry’s band, also wearing safety goggles. A bunch of giant blenders, Leo, Larry and one other guy … that was the whole “shop.”
Larry noticed me walking in clothed, as usual, in cutoff jean shorts and bare feet. Jeans and boots were reserved for motorcycle rides.
“Hey Baby!” he said, smiling, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
Then he saw my feet. “Ya gotta have shoes on in here!” He pointed at his boots, which Larry always wore.
I went back to the car and put on moccasins. That was all I had.
Then Larry showed me around the shop. He pointed at Leo, who nodded at me. He pointed at the other guy, who didn’t nod. The entire time he spoke, he held a small metal object between his fingers – something that could have been a bolt, a weapon or a plate. He didn’t let it move in his hand; apparently it was only part-way finished.
“So this is what I do!” he said, holding his cigarette and grandly waving his one free arm.
I had absolutely zero interest.
“So you make small metal things,” I said.
“Yep!” Larry said, still smiling, holding the half-finished bolt-weapon-plate a little higher.
“Okay,” I said. “Can we go to lunch now?”
Larry laughed. “It’s past lunchtime!” he said. “It’s almost time to go home! Here – take five bucks; I’ll meet ya at Barry’s after work.” He handed me a bill from his chain-clad wallet, and leaned over to kiss me. He smelled, as always, like oil.
I took the money and held it. I glanced around. I lit a cigarette.
Still with the goofy grin, Larry shook his head in his isn’t-she-adorable way.
“Okay,” I said. I pocketed the five bucks, got in the car, and drove to Barry’s.