Prologue pt. 1
Anthony
It was a slow day at work for Anthony, as he slowly stretched his arms, leaning against the heavy metal table. He was situated in front of a turret press, a large machine that was used to punch out parts for stoves and fireplaces. The striking of the punches was a rhythmic bass that could be felt through the solid concrete floor. Each strike was backed by a soft sound of a metal disk, the size of a quarter dropping down into the waste bin. Looking over to his right, Anthony peered at the computer screen, the read out telling him he had another 1257 hits to wait.
The thumping rhythm lulled Anthony back into his daydreams. His thoughts straying from his surroundings to his car parked outside, the 1986 Chevette that was extensively modified. He was dreaming of taking it out to the Autocross on Sunday, negotiating the tight course packed into the small oval track that was Western Speedway. Launch hard down the back straight, brake, hard left into the roundabout, then back out onto the straight. Head deep into the back corner, then around the kink of cones and accelerate down the front stretch. He paused, using his memory of the track to guess how fast he would be going by the third ad banner on the track wall, to anticipate when he should be braking for the tight hairpin. Then it was back up the front straight for the right-hander into the infield, and into the slalom. It was a quick right-left-right-left, fairly open. Flickable really. But it was tight enough that it could easily send the tail of his car too far sideways, and spin out of control if he went into it too fast, or kill his line into the final hard right corner into the stop box where the run would end. Hot sun on the track would make his tires stick like-
Slap! His thoughts were shaken and he launched himself at the emergency stop button. The red button clicked in, and the machine ceased its movement instantly. Collecting himself from his strange posture, Anthony stood up, and checked out the sheet of metal on the turret's table. He could instantly see it was askew, the front clamp having lost its grip on the steel when a punch lifted the sheet up with it. Sighing, he went about resetting the sheet, and the machine; waving to his supervisor that everything was fine.
As he punched buttons into the computer, clearing the error code, and resetting the table; a dark shadow fell over Anthony. Jumping slightly, he turned around to be face to face with the Shop Manager, Barry. Barry was a large man by any measure; about six foot three, an easy 210 lbs, he was an imposing figure. To make matters worse, his standard facial expression was of being unimpressed. Add to that his Newfoundland heritage, and most men thought it was wise to not mess up in front of him. Pulling off his hat and running his hand over his closely shaven hair, Barry sighed and asked, "Sheet pull?"
Anthony relaxed, "Yeah, I'll have it clear in a minute."
Nodding, Barry moved on. His large frame clothed in tan khakis and a black sweater with the company logo on the back headed for Anthony's supervisor, Will. Anthony watched Barry move on for a second before returning to work. Electric motors whirring as the table retracted, he stepped up to a slightly raised platform on the turret as the table stopped an inch away from his stomach. Bending over the bulkhead for the Y-axis drives and clamps, Anthony pulled the sheet of steel back, inspecting it for damage. There was a mild rise on one hole, indicating the problematic punch.
Two minutes later, Anthony returned from the tool room with a fresh tool, and inserted it into the machine. Closing safety doors, he moved back to the computer, resetting the emergency button as he went. Stepping up to the computer, he was about to restart the program when Barry's shadow closed in again, this time with a crisp white envelope in his right hand, extended out to Anthony, a stack of envelopes in his left. "Keep up the good work Anthony, and thanks for the overtime." Taking the Envelope, he nodded his thanks, and punched the start button.
Sitting at a red light, with the hard-edged sound of Diecast's "Peacemaker" spilling out of his open windows, Anthony eyed his pay stub. A little over a thousand. Four hundred of that would be going to Carson, his sister's fiancé, who would then pass it along to his co-worker. Final payment for the custom fibreglass fenders the guy was making. He looked up as the light turned green, and he turned left onto a road that turned into his street.
Pulling into the garage of the townhouse he rented with two other guys, he eyed his tool chest. He mentally dismissed it, all he wanted was to shower, sit down, and relax. Climbing the stairs, he trudged into the bathroom and set the water running. Stripping down, he tossed his towel over the curtain rod, and made his way past the navy blue divider. He paused, hearing the phone ring...I could...not wet yet...hell with it. Ignoring the phone, he stepped into the steaming spray.
Thirty minutes later, all memory of the phone call forgotten, he sat in front of his computer screen, catching up with his e-mail, message boards, and the inevitable e-bay dredging would send him to late, and unproductive bed.