The above is a cover from a children's book that I've not read, but we should all be heroes in our other life, right? The first day I went job hunting in New Orleans, the first place I walked into and applied for a job, they hired me. I thought I wanted to be a printer. Cary hired me because I was in his shop one day and were talking and he had worked as one when he first came to New Orleans ten years earlier. I didn't date much at first because your hands and fingers turn black and it doesn't wash off and I was embarrassed. Melissa didn't mind though. The following is from Chapter two of my unpublished novel: "Come To The Edge Of Them"
"The pressman smiled sweetly as he punched the button to start the press. When David and his boss split up to make the trial run, Mel chose to follow David to the rear of the machine. They stood side by side and peered through the window at the moving belts which were empty as yet.
"There's nothing wrong with being ignorant," Mel said.
"What makes you think either one of us wants to listen to you?"
"I know better then just getting on and getting off. A girl gave me this book. It's called the Karmasutra. Its got all these pictures of fancy stuff you can try."
"I can't hear you," David said loudly, half-heartedly hoping the other boy would believe him.
Several printed sheets appeared and floated down to the board. The press was shut off again.
"What I was saying-"
David jumped on the platform to get away from him. He wiped the top rubber roller clean by jogging it forward with the on button. The pressman passed while he was down on his haunches doing the bottom. Between the chugs of the press, he listened, expecting to hear his boss tell Mel to get lost, but they weren't even talking. His boss soon joined him on the platform to adjust the ink again. Mel had followed him.
"I'll bet you know all about taking care of your wife," Mel said.
"I'm not saying I don't know how," the pressman said.
"I'll bet you like eating pussy. Maybe even sometimes when she's on the rag."
"That's sick," David said.
His boss glanced up at him.
"You don't like a little ketchup on your hamburger?" he asked, grinning.
"Both of you are sick. Its disgusting--" David stopped himself. They were getting a kick out of his queasiness. All right then, the joke was on him. He went around to retrieve his sponge from the water pail. He wanted to ignore them, but they were still grinning at him. His face was getting hotter and hotter. If they didn't quit soon he was going to do something.
"We should leave old David alone," the pressman said. "You're in the way here."
Mel thrust his hands into his pockets and ambled back to the platform of his own machine. Wetting down the plates, David started the press again. He went to the back end to await the sample sheets. After four or five had come through, the run was tripped off, and he returned to clean the rollers. He glanced at Mel and found the other helper smiling broadly at him, licking his lips and rubbing his large belly.
"You re-chewing your breakfast?" David yelled at him.
"Thinking about everything you can put ketchup on! Hot dogs. French fries!" He began licking his fingers.
"You got a problem, kid?" The pressman shouted from the back of the press.
Mel frowned and turned away from them.
"Now we've hurt old Mel's feelings," the pressman said when he joined David on the platform. "You shouldn't let him get to you. He's just kidding around."
David didn't answer.
The man adjusted the ink flow keys and pulled an allen wrench from his hip pocket. He crouched down to twist the offset plates.
"Anyway, there's a certain amount of truth in what he says. Everybody like some kind of ketchup on their hamburger." He looked up, grinning.
"You're getting your rocks off, aren't you," David said.
"Lighten up, kiddo."
"I got my rights." David was trembling.
"Wipe down those plates and wring the sponge out over your head while you're at it."
David angrily finished the plates and threw his sponge at the bucket. Water splashed out on to the floor. The puddle was going to be a hazard in reaching the rear of the press, but he refused to clean it up. The son-of-a-bitch couldn't slip and fall down anyway. The press ran again, and when the man came back, he deftly sidestepped the problem, just as David thought he would. The makeready runs continued, the hopping up on the press, the cleanings, the adjustments, and then the hopping down to either end and the momentary rush of rollers. And then the hopping up again. They worked without speaking, both ignoring and avoiding the puddle as if it was a necessary part of getting the job done. Finally, worn down by the endless repetition of his chores, David grabbed some rags to sop up the spill.
"You want to clean up--" his boss started to say, looking up from the latest printed sheet."
Printer's Devils from the 50s
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