The Rage On Earth

My name is Stephen, and I come from Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.  By trade, I used to be a machinist.

Don’t let what happened to me happen to you.

It was Monday morning at work, and I was shaving a steel rod in the lathe.  My brain and body had just flipped awake, and I looked at the clock.   It was 8:45 A.M., and I was hung-over.   Friday seemed like so long ago.   I hadn’t given a thought about work.  After shots and beers Friday afternoon, we had a bachelor party on Friday night.  The wedding was on Saturday, and on Sunday afternoon we had a party to celebrate the wedding.

And here comes the damned foreman to chew my ass out.  “Bauer, you punched in 45 minutes late.”  I didn’t move my eyes from the machine.

“So what.”

“It’s the fifth time this month you’ve been late!”

“What’s your problem!”

“We gave you a final warning the last time!”    The coil of razor-sharp, red-hot metal that the lathe had shaved off spooled into the water in the catch bucket, making the water sizzle and steam.

“You god-damned office shufflers—you think you can treat me like a dog.”

“The union can’t do anything for you this time.”

“Get off my back, will you!”

“You’re fired!  You can stop by and pick up the pay you’re owed on Friday morning.”  The foreman reached over and pressed the button that shuts off the power to the lathe.

I felt like I was just shutdown.  But I was smoldering with heat, and I ignited.   In one motion, I reached down into the catch bucket, grabbed a handful of metal and drove it into the foreman’s face, pushing him onto the press behind.

As I let go and the metal fell away, and he grabbed his face with both hands.   I yanked him by his shirt and shoved him hard against the lathe, and his head knocked a steel post.   Then I punched him in the throat.

I left the shop quickly.  I was shaking and twitching, and I had blood splattered on my face, shirt and pants.
I started talking to myself, “No more bosses upstairs, no more foremen, no more humiliation, no more job, and no more me.”

I went across the street into the bathroom of the Arms bar to clean myself up.  I was hyperventilating.   I let the cold water hose over my hand for several minutes, using my other hand for as a tourniquet around my wrist to stop the flow of blood.   Then I wiped myself off.   I clenched fresh paper towels against my hand to help staunch the bleeding.   

I came out holding my hand tightly with the paper towels, and I ordered a double of Jack Daniel’s and a glass, no ice, from Elizabeth, the daytime barmaid, who was getting things ready for the lunch crowd.  She stared at me all stunned and scared and quickly gave me what I asked for.   I took it to the table furthest in the back and sat down.  With both hands trembling, I drank with the glass in my cut hand, to hold the compress in place.

I heard the sirens outside.  I heard the gravel in the parking lot scatter as the police cars braked to a sudden stop.   When the bulls came through the door, I felt a sudden, massive spasm of pain in my chest.   Gasping involuntarily, I convulsed back in my chair, dropping the glass and bandage.  I felt myself floating upwards towards the ceiling and looking down on myself.    I hovered above as the bulls swarmed around my body below.   “Is he dead?” they said.   And I watched from above as blood and bourbon dripped from my side into a puddle on the floor.