“Please fix” said a note left taped to a gauge.
Broken, but not the literal sense.
Ten minutes into dead run the primary transformer blew and pissed oil into the sump well.
Tired eyes, once so close to sleep, became glazed with the already half-expected prospect of another double-shift fixing transformer no.2.
The windings needed a return, honestly one long overdue; a retap of the two bore drains, tricky and messy; the left baring valve needed….clearing?
No one was really sure about the baring valves, the last fitter tried running them at 120 PSI per round, but he was half a wick when he started and completely burnt out by the time he stopped showing up; no one lasted these shifts.
But work continued merrily along without them.
The antiquated patchwork of machinery in parts of this motor line were primarily running on only miracles and entropy. Each low was superseded by a lower low that thumped and grinded, to a caconophy of “I need to get to that” sounding noises.
When problems appear a mechanical mind rejoices. “Give me only time, the proper tools and something to swear at; then anything can be repaired.”
Apprentices helpfully and continually are told to repeat these words as they skin the knuckles of their hands, not yet calloused from long shifts hammering something crucial back into shape or, just back into fucking place. (Sic)
Managers visit and with a cursory glance give a curt nod.
‘She seems to be running fine.’
The doubt cast into the air after this statement can be near visible. Every loose nut and lost strand returns to the fold, leaving panicked minds wondering how that part of the line was still operating. Shortcuts and patch jobs wind-up becoming integral, leaving tired ghosts of remembrance returning a cold sweat into the morning routine of most line electrician as they wake with each morning.
‘How had the pressure valve down by the MR furnace held all this time? That was jab-welded shut with an old tin and then hidden with some out-of-sight-out-of-mind-tape…somewhere.
If that ever goes so will the whole chamber, and all the extraction pumps in the system won’t be enough to vent that steam cloud; especially so considering the ones already bypassed…’
Schematics can help but are mostly found dusty, tucked behind the heap of a well meant storage pile.
These treasures had long ago become relics of misinformation, devoid of the daily alterations that go into standard operation. Some contain scratchings of an operator hoping to pass on something important, others just holding obscene graffiti and misspelt limericks.
Despite all of this, calm returns in short moments of rest where a break room closely resembling a bomb site is filled with weary bodies, ecstatic just to sit down.
Cheap dust, claiming to be tea, is served in mugs, aged brown, due to overuse and a non-existent washing up roster.
Then there’s the internal debate of adding the warm milk -kept so due to the fridge motor being stolen for something more important. These still lingering cartons range from empty to nearing long service leave.
Talk drifts, as it invariably always will, back to work.
Lurching forward towards another shift, the living beast awakens with the mass squeal of startled fan belts reaching higher and higher pitches.
Behind the tuning up of this reluctant orchestra, knowledge of a distant end radiates from within every nut and lost washer.
So all things pass and on one last grey day, when hands are shook and bundy cards punched for the final time, the motors will stop and probably never turn again.
This, the final waltz of something mechanical, becomes the judgment of its creation, future nostalgia must mean the proof of quality, even if not apparent during operation.
Length of service is not due to the effort of the machine itself, but instead rests within the effort every man and woman from build until break.
But…
With only three things anything can be repaired.
Please fix.
Jacob McCray
-2019
Sunday Short Stories 