Souls of Steel: The Saga Begins

By Philip Garrow

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669848585

Philip Garrow

blue-collar Christian writer teacher; father to Pfoots and The Boo; grandfather to Tiger, Tigger, and Tiny Tanks; addicted to the English language, classic rock—and baseball; known to drink spiritous substances— often

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Copyright © 2022 by Philip Garrow.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Scripture quotations marked KJV are from the Holy Bible, King James Version (Authorized Version). First published in 1611. Quoted from the KJV Classic Reference Bible, Copyright © 1983 by The Zondervan Corporation

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 10/06/2022

Xlibris

844-714-8691

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CONTENTS

Epigraph

Prologue: the River

Coda: after the Deluge

Chapter 1 Booking Passage

Chapter 2 Maiden Crossing

Chapter 3 Crewmates All

Chapter 4 toil below decks

Chapter 5 Advance in Rank

Chapter 6 Goddess of the Voyage

Chapter 7 Celebrations on Board

Chapter 8 Steel Doors and Boiler Rooms

Chapter 9 Charted Courses

Chapter 10 North Atlantic

Chapter 11 Full Steam through Ice Floes

Chapter 12 Struck Hull

Chapter 13 Phillips’ SOS

Chapter 14 To the Lifeboats

Chapter 15 Roar, then Silence

Chapter 16 Waters Vast and Black

Epilogue: the View from Woods Hole

About the Author

Epigraph

to capture Africa, men stole her sons.

to bleed the Iroquois, men slashed her trees.

to starve the Sioux, men murdered herds.

to drown our Children, men steamed through bergs.

to summon doom, men tore out mills.

our souls of steel cry out as one.

____________

for Tiger Tigger Tiny Tanks—

with our Family giving

thanks…

Prologue

the River

The Monongahela River carves a serpentine course northward from her headwaters in the mountains of West Virginia to her confluence at the steel city of Pittsburgh. She slices her silent way through rustic Appalachian woodlands. She runs her rolling waters by ghostly remnants of steel mills and coal yards and small towns abandoned. One hundred and thirty miles of River course. Seventy as the arrow flies. Twice the distance, due to her meanderings. No other river her modest length has carried more industrial traffic in all of America. Few in all the world. No other river her modest length has carved a serpentine course through more social disintegration.

In 1944 the Pittsburgh region produced more steel than all the industrial might of Germany and Japan combined. Pittsburgh steel—made by Pittsburgh women, whose Pittsburgh men were fighting the war against the Japs and Nazis. Pittsburgh steel that beat the Japs and Nazis. Steel city. Steel men. Steel women. Steel families.

By 1984 the Pittsburgh region had become center stage for Shakespearian tragedy in blue collars. For collapse of the city’s working class culture. For loss of the city’s working class structure. Mills, mines, and factories shut down. Tens of thousands lost their jobs. Their families. Their homes. The center stage upon which a Shakespearian company had been playing for three generations.

It happened to a company born in the USA. A company begot of steel city Pittsburgh. A company lost—swept away in the deluge of irresistible progress. 21st Century technologies. Global economies. Servile politicians. Sterile statisticians.

It happened where a River runs north—to a steel city.

Coda

after the Deluge

A yellow half-ton jeep—sleek solid wooden stake bedded—pulls up to a mill gate. Parks close by its railroad crossing. In former days, this act would have been unthinkable. On the thirteenth day of the second month of 1984, however, it doesn’t matter a bit. The guards, warm and safe in their snow-banked barracks, don’t give a second glance to the offending truck or goofy writer kid everybody knows is crazy. He can park any place he wants to. There’s no mill traffic. No mill. No industry. No energy. Just ghostly empty 19th Century ancient factory remnants of America’s bygone booming gilded age. No matter what the kid does he can’t get in the way.

February slices the compound in icy anger. Specks of crystal snow slice steely sharp against layers and shades of cold lead gray. The mill yard is framed by aged’ broken cyclone fence that reaches beyond blizzard’s breadth. An insolent sprig of Queen Anne’s Lace waves to the kid from the fenceline. The kid waves back. Slides out of the truck. Jerks against the shock of door handle static. Begins his dreaded march—but halts before the mill gate. Fumbles about in his pockets. The severance papers are in the glove box. Upon retrieving them, he dares read the frigid composition one last terrible time. It chills his hand in capitalism’s absolute zero temperament.

Be advised that you have the option to terminate your service with the Wheeling Pittsburgh Steel Corp. Should you take the severance pay, you will surrender your employment rights. Information regarding the amount of money you are eligible for can be obtained from the Industrial Relations Department, Allenport Plant. Sincerely, Joseph D’Aglio Vice-President of Industrial Relations, the Wheeling Pittsburgh Steel Corporation.

The kid slides by silenced time clocks. Waves to guards in their snow-banked barracks. They don’t wave back. He advances across howling winds and treacherous ice floes. His course is set for the Industrial Relations Department caught in frigid composition. For the hundredth time he pulls on the door that is clearly marked push. Steps into a workplace dim lit. All but abandoned. The director of industrial relations is hunched over a tiny desk near the counter. A single light bulb—dangling from the thinnest strand imaginable—shines weakly down upon him. His spacious private office at the rear is locked shut and dark lit. There is no company present. No cheerful secretary. No stone-faced assistant. No accountant wearing Pittsburgh Steeler jerseys despite the time of year. No pipe-puffing janitor. No sexy little mail carrier. No radio blaring ‘60s oldies. No scent of coffee brewing. Nor radiator hissing. No home. No hearth. No heat. All warmth and cheer are gone. Darkness and chill fill in. Bobby struggles on one phone while another rings with maddening insistence. He scribbles as he talks. Doesn’t glance about. Bobby’s is a clerical burden.

The kid takes command of a metal chair over by the far wall. Its thick green padding and big steel arms afford comfort unexpected. He digs out his notebook. Begins the recording of this distasteful event. Long minutes later he is summoned. Bobby looks cadaverously thin. Beaten and broken under pale light. The kid clears his throat.

Hey, Bobby. Here ta sign fer my severance.

A table set hard against Bobby’s bulkhead is flooded and flowing over—a pulpy sargasso sea of signed statements. Bobby passes a form over the counter. The kid scrawls his name in fine-line black ink. Uses his own fine-line black ink pen. Bobby examines the document. Tosses it to dissolution. Returns wordlessly to jangling bells. The kid fumbles about in his back pocket. Pulls out the papers. Crumples them. Drops them in a wastebasket on the way out. Retreats across siberian wastelands—toward a rusted barbed wire fenceline that will forevermore separate him from steely men. From steely mills. From steely worlds.

wind

was rising.

winter storm gathered to the west.

a sea of offspring flowed from steelwork fields.

eight decades of sweat-worn men,

Pittsburgh coal,

icy rivers,

tie-held rails,

shanty houses,

faithful women,

hope-filled sons,

loving daughters,

caught—all of us—in bloody world events.

our children’s tale must now be told,

whose souls of steel

cry out to Heaven.

Chapter I

Booking Passage

It is the spring of 1974. Unseasonably hot. Sweat trickles down the neck and back of one Thaddeus Christopher Gallo. He wipes it away with a blue work hanky. Hesitates at the edge of a bustling railroad crossing. A sparkling cyclone fence is all that stands between him and a substantial steel mill pumping out prodigious iron product.

… how many times’ve i been in there, clutchin’ the Old Man’s hand so tight it made my arm ache?…

The scene stretched off into an endless dust-swirl parking lot. Off into a thousand hues of painted metal. Off into the arc of hot sunlight on cool glass. Off into curved and curling vistas. Appalachian Mountains rose in richest green beyond the iron dust red-rust gray smoke. Above the fortress gothic towers. Outside the barbed wire guard shanty fenceline. Behind the dark satanic lair of witchcraft secret steely brews. Tad drew a trembling breath. Took a reluctant step toward the steaming citadel. Teasing breezes nudged him ever so softly forward. He obeyed, slipped through the gates, and set course for a tall distant yellow brick building.

Hey, buddy! Hey, you!

Tad looked back toward the gate. A red Mack tractor trailer—hauling monstrous silver steel coils—shifted gears and lurched across the tracks. Suffocating clouds of strange white dust rose all about. As the choking fog began to settle, the source of shouting began to emerge. A heavyset man. Stark. Standing near the guard shanty. More dust settled. He wore a guard uniform. More dust settled. He was all blue and gray and spartan shoeblack. All dust settled. His hands were set hard against his hips. He was chewing on the mashed end of an unlit cigar. He was not smiling.

…uh-oh...

Where the hell ya goin,’ buddy? Ya got a pass ta enter this plant?

Tad took a step back.

O, no, sir... I’m... uh... expected… over there… at Industrial Relations… y’know… fer a job interview… at ten… is it—

That ain’t the problem, buddy. No matter who ya are, or where yer goin,’ ya gotta sign the register. Git yer ass back here. Goddamn signs is all over the place. Jesus, buddy, can’t ya fuckin’ read?

Reluctant Buddy followed Angry Cigar back toward the gate. Reluctant Buddy’s marching orders had not considered retreat, but Angry Cigar held the high ground. Tad’s nervous jerky long-legged stride carried him well by his surly escort. He was almost late. Laura told him to be on time at least twelve times. Maybe thirteen.

"You don’t have to wear a jacket and tie, Thaddeus, but you better

not be late. It looks bad. Punctuality never goes unnoticed,"

she spoke in a clip’t voice soft staccato that caused

angels to pause and ponder. She was fussing

with his too-long curly dark hair.

She wanted him to get it

cut shorter.

Much shorter.

He wanted to let it grow longer. Much longer.

Tad stepped into gloomy confines. Against the observation glass slouched a dwarfish black guy in a wrinkled guard uniform. His eyes were glued to a tiny television set hid beneath the window. He was taking in a game show as he inspected mill traffic. Tad squinted back into the dark. Four steelworkers—leaning on the other side of the counter—stared in at Tad. Rumpled Black stared at the game show.

You a college graduate?

Tad’s mouth went dry. Bang. Just like that. The door creaked open. Angry Cigar entered, cursed softly, and stepped close behind Tad. Very close behind. Angry Cigar breathed wet and near. Tad—feeling far too much like the first white man across the Alleghenies—found himself in close quarters with Iroquois warriors. They were desirous of his iron weapons. They were fond of his strange clothing. They didn’t care much for him.

Yeah, I’m a college graduate, he lied.

His voice sounded boyish. Hollow. Weak. He resented them for being able to do that. He hated them for being able to do that.

What you major in, college graduate?

Tad sighed. These guys were in no hurry. The butterflies in his stomach had wings as big as pillowcases.

Psychology.

Rumpled Black snapped off the set. Spun to face the college graduate. His countenance altered. He was interested. One might even say, impressed. He rose slowly and deliberately to his feet.

Well, well, well. Did you hear that, Angelo? Psychology. That means you’re one of those fellows who can analyze people. Figure out what makes them tick. Help them understand why they have problems. Very impressive.

Tad smiled. Most lay people attributed supernatural powers to the psychologist. He’d got used to it. If this conversation went the way of so many previous, he’d have to explain the differences between a psychologist and a psychiatrist. He’d also be obligated to clarify the limits of each discipline. After all, they were not gods.

Well, kinda. But much of what yer describin’ is a subfield known as psychoanalysis.

Rumpled Black paced back and forth—humming in hammy deliberation. Sidled up to Tad. Angry Cigar closed the distance to his rear. Rumpled Black nodded.

Uh-huh. I see. Psycho… what did you say? Psycho-uh-nal-uh-sis? Thanks, I’ll try to remember that.

Now came the moment to flay his fleshy prey—for the drooling amusement of a breath-held gauntlet.

Of course, you must separate Freud, Adler, and Jung. They all jumped together, but haven’t made the same splash. Personally, I side with Jung and collective unconscious. Do you have a preference?

Tad shook his head. Timidly. Four steelworkers leaned in further. And further. Silence rose to a deafening roar. Rumpled Black crossed his arms Put the index finger of his right hand to his mouth in the ponderous pose of a pretentious professor—as he minutely examined his visibly shaken subject.

Don’t tell me. Let me guess. You have a liberal arts degree. The liberal arts are written all over you.

Tad shrunk in psychic size—aborigines on his flanks, barbarians to the rear. Another foolish yankee felled in forest ambush.

Uh… yeah... I… liberal arts… yeah… why?

Rumpled Black clapped his palms against the sides of his face—playing up his astonishment for snickering steelmen.

"Then shouldn’t we assume you can read? Yet you walked into the wrong side of the guard shanty. Right through a door that has authorized personnel only painted in white letters six inches high. Now you’re standing on the wrong side of the counter. Please explain that to me in the language of psychoanalysis."

The place exploded into whooping warchant pandemonium. Psy-cho-nal-sis! Psy-cho-nal-sis! Tad was hard pressed to understand how four guys could make that much noise. Rumpled Black dropped back into his chair. Did not join in the merriment. Snapped the set back on. Wheel of Plunder was over. The humiliated prisoner of war had to go outside, enter by the visitor’s door, and sign the register. He was released from a merciless roasting only to be toasted by a sweltering sun. As he trotted across the baking compound he glanced down at his wristwatch. He was late. Again.

Up close, the tall distant yellow brick building was a formidable structure—much more menacing than it seemed from safer distance. Tad pulled on the door that was clearly marked push. Stepped inside. A lengthy long counter divided the waiting area from a vast and bustling headquarters. A cheerful secretary glanced up from her tiny desk. Greeted him with a warm smile. An accountant wearing a black and gold Pittsburgh Steeler jersey in this dreadful heat pecked away with great contentment on a hand-cranked adding machine. A pipe-puffing janitor maneuvered his heavy push broom around gray metal desks. The scent of coffee brewing flowed through industrious air. From somewhere in the sizeable workplace a radio blared out ‘60s oldies. Air conditioners hummed along in happy harmony.

A door slammed at the furthest corner of the post. A stone-faced dowager stepped out from a private office. Glanced down at the list in her hand. Frown to herself. Frown even more fearsomely across the room—and strode toward the goofy writer kid everybody knew was crazy. She announced herself to be the assistant to the director of industrial relations. She demanded to know why he was ten minutes late. She did not offer him a cup of coffee. Or condolences for the Old Man’s death. A sexy little blond tiptoed up behind Tad’s tormentor, pulled a mailbag onto her shoulder, popped on her white hardhat, and mocked the tyrant to her back. She rolled her eyes at Tad as Roland’s assistant led him across the room to a private office, ordered him inside, and slammed the door on his heels. White yellow sunshine—pouring through massive ancient casement windows—framed the form of Herbert W. Roland, Director of Industrial Relations, Allenport Works. On the seventh day of December, 1941, he was in charge of a 5" anti-aircraft gun aboard the dry-docked USS Pennsylvania. Shot down a dive-bombing Val. Got so riddled by Zero machine gun fire the hospital surgeon gave him up for dead. The attending nurse disagreed. Now here he was—hunched so far into his reading, the very top of his scarred bald-patch head pointed toward the door. Upon Tad’s entrance, Roland stood—barely taller on his feet. A disfigured face was chilling testimony to his service.

Sit down. Sit down. So here’s Tony’s boy, all growd up. Saw ya at the funeral home. Didn’t recognize ya. Shoulda introduced myself. Guess I was too shook up. Sorry ‘about yer Family’s loss, son. It’s ours, too. Anyway, how many years since I seen ya? Good Lord, I don’t wanna count ‘em. Now here ya are, lookin’ fer summer work. Let’s see… graduated from Cal State... umm... no, not yet ya didn’t... no military... steel painter... uh-huh... disc jockey... rock an’ roll band... there a livin’ in that?...an’ now,…farm worker. That’s quite… an… interestin’ work record, Thaddeus.

Roland leaned across his desk close enough to inhale Tad.

So, wha’da ya want from Allenport, Thaddeus?

Tad leaned back far enough to avoid getting inhaled.

A job fer the summer.

Alright. Alright. Ok. An’ what can ya offer us that some other boy can’t? I mean, why hire you, an’ not the next boy in?

Tad shifted around in his decidedly uncomfortable wooden chair. Put his hands behind his head. Carefully weighed the response. Roland picked up a pencil. Shifted around in his squeaky decidedly comfortable desk chair. Began to write.

Well, sir, I’m a quick learner. A hard worker. An honest employee. I’ll give ya a full day’s work fer a full day’s pay.

Roland quit writing and leaned close enough to inhale Tad again.

Thaddeus, we’ve had problems with young fellas smokin’ that there marijuana garbage in the mill. Ever fooled around with it?

Tad looked point blank at Roland—and lied his face off.

I was a counselor in a drug rehabilitation center. It was no picnic. Previous ta that, I lived in a commune among those misguided people. I’ve seen the harm that marijuana causes. It’s just not worth the trouble. As they say, life’s the best high.

Roland dropped his pencil. He no longer had need to write. This was the sort of young man they had an obligation to hire.

Thaddeus, yer father, God rest his soul, an’ me was best a friends. I’ve know’d ya since ya was this high. Yer dad’n me in the Friday night bowlin’ league. Every bar in town, after that. Goin’ out ta the Farm. Ridin’ those gorgeous mustangs. What’d ya call ‘em—yer Babies? Fishin’ at yer Gran’pap’s lake. Swimmin’ there, too. Still got that rope swing? Me, workin’ late nights out in the Farm garage on that beautiful ’47 Packard of yer dad’s, drunk as skunks. Takin’ it fer long runs. Drunk as skunks. You sleepin’ on the back seat. I ‘member how he usta bring ya in here ever so often. How ya hid behind him. Couldn’t get ya ta let go a his hand.

Tad dropped his head.

I know it was never easy between the two a ya. But that’s just the difference of generations in this crazy world of ours. He always tole me ya could amount ta anything ya set yer mind ta bein.’

Tad covered his face with both hands.

Ya ain’t no dummy, Thaddeus. Before ya came in ya knew we was gonna hire ya. This is just a formality. Keeps out riff raff. The summer job is yers, I’m tellin’ ya right now.

Tad snapped up. Roland’s eyes locked on him through scar tissue.

Thaddeus, this’s a small company. Everybody knows everybody. Ya got... I donno... brothers Mark… Lennie… Michael… cousins… how many friends a the Fam—God Lord, yer momma Norma Jean worked here durin’ the War. Hirin’ bloodline’s our policy. Pedigrees. Ya got the best. Never knew a Gallo who shamed his Family.

Tad sought escape.

Make ‘em proud, Thaddeus.

Upon closing the door, Tad caught sight of Gladys Moyer at a desk far across the bustling expanse. Her rosary bead bracelet, jangling about her wrist, sanctified the moment. His absurdly beautiful seventh grade Catholic school teacher worked here? She smiled warm invitation. He returned the smile. Declined the invitation. He had to pay homage to a goddess. A summer job, the oblation.

***

June 4th dawned in chilly River fog. Tad spent a restless rolling night chasing after sleep he couldn’t capture. At first light he gave up the hunt. Slid as noiselessly as he could out of bed. Found his way into the darkened kitchen—and sought caffeine solace. Minutes later his tiny bride stumbled in behind him. Snapped on the light. Collapsed at a table where she’d gabbed and planned, rejoiced and celebrated ‘til way past a sane and sensible bedtime.

Thaddeus!

A job at Allenport for the summer.

We’ll save money enough to finish you at Cal,

and finance our move to

Louisiana.

I’m so proud of you.

His so proud goddess squinted hazel-eye hatred at the world, at 7:30 starting times, and—unkindest cut of all—her moronic man glorifying in a stupid baseball game some stupid Pittsburgh team won yesterday on a stupid shortstop’s fielding error. She only made three all season. Two were his fault. Eyes ablaze, she stood over him, and wagged that no-nonsense finger.

When I get home, I’m taking an uninterrupted nap. Got it?

Tad, groveling knavely, escorted M’Lady to her carriage, kissed his sleepy bride off to work she goes—and repaired to enchanted cottage quiet charm.

…interview ain’t ‘til ten… i can sneak in a nap right now… hmmm… better make sure She’s gone...

***

Tad entered the guard shanty by the visitors’ door. Handed over the orientation slip. Signed the register. Jogged across the compound. Pulled on the door that was clearly marked push. Was breathlessly on time. The office churned in chaotic confusion. Every lad in the jam-packed assembly area looked as overwhelmed as Tad felt. Roland’s stone-faced assistant thrust a handful of papers at him.

Fill these out and get them back to me, she snapped in cold authority. When Tad completed his homeward assignment, he asked for permission to say hello to Mrs. Moyer. He was striding across the room when she looked up and smiled. Sunrise over springwood shone less bright. Best friend’s mom shouldn’t have eyes that blue. Or look twenty years younger than she is.

Hi, Mrs. Moyer. How ya doin’?

Hello, Thaddeus. Well, look at this. You’re actually on time.

So... uhh… how’s Garry?

Fine. As a matter of fact, he called last night, bless his heart. I told him you were here for the summer. That you were moving to Mississippi, next spring.

Louisiana, Mrs. Moyer. This fall.

Well, I knew it was one of them. Anyway, he said to tell you hello. He’ll be home from Crested Butte in July. He’s staying for a month. Longer if I have my say.

The orientation boys started filing into another room.

Uh… that’s great. There’s somethin’ I’ve been meanin’… I know I haven’t…uh… yeah… just tell him…here. Lemme write down my address’n phone number. It’s unlisted. My phone number, that is. Shit… I mean, shoot. Where’d they go? Hope ya can read that. I gotta get outa here.

She shook her head in perfectly dangerous dazzling amusement.

Your penmanship’s just as bad as it was in seventh grade, young man. I can’t read a word on that page.

Aww, shit… shoot. I’ll... uh...

She patted his hand. He yanked it away.

I can get anything I need from your records. Home address. Phone number. But, for now, you’d better get back to orientation.

Tad looked out at the empty quarter. He was late. Again.

***

The conference room burst to its seams with paper-shuffling bewildered baby boy recruits. They glanced miserably at each other. At the mass of information in their hands. At the gruff and grumbling company men in charge. Roland’s marble matron sat in a corner—occasionally glancing side to side. Untouchable. Unquestionable. At that moment a middle-aged fellow—sharp and lean as barbed wire—marched into the room. Snapped off his hardhat. Tucked it smartly under his arm. Vigorously massaged his wavy red hair.

"Good morning, gentlemen. Welcome to Wheeling Pittsburgh Steel. I’m Dick Sommers, maintenance supervisor—commanding officer, as my highly-skilled men like to say—here at Allenport. Whenever something breaks down, my highly-skilled men and I fix it. I work up to my elbows in grease and ice cold water, on twenty-four hour call, seven days a week. As a result of my chosen profession, I have no speaking experience. Not since combat, anyway.

Only Heaven knows why they ordered me here to address you. My advice is nothing short of the obvious. Don’t stick anything you want to keep into the mill. Fingers. Arms. Feet. So forth. Don’t miss work. Don’t show up late. Do your job as well as you can. Follow my advice and Wheeling Pitt will show its appreciation in ways you could never imagine. Now, students, Mr. Highsmith will give you your diplomas."

He popped on his hardhat. Spun on his heel. Strode out of the room. The air behind him was sizzling. Highsmith broke the discomforted silence.

Now, gentlemen, we got fer ya a little film ‘bout Wheeling Pitt, yer new employer. Home away from home, as they say. Lights.

It was twenty minutes of pre-cooked propaganda. Tad and his buddies were now part of the warm caring socially responsible Wheeling Pittsburgh Steel corporate family—no longer orphans abandoned out there in the cold uncaring socially irresponsible unincorporated world. All they had to do was obey orders. Work hard. Question nothing. The florescent lights took pity. Flickered back on. Highsmith sauntered to the front of the room. Smiling to himself.

Aw’right, gentlemen. Ya seen our film. Now, how’s ‘bout a little close up look at our mill?

The company had prepared well for its boot-camp booty. Newly painted bright yellow lines—showing shit-pants frightened rookies where they might tread without being crushed to purple pulp by menace motion machinery—crisscrossed the cobblestone. Smothering noise lay heavily upon them. Dangling pipe swung dangerously by them. Sparkling splinters floated treacherously toward them. Horns honked. Steel rattled. Infernos flickered. The glaze-eyed kids found themselves in a bedlam of bustling men. Clashing chains. Explosive bursting fiery flames. Oblivious to the cacophony, Highsmith led them along the yellow brick road. He waved at steelmen running noisy nasty deadly mechanical monsters. They waved back. Smiling. Laughing. In foreign-language hand signs he carried on with crewmates who must have been doing a really great job of whatever they were doing. Highsmith’s attitude so contrasted with the madness it caused Tad much discomfiture. The tour ended—suddenly and without ceremony—in harsh sunlight outside the Shipping Department. The boys came to a halt behind Highsmith. Drifting dust trailing them settled in shifting sifting patient silence.

Awright gentlemen, ya got yer assignments. Yer gear. Showed ya where ta meet, start a shift. The rest is up ta youns. Make the best of it, Highsmith barked as he ambled away. Smiling.

No one in Tad’s shocked and silent squad was smiling. Not an itty bitty bit. They stood stock still. Stared at each other. The ground. Their feet. The sky. A mournful murky mutter began to rise amongst them. It snapped the spell. Slowly—one at a time—they broke off and trickled out the gate. Moaning and muttering. A few would not come back. Some time later Tad realized he was standing absolutely solitarily alone out there in the compound’s brutal baking heat. Squinting across the River at rich green cool Appalachian forests. Woodland fairies, sprites, and goblins--hid amongst the foliage--closed their eyes. Shook their heads. Made grotesque faces at the lad they chose to show themselves to. Shook his composition in so doing. He set about on quick retreat. Fumbled in his pocket for the truck keys. Not daring to look back. Ten minutes later he pulled into the driveway. As he clambered out of Redford clear thought returned.

…games… they’re playin’ games with us…the guys ain’t industrial knights embracin’ some wonderful code of chivalry… it’s all sound an’ fury… meaning nothing…they pull this shit ta assure the Fat Boys they’ll get another generation of obedient wage slaves…well, they just hired a revolutionary... we’ll see—over the next three months—who changes whom…

Chapter II

Maiden Crossing

The screen door slid smoothly silently shut. Laura startled from her husband’s trip-over-the-throw-rug entrance into the living room. To his credit, the jackass did manage to catch the heirloom washbowl as it dove toward destruction from a corner pedestal considered to be safe. She set aside photographs she was arranging on the coffee table, petted Chicago cat—who absolutely snubbed Tad from the delightful curves of her lap—and shook her head.

Only Heaven knows what I saw in you.

I remind ya a Cary Grant, he murmured as he flopped down onto her dainty lap. Chicago refused to budge. She grunted in reception—then slapped his head in frustration.

Why ya home so early?

She smacked him on the side of the head again. Much harder.

I am Laura Marie Gallo, newly wed. I live here. I am a teacher’s aide at Phillipsburg Kindergarten. Perhaps you’ve met my husband. He’s the one who doesn’t listen when I talk. I told him a story over dinner last night. Somebody worked more than 32 hours her very first week on the job, so teacher gave her comp time today. Does this ring a bell, children?

Sorry, little girl, I’m listenin’ now.

Thank you. I went to school for an hour this morning to help Mrs. Warchanski with final grades. I have the rest of the day off. As soon as I’m done with these photographs I’m taking my uninterrupted nap. Then we’re going shopping. I’ll treat for supper at Harry’s. Don’t you remember our dinner conversation on this very subject?

Huh? Did ya just say somethin’?

Her fawn eyes sparked. She waved a minuscule fist in his face.

Some day I’m going to fix you good.

Let’s see ya try it right now, Tad challenged. Clutching her wrists he pulled her toward the floor. Chicago decided he’d be better kept by the sanctity of the sun parlor—and trotted off. Laura resisted Tad’s tug. Her face turned aside. Her face afire set. Her blouse breathed delicious lacy-lady deep breath. She cut the steam before they hit full ahead. Pushed him away. Snapped up the mill papers.

Wait a minute. I want you to tell me how it went.

…this is gonna take a while…

Tad sighed in silent resignation. Steelmill documentation and an impatient photo gallery stood between him and having his way. He was not going to have his—until she completely and fully had hers.

I go out Saturday midnight, then... lemme see. Yeah, here it is. I work two midnights… uh… one daylight… then two afternoons. That’s wild, huh? All three shifts in one week. I have off from Monday mornin,’ when the midnights finish up, ‘til Thursday daylight. C’mon, let’s get me some new scratch marks.

Literature fascinated. Scratch marks procrastinated. She pulled the paper up close to her pretty face and squinted at his incomprehensible handwriting.

Why do you have a blank by your locker number?

Scratch marks might be away without leave.

Don’t got a locker yet. Said it’ll take a coupla days ta free ‘em up. Full-time fellas keep as many as they can, an’ it must be a helluva fight gettin’ ‘em back. I gotta wear my mill clothes home Sunday’n Monday. I’ll have my locker Thursday morning. Hey, I got an idea. Instead a me drivin,’ why don’t ya drop me off at the mill an’ I’ll jog home. It’s about three miles. That way I won’t get the truck messy, an’ I’ll have my run in fer the day. Wha’da ya think, little girl?

Laura O so slowly shook glistening brunette tresses in perfect pouty consideration of the ridiculous. Her forever fragrant locks beckoned a beggar getting further and further away from what he begged for. She batted absurdly long eyelashes. They joined in the provocation. Then, with riveting hazel eyes, she cast a skeptical gaze that overruled any and all of the above.

…maybe longer…

Darlin,’ you’ll be so exhausted by quitting time you’ll have trouble walking, let alone running three miles in workboots and blue jeans. You’ll have a lunch bucket under your arm and a musette bag flapping against the small of your back. But, do whatever you want. I’ve said my piece. Now, don’t move. I’m about to put on Chicago’s Ballet for a Girl in Buckhannon.

She breathed breathy breathless in his ear, I’ll be right back.

***

At 2245 hours, Saturday, 5 June 74, Thaddeus Christopher Gallo gathered up his mill gear and began—out in cool porch darkness—to dress for midnight action. He tied and retied his work boots until they felt as secure as they possibly could. Checked the contents of Uncle Phil’s musette bag time and again to make sure everything was in place. Felt in his watch pocket a dozen and one times to make certain his beautiful slim Remington pocket knife—a birthday gift from the very same uncle—was safely stored. As Laura passed by, she slid open the screen door. Snapped on the porch light. Fired off a half dozen shots of her man preparing for combat. Then smooched his cheek. Content and ever joyous, she packed him a maiden voyage repast, with the Note tenderly tucked. And perfumed.

Darlin,’

I’m so proud of you. I’ve said that

before. I’ll say it again. Have a great first

night. I’ll see to it you have

a great first

morning.

Love you

back.

Longer.

guess who this is

Laura drove. Tad pressed his forehead against the dash—doing his best to fight fear mounting. Fear got the better of it. A twisted rolling rutted mill road hid behind a wall of night black. Then the mill came into sight. Frightful sight. Paranormal fog rose in ghostly spirals. All was shrouded with pale light of the otherworldly. Automobiles moved noiselessly. Whistles blew stridently. Pipe clanged horribly. From all directions of the compass steelmen in street clothes shuffled in slumped and silent procession toward the gate. A truck raised that strange white dust as it bounded along the compound road. Laura pulled to a stop near the crossing. Tad hauled his gear out of the back seat and leaned against the open door—mesmerized by ethereal sounds and soundless sights. Laura reached over and touched his hand.

You alright, darlin’?

Tad snapped back to his present position.

Yeah, I’m peachy fuckin’ keen.

He pushed the door shut and bent down to window level.

"Love ya, little girl, forever.

She blew him a scorching kiss—praying her smile was more convincing than real.

Love you back. Longer.

It was no man’s land from drop zone to guard shanty. Tad’s heart sank lower and lower as Laura drove away further and further. Nothing to do but go inside. The surging steelman tide washed him across the compound. Swelled beyond the time clock. Broke upon the shore of a silver-smooth water fountain—a silly cylinder out of synch. Small, sleek, far too modern; a speck of insignificance; a single stainless insulate swirling in a sea of roaring industry. Tad hunkered down next to the water fountain. Cuddled up to it, actually. He suddenly jumped to his feet. Frantically felt in his watch pocket for the pen knife. It was still there. He flopped down and hugged the fountain again. During Friday’s scare ‘em shitless tour, this was the assembly area he’d been ordered to.

Ok...you... Gillo. Huh? G-a-l-l-o? Related ta Mark?

Tell ‘im I said hi. Ain’t seen him since the banquet.

You, Gallo,

report here, by this water fountain.

Eight labor pool. One a yer daddy’s oldest

friends, Abbie Guftapolis, is turn foreman.

He’ll show ya what ta do.

All about was breathtaking enormity. Canyon cave interiors lined one against the next. Massive far-off doorways opened onto more and more buildings the size of aircraft carriers. Everywhere in that fairyland of delicate steel webbing, sturdy support beams, bright light, and deep dark, every steelman had a job to do—and was doing it.

Tad’s squad began to gather. A single glance separated vets from replacements. The former were calm. Confident. They knew what to expect. Had a pretty good idea what orders were coming down. This one lounged on the bench. That one slept with his face hid in a hardhat. Another, curled on the steel piles, read a magazine. Two jostled jocklike. Tad gave up cuddling the water fountain. Slunk over to the silent circle. The joyous jocks ceased their horseplay and, panting pleasurably, flopped down next to the nonentities. Tad knew, right then and there, he didn’t fit in. He didn’t belong. He shouldn’t be here. Even though he wore faded blue jeans and a sleeveless flannel shirt. Even though he boasted the black lunch bucket and blue thermos bottle that identify the race. Even though he hid beneath the same yellow hardhat and behind the same standard-issue safety glasses, he knew this company saw him for the trembling lamb he was—hid in labor’s clothing. Hid amongst the fleeceling flock but for but a moment more.

The mill between shifts was a surging swell of sounds. The eerie hiss of airlines. Distant muttered conversation. A burst of locker laughter. Growling diesel engines. He dropped his head onto his knees, wrapped his arms all ‘round, and closed his eyes. He began to separate the strands of sound that rose at first as a single factory pulse beat. The most curious was a strange thumping vibration. Felt as much as heard, it flowed as heat to work boot feet. Flowed as heat through brickwork floors. Wooja cooj thump! wooja cooj thump! what am I, chump? what am I, chump? Taunting. Hiding. Sinister. Tad got yanked back to here and now when one vet, nudged by the other, bumped against our beset boy. Of course he didn’t apologize. Tad pretended to pay no heed.

What’s open tonight?

Big cutter in Three. Small cutters in Four. Hookers in Four an’ Eight. Donno what else. Prob’ly Abramson.

Fuck that. Ain’t runnin’ so good. What ya gonna take?

Big cutter, if it’s left. I’m third’n what’s his name might want it. Hell, I’d like ta sleep, but Guffy been on my case ‘bout laborin’ all the time. ‘Sides, I could use the money.

Maybe I’ll hook an’ we’ll trade off.

Yeah. Guffy don’t mind.

The midnight band stirred at first sight of a burly fellow striding up the tracks—swinging clenched fists out and around a thick-muscle frame. His lean aide held a clipboard at arm’s length, the way farsighted people try to read. They were dressed in dark green work togs. Sporting crimson hard hats. Company men. Serious company men. Marching straight at them. Then a frightful thought struck home.

… if any a those jobs’re open when they get ta me, what can i do, but take one?… brothers.... cousins... Mom as rosie the riveter…the Old Man’s haunting ghost... Laura…gotta do my best…

A scene from the Family stage play began its run. Tad and dad rolling steel in standard post-supper serial session. Mommy helpers Susan and Mary cleared dishes around steel dad and story lad. Dad and Tad soared in spirit where the others had soared too oft. It was old hat to them—an old yellow hardhat not worth the tryin’ on again. It could never be enough for tiny Thaddeus. He sat with elbows on table. Chin in hands.

A man in the labor pool has a chance at a job, he should take

it. Doesn’t hafta, but he should. That’s how he gets ahead.

That’s how he earns the best livin’

he can fer his family. A man makes the best of it. A shirker don’t.

What galls me’s the lazy son of a bitch who comes in every

day an’ pushes broom when he could be learnin’ a job.

A bum like that should get the hell out.

Go back on the street. Let a man in there who wants ta work.

Guftapolis—sonar operator aboard the minesweeper USS Inaugural in Okinawa’s nightmare—shot straight at the mark. hellish action—shot straight at the mark.

Keagan. Where are ya? Yer first. Gonna run Abramson?

Keagan was lying on the steel pile behind Tad. He balanced an oversize lunch bucket on his broad expanse of jelly belly.

Why’m I first? Where’s Maraccini? he inquired between munchy mouthfuls of chocolate cake.

Called off. Why’s that matter? Ya takin’ Abramson? I want someone on there can handle it. Ain’t runnin’ so good.

Keagan sighed from cosmic distance as he inspected crumbs scattered across the vast wasteland of his vast waistline.

I donno, Abbie. I got this sore back...

Guftapolis—black-haired, muscular, forty-eight, fit, and furious—strode over to Keagan. Leaned down. Glared. The wretch continued crumb wiping. He declined to acknowledge the glare.

Keagan, ya pathetic piece a lard, do ya want. But if it’s pushin’ broom, you’ll sweep from here ta the Billet Yard’n back. I’ll trail ya like a fuckin’ blood hound. You’ll never sit that fat ass of yers down. Now choose, damn you!

Keagan wiped more crumbs. Watched them plummet to the floor. Avoided eye contact like leprosy.

Ok. Ok. I’ll run straightener. Don’t loose yer mind, Guffy.

Tad counted fifteen men in the pool. Eight jobs were given out. By the time they got to him, there wasn’t much left. Guftapolis had assigned cleaning around the machines to a couple of veteran laborers, the rolling up of ropes by the shipping platform to the first rookie on the list, the hauling of storeroom supplies to a kid Tad remembered from orientation day. None of the assignments meant anything other than he wouldn’t have to keep close quarters with one of those carnivorous machines his first time night here.

Gillo.

That’s Gallo, sir. G-a-l-l-o.

He made the correction.

Now, Gallo—Gallo? Tony’s boy? Heard ya was here, son. We all of us miss yer dad. Helluva man. You an’... Meade, where are ya, Jimmy? I want ya boys ta… I donno, goddamn it... police the area, clean up cigarette butts, paper’n such as. Alvin, show ‘em where ta clean, ‘specially in the tunnel an’ aroun’ the heaters. Whatever else ya do boys, watch them cranes.

With that, Guftapolis turned smartly about and withdrew in martial attitude down the tracks from whence he’d come. Alvin—mid-50’s, red haired, orange freckled, lean leathery—motioned to Tad and his work buddy.

…Morgan? Mitchell?… i gotta start payin’ attention ta names…

They walked in silence along a railroad siding that ran from the Compound into Number Five Building, through Four, ending at a concrete abutment in Three. They passed from one building to another through a mammoth breach. The absence of dividing walls created the illusion of being swallowed by a sheet metal whale whose gargantuan innards went ever on. The tunnel he and …

…Mason?… Dixon?… Madison?… Monroe?…

were ordered to clean was a wooden cramped low ceiling affair that had the look of an amusement park tunnel of love. Alvin led them through it to the other side. They stepped into another astounding industrial grand-canyon panorama. The same frenzied pace left right above behind. Another vortex of straining men growling machines clanging pipes gray steel girders—a sparking flashing sparkling crashing alice in wonderland hallucination that was beautiful, spellbinding and terrible all at once.

…i could use the Old Man’s hand right about now… uh-oh… Alvin’s been tellin’ us what ta do… shit...

...an’ when yer done, go in Eight an’ do the same. Afterwards stick close by. Ya know the big laborers’ shanty in Eight?

Madison Monroe Jefferson nodded.

Stay there. An’ watch them cranes.

Alvin slipped back into the tunnel and vanished. They stood there for a few embarrassed moments, looking at the ground. The mill. Each other. Tad extended his hand.

Thaddeus Gallo. Tad.

A bit younger than Tad. Stocky kid. Thick-muscled chest and legs. Curly long cinnamon hair hid his eyes and ears in rolling locks. More freckles than a frenzy of fireflies.

James Meade. Friends call me Dutch.

…Meade, ya dumb fuck…as in General George Meade…a Pennsylvania man… defeated Lee at Gettysburg… followed up far too slow... piss’t Lincoln off immeasurably… got himself good’n yelled at… drop the ‘e’ an’ ya drink the sweet wine of mythology…

I didn’t hear… y’know… what Alvin said we’re s’pposta do.

Meade gave out with a most puzzled look.

I got caught up in the mill... distracted, y’know… how… uh... yeah… how much is goin’ on… all around me....

Meade laughed as he pointed to a small cardboard box, hid near the dust-coat edge of the tunnel.

Get that, would ya? An’ don’t worry. I know wha’cha mean.

He bent to pick up scraps of paper and cigarette butts.

Did the same ta me when my ole man first brought me in. All we gotta do is police the area. Then we’re done ‘til they need us.

After a few minutes of paper picking Tad cleared his throat.

So… uh… Dutch…right? Dutch…yeah… who’s yer father?

James W. Meade. Ya got ta have met him, with yer dad bein’ who he was. My condolences, by the way. Pops was maintenance superintendent here round ‘bout ten years. Runs it fer the corporation now. Works outa Wheeling these days.

They fell into silence again. Meade led Tad back toward Eight—the building that formed the top of the giant I, or was it the bottom?

…no, it’s part a the stem.. wait a minute…which direction’s Coal Center?… does moss grow on the north side of a girder?…

He tugged at Meade’s sleeve.

I could get lost in here, an’ never find my way out.

Meade patted Tad’s shoulder.

It ain’t as bad as it seems.

Meade pulled a rolled-up mill schedule from his jean pocket and an ink pen from his shirt. He knelt and drew a sketch of the tube mill buildings on the back side of the schedule. Tad joined him. Studied the drawing.

There are one... two... three... four... five... six buildings packed together, beginnin’ with Five, where we came in, an’ endin’ with Oil Well Tubing. There’s a building at the top n’ bottom. Eight’s at the top next ta the railroad tracks. Billet Yard’s at the bottom next ta the River. That’s the giant I they talk about. Looks like a freaked out Roman numeral, don’t it? We’re here, where Two meets Eight.

Tad grew wary of slacking.

Shouldn’t we get back ta work? What’ll Guftapolis or Alvin say if we’re caught doin’ this instead a our job?

Meade put a hand on each of Tad’s shoulders. Shook gently.

Ya don’t understan’ what’s goin’ on, do ya?

All he had to do now was set Tad on his lap.

Tell me about Titanic again, Gran’pap.

Brrng Gran’pap pipe, Tad’eus, an’ I

put ‘nother log on fire.

You vant hot

chocklat

furs’?

Tad sighed, then leapt as if shot straight through with a bolt of lightning. Keagan—the Abramson straightener hid behind them—ran a load of pipe into the bucks. The booming clang clatter sent Tad fully a foot into the heavens. His heart pounding, his body shaking, his ears clogged with reverberation, Tad spun toward Keagan’s position. Waving and twitching, he screeched out heretofore unspoken dread.

What the hell ya doin’? Wanna kill us, ya crazy son of a bitch?

Alarmed by the outburst, Keagan stopped. Waddled around the straightening machine. Surveyed the area. Was somebody hurt? Had something terrible happened? It seemed not. Meade was rolling around in the red dirt—laughing himself to hysteria—as Tad rocked to and fro. Keagan waved a listless hand and shuffled back to his station. Meade pulled himself to his feet—wiping away tears.

Was that fuckin’ funny! he gasped— then burst into laughter again. Upon regaining composure, Meade put his arm around Tad’s shoulder and panted, Know what yer problem is?

Tad pulled away from Meade’s grip. Pulse racing, dizzy and weak, he stumbled to a bench in Eight—a safe distance from the ambushing Abramson—and flopped down. Meade flopped down next to Tad. He elbowed our frazzled fellow in the ribs. Tad ignored him. Buried his face in both hands. An Abramson headache throbbed. Meade nudged again, rougher this time. Tad gave a glance. Meade removed a beige blob of rubber, stem at the bottom, round at the top, from his ear.

Didn’t nobody tell ya ‘bout earplugs? Naw, I didn’t think so. Well, buddy, that’s why this mill’s drivin’ ya nuts. Man, ya can’t work in a place this loud without plugs. Be deaf as Beethoven come fall. We’ll find Alvin’n tell ‘im we’re gonna get ya a pair. Naw, not yet. Just sit here fer a few minutes’n pull yerself together. Happens ta everyone. I jumped higher’n that first time a load hit the bucks behind me. Came close ta doo-dooin’ in my drawers. An’ I did it in front a, I donno, eight, maybe ten guys. Took me all summer ta live it down. Pretty soon ya won’t flinch when they roll.

Massaging his eyes, Tad muttered, Why wouldn’t they give us ear plugs, an’ order us ta wear ‘em? They made us wear hardhats. Made us buy safety shoes. Made us join the union. They give orders, we follow. It don’t make sense.

Meade grunted, Yer gonna see a shitload ‘round here that don’t make sense. Place is a loony bin. Really gets ta my dad. He’s one serious son of a bitch. Once a Marine, always, they say.

Tad rose to his feet and stretched. Suddenly tired, he yawned, How is it ya know so much? Yer father?

Well, some. Pops ain’t much of a talker. Whenever he gets pissed, or has a few too many, he’ll say what’s on his mind. When he does, I pay heed. But, ‘sides that, I worked here the last two summers.

Tad surrendered to the bench. A lime green clock nailed to the corner of the shanty—sole survivor of a housewife’s remodeled kitchen—taunted him. It was barely midnight.

When were ya here—previously, I mean?

Meade took on the attitude of a child trying to remember what he got for Christmas. He counted on his fingers.

Uh... let’s see... June ta August ‘72, and... uh... June, no, May ta September, well, part a September ‘73.

Tad leaned his head against the bench. Mean headache. At that moment his imagination conjured up the image of Guftapolis catching him in the shanty. Just sitting. Just slacking. No work done. He jumped to his feet and motioned to Meade.

C’mon, let’s get back ta work. I don’t want Guftapolis catchin’ us here. We’ll bullshit later.

Meade waved with both hands.

Whoa! Take it easy. Sit down. I gotta s’plain somethin’ ta ya.

He patted the edge of the bench. Tad hesitated, then obeyed. He kept looking up and down the aisles of Eight. If he saw Guftapolis on the march, he would assault the nearest pile of trash without mercy.

Look. Didn’t ya think it was funny we had all them guys in the pool? D’ya know what the pool’s for?

Huh? O... uh… sorry. Didn’t hear ya. I’m gonna get back ta work. They ain’t payin’ us ta sit around.

Tad snatched up the box and started toward the tunnel. He picked up the pace with each stride. His headache dissipated to the soothing clomp of work boots on brickwork. He sailed through steel beam straits back to men and machines clockwork tight in cavernous light. There was, however, one tiny little itty bitty insignificant detail of a problem. Someone had done something with the tunnel. It wasn’t there. Two laborers, shoveling a drippy wet blue-black mass from a cutoff machine—pipe jutting, slow turning—stopped and stared at the clearly disoriented youngster.

Tad looked about in silly self-defense. Surely there was something he could do to show them he knew what he was doing. Stupidity dropped him to one knee, in the middle of wet slop, so he could pretend to tie his shoelace. The leg soaked through, knee to shin, faster than you could piss it on. He had to hide. He had to hide now. A change of pants wouldn’t hurt. He squinted up over the top of his slippery slidy safety glasses. The steel men had lost interest in the ridiculous rookie kneeling in a pool of water—pretending to tie his shoe. Now was Tad’s chance. He snatched up the box, spun on a soggy knee, bounced deftly to his feet, and crashed body-smack whump into Meade. The box flopped into the bog—drowning its nasty paper contents. Tad fingertip caught his hardhat before it suffered the same sloppy slurpy fate. Meade raised his hands to the Heavens.

Please tell me why yer runnin’ ‘round here like a… like a grade school kid bein’ chased by playground bullies? Judgin’ from the look on yer face that’s gonna take some answerin.’ One thing fer sure, we gotta get ya plugs. There’s Alvie, over in Eight. I’ll tell him what we’re doin,’ if that’ll calm yer fried fuckin’ nerves any.

Meade started up a long narrow aisle that meandered ‘round piles of oil-slick pipe. A yellow platform jutted from fields of steel—a man-made boulder in a natureless heather. Alvin moved toward them, bending frequently for some undetermined reason. No. Not for some undetermined reason. He was picking up paper. He was doing their job. They’d been found guilty of slacking. He’d scald them crispy or sack them roundly—recruits, they’d been reminded countless times, are on ninety-day probation. Not members of the union. Neither fish nor fowl. Able to be let go, fired on the spot, without cause given. At dawn he’d be without a job. At noon he’d be without a wife. Tad caught up to Meade.

What ya gonna tell him?

Relax, man. Ya got nothin’ but wrong ideas ‘bout this place. First thing we’re gonna do is get’cha some ear plugs. Maybe a cuppa coffee. Naw. Ya don’t need no caffeine. Case a beer’s ‘bout right. Then I’m gonna sit ya down some place quiet an’ explain the facts a steelmill life. But, fer now, shut the fuck up. Yer drivin’ me nuts, too.

They were closing in on Alvin fast. He bent again, inches from the oily cobblestone floor. Uh-oh.

"Shit, he found more paper. I told ya we better