“A Scrap Metal Scorpion” | Stella Mehlhoff | Fiction

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 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

his seat. “What’re you looking at?” His hoarse, rich voice startled me. I didn’t hear it often during hours of shared manual labor.

“I think it’s cool, what you’re doing.” He grunted in reply.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” I asked. He shrugged and kept twisting. His pause was so long I figured he’d decided to ignore me.

“Just picked it up on the job a year or two ago. Was bored, I guess.” He didn’t look up or change his stance to accommodate further conversation, but I picked up on a hinted smirk.

“Could I see one of your sketches?” I turned toward him, enthralled now. He laughed in that scratchy way life-long smokers do.

“Sketches? You think I’m an artist or something?” He set down the half-finished scorpion he’d been working at and folded his hands in his lap, a chuckle still shaking in his gut. He seemed to think my comment absurd. The irony gutted me.

“You mean you don’t plan these out?” He shook his head. “How long does one take you?” His eyes sparkled, betraying a quiet pride.

“Hour. Maybe two if it’s something big.” He picked the scorpion back up and started working on its stinger. “I’ve made maybe two hundred of these. Old hat now.” My eyes widened. I imagined a whole army of man-made creatures—lining shelves, cluttering floors, quietly supervising daily life—a menagerie of repurpose.

“What do you do with them? Once they’re done?” I asked, enchanted by this man and his creations—unassuming, but worthy of a gallery.

He just leaned his head against the back of the chair, thick eyelids blinking at the ceiling. “Ever heard of peace and quiet?”

Later, on my way out of the plant, after I’d hung up my helmet and washed the grease from my palms, I found the scorpion perched in my locker. It had a diagonal, striped back, and braided, gleaming claws. I picked it up timidly, wary that it would come alive to sting me. When I held it in my hands, I did so with the awe of a kid that had just unwrapped exactly what they wanted for Christmas. I didn’t get the chance to say thank you to Cy, but I became attached to the thing. I can’t explain why, but I couldn’t help carrying it with me everywhere, from plant to factory, and later, from house to house. With time, I infused so much feeling into its metal that I could swear it had a heartbeat. Like maybe if I treated it tenderly, with all the care and attention it deserved, Cy would feel some satisfaction, knowing someone had admiration for his work.