Pic of the day: Przed walką, by Antoni Kozakiewicz
Speak, what trade art thou?
Why, sir, a carpenter.
Where is thy leather apron and thy rule?
What dost thou with thy best apparel on?
William Shakespeare, Julius Caeser, Act I, scene i
The short stocky man in the blue and grey work uniform found it hard to concentrate. The sounds of saws and machinery dominated the large space. There were several large men working with large pieces of equipment on large pieces of wood in various parts of the warehouse. He was not working on anything at the moment, but he had a work order that he was going to start up on momentarily. His boss called out to him and said “I need that model number!”
Two of the large table saws stopped simultaneouly and the men working on them were looking over the wood they were cutting very closely, double checking their handiwork. For a moment the warehouse was silent.
The feeling of lethargy and sleepiness combined to prize the little mans attention away from the events that were swirling around him. He stared intelligently at the piece of equipment, but for the life of him could not figure out what he was looking for. He did the best he could in this confused state. He stared at the piece of equipment with what he hoped was a deep looking gaze, and after a few second of looking the thing over from several angles said “Nope, don’t see it.”
There was a kind of moronic genius to this maneuver, he thought. Then he thought better of it and simply thought it was moronic and hoped no one would notice. He knew he wanted a new Miter saw, didn’t need it offhand, but he wanted it and didn’t mind. But he still couldn’t for the life of him figure out exactly what the hell the boss wanted him to do with the old one. He had been bitching about the damn thing for a long time, but he didn’t expect anything to be done about it.
He said to his boss “Sorry. What’d you need again? The serial number?”
His boss looked up from his desk and turned his head to the left to look at the little man. The boss had a slightly exasperated look on his flushed bearded face. The bright fluorescent lights from above him gleamed on his bald head and the glare added some more harshness to his already harsh face and made the pulsating veins throbbing ominously in his forehead look even more threatening, which the little man did not think possible.
The Boss said “I said MODEL number, Jones. What are you DEAF?” He barked.
Mr. Jones looked down trying to look sheepish, with some success, and said “Sorry boss, its model number…” And here he bent over the saw and read out “DW 708 type four. Get that?”
The boss wrote as he spoke “WD 708 type four. Got it.” Jones said “DW, John DW, not WD. DW.”
John kept writing and said”DW. Got it. Thanks, Jonesy.” John reached out his thick short fingers to dial the phone on his desk, but stopped himself, and yelled out “You need anything else besides another one of those to get this job done, Jonesy?”
Mr. Jones smiled a bit at this, shook his head and said “Don’t think so, boss. He didn’t really need another Miter saw to do the job, but John didn’t know that. John was an office suit, a bum as far as he was concerned. He wasn’t too bad of a guy so long as he kept his mouth shut, but he didn’t know his way around the shop and it showed.
John dialed the phone and waited for someone on the other end to answer. As he was starting to talk two saws which had coincidentally stopped when the two men were talking started up again. He had to yell to make himself heard…
That’s it from here, America. G’night.