A Scrap Metal Scorpion Stella MehlHoff
I worked at the nuclear plant as a millwright for a few years after college. I’m not allowed to tell you a lot of the specifics for the same reason they called my childhood best friends as part of the background check. What I can tell you is that it was our responsibility to keep the extensive machinery of the plant in working order. While usually rigorous physical work, when it wasn’t making my arms stiff and strong, it was making my mind numb and aimless. The other men, because most of them were men, and I would wait to be called into a project, sometimes for almost twelve hours, paid to sit and stay awake. You would think that’d be kind of awesome—$25.00 an hour to be a body in a room—but it was testing. After forty minutes, you’d pick at the passage of time. At two hours, you’d count the minutes, amazed they could be so slow and empty. We all coped with it in our different ways. I’ve learned that the waiting game is all about who you sit by. Elbow partners can make or break the experience. This day, I chose strategically. Across from me in the blue, standard issue chairs, was Jim. He was in his mid-30s and tended to play Candy Crush on full volume, but if you asked nicely, sometimes he’d let you steal a few peanut butter M&Ms from a crinkly bag balancing on the arm rest. “Jim?” I tried, “Mind if I snag an 26
M&M?” “Not a chance,” he grumbled. I emphasize: sometimes. Next to him, Sam smirked at me. Early 20s like me, he had a sleeve of tattoos and eyes thick as pythons but always read paperback war novels, folding over the covers with disregard for the spines. When he was finished with one, he’d recount the plot in vivid detail for anyone in earshot. Cy, though, to my left, was my favorite. Cy was a grumpy man of nearly 70, one of the oldest at the plant. He had heavy wrinkles on tough, sun-stained skin. He wore sturdy denim overalls that smelled strongly of cigarette smoke. He had bad knees but was a skilled planner. During projects, we trusted his quiet admonishments while he executed the blueprints in his mind. What he did while he waited, though, was better than anything he did for the machines. With his red, swollen hands, he made wire figurines. His callouses protected him from the sharp ends of the scrap copper, twisting vigorously and methodically, while the company’s leftovers made spiders and serpents, cherry blossoms, and safari animals. The designs were intricate and mesmerizing. I loved to stare at his hands, thick and nimble, to fend off the impending drowsiness. Now, after half an hour of my shameless fixation, Cy sighed loudly and shifted in
