Make_____

Durky was a sacred cow, an old boy. He’d been a foreman since before your father, your cousin, were even born, let alone worked the mill. Hell, he’d always said, lazy-spitting, letting drips of chew further stain his yellowed beard. Hell, he had whiskers that’d worked the rollers longer.

Durky was a nice man, a kind soul, but he hadn’t gone easy. He could spot a gagged beam from way down and, no shitting, he’d stop the rollers, stop the line, and point out the man that’d let the twisted metal pass. It’s good for the boys, he’d always said, one hand buried under his two-bowling-ball gut, it’s good they know the steel comes first. Gives ’em the fear of God. Keeps ’em honest, Durky had liked to say, rubbing his under-belly. I’d pull the whistle on my own mother, he’d say then rock back on his heels and laugh and laugh.

In ’67, at seventeen, Mike had started rolling. Just like with the other pinkies, Durky had trained him. He’d showed Mike the pressure lever, the hot metal, the one two—lever up, pedal down.

First day at shift change, Durky had said he knew Mikey’s father, Frank. He’d said Frank was a good one, an old boy. Said he and Mikey’s dad had met before Frank went to the refinery. Decades ago, when they’d both started the line. At second shift—careful, he’d warned Mikey, it gets in your nose. Then, even in the yard where you can feel the wind and see the river, all you’ll smell is steel. Damn metal, it’ll ruin you, Durky had said, cracking a smile, a thick finger tapping his bulbous, broken-veined nose.

When the rumors started, Durky denied them. He’d said the Japs don’t know how to say steel let alone make it for eight cents a day. He’d said not to worry, that Durky and Mikey and Frank, they were the steel’s old families. He’d said the unions would protect them. He’d said they’d be safe.

Durky didn’t understand why he’d had no warning before the mill closed. He was an old boy, a sacred cow. If anyone, he’d deserved to know.