dudemanflab's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- a neck dote. I worked for a welder once. His name was Bob. First week we were tacking forty-fives on twelve-inch flanges. Before any weld could occur, I'd plug a pair of two-hole pins opposite each other, and he'd lay a level astride them. Bob would tilt his head, swallow, and squint; then, with gentle hands, coax the tilt of the wheel so the oblong bubble found its nook between lines. He took a step back. "Is it level?" he asked. Nobody wants to look dumb their first week. I studied the green juice closely, measured the distance of trapped air to either side, tilted my head to an equal degree. His voice took a sharper angle, reasonable, authoritative, not intense. I waited as he blew out a puff. "A level is a trick to undermine your self-confidence. Understand? You're so busy looking at that bubble you didn't even notice what I'm fixing to weld. Does this tool tell you what's level?" "Well--" "No. It doesn't matter if it's two pieces of pipe or if you put a tool on top of 'em--hell, you could have ten levels, but the only thing that can tell you what's level is your own eyes," he pointed for clarification, "Do you understand?" "Yes," I said, though it was still crinkled in my mind. "Well, is it level?" "Yes." "Your eyes aren't lying?" "No. It's level." "Well, ok," he said and gave a long drag at his cigarette before tossing it away. All it took was a nod, the welder's nod, for his hood to fall into place, the rod to descend, and my leather-gloved hand to cover my eyes. 11:18 p.m. - October 11, 2007 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||
|
||||||