The Lie
I stood in the factory workroom, a small cog in the healthy bustle of activity: hissing hydraulics, ringing bells, carts clattering as workers wheeled them to and fro. The whole place smelled like cloth, and oil, and all those other factory-ish smells.
Somewhere off in the building, an buzzer sounded. About seven seconds later, it was followed by a droning voice over the intercom.
"Luke Wildman to the main office, Luke Wildman, please report to the main office." I looked up from the table where I'd been working and headed off with a shrug.
Clint, one of the big bosses, was waiting for me when I arrived. "Hey there, Hoss! Come on, then -- we're gonna teach you how to unjam the soap stirrers!"
I followed him back through the workroom, winding between tables and around a forklift that beeped as it backed up. We eventually reached a wooden paneled of wall, but when I looked for a door handle, he shook his head and pointed to a small cubbyhole door. It was about 2x2 feet large.
"They're in there," Clint said.
I raised my eyebrows as he pulled a thin chain from around his neck, on the end of which swung a huge, brass key. It was all knobby on the end, like a key of old.
I raised my eyebrows even higher when Clint bent down on hands and knees, unlocked the door, and crawled in.
"Come on, Hoss!" his voice echoed back. "Why ya so slow today?"
I crawled through after his disappearing sneakers. They were white, and glowed luminous in the grime of the little service tunnel.
We crawled past pipes and wires. At one point Clint paused as a vent belted steam directly ahead of us. Even from where I crouched, I could feel the heat off it. Finally, the room widened into a slightly larger chamber, though still not large. Five different hose openings led downward from the floor. And twirling around the hoses, there were . . . gnomes. And they were dancing.
Each wore a pair of blue worker's overalls and a red cap low over the ears. One of them had a tiny guitar, made of a matchbox, toothpicks, and some frayed rubber-bands. Another gnome sat at a tiny drum-set, hammering away on bottle-cap symbols. I think I also saw a macaroni saxophone in there, too.
"Hoss, I hate it when the stirrers start jammin'! Here they are, supposed to be mixin' the soap, and instead they're dancin' and merrymakin'! But there's a trick, I'll show ya. When they get like this, ya just gotta show 'em who's boss."
He reached down and plucked the tiny needle off a tiny record swirling on its tiny record-player. The music scratched and then stopped as the musicians stopped playing and the dancing trailed off.
"Hey, what's the big idea!" said the miniature guitarist.
"Now little Hoss, you know you ain't supposed to be jammin' durin' work hours! Who's gonna stir the soap and pour it down them pipes?"
The gnomes hung their heads.
"I ain't mad at'cha," Clint said. "Just so as we understand each other."
He thrust his thumb over his shoulder without looking at me, and I squeezed around in the tight space and crawled back out. Hoss, I mean Clint, followed me. He slapped the dust from his knees.
"So that's watcha do, when the stirrers start jammin'. Think ya can remember that?"
I nodded. "How could I forget?"
He gave me and odd look and turned away. "Now, get yerself back to work, Hoss. What you so slow today for?"
The Truth
The generic factory setting and boss named Clint are both true. The gnomes probably are not. I did have a boss who constantly referred to underlings as "Hoss," though that was at the painting job I worked last summer.
Also, I really don't have time to edit, these days. I apologize for and ask you to please, please forget any errors.
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