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THE MINUTE HAND OF the hot floor clock couldn’t move fast enough. Bo held the five-foot long punty over the mold, shifting his muscles to keep from cramping as the glowing glass elongated from a tidy sphere into a giant teardrop of viscous heat. He held it over the center of the mold, still and precise, like always. The presser needed just enough glass, not too little and not too much.
The cutter positioned his two-handed shears, and cut. The hot blob fell into the mold, the presser pulled the hand lever just hard enough to squeeze the liquid glass into all the fine prisms and crevices of the mold – then he lifted, grasped the solidified green traffic lens in tongs, and placed it on a paddle for the carrier. By the time the carrier sent the new lens into the maw of the hot lehr where it would anneal and release its internal stresses, Bo already held his steel punty in his gloved hands, its ball end skimming the melt surface.
Spinning it. Gathering glass. Lifting it up every so often while ignoring the blister that was getting rubbed raw under his new glove, making sure the size and shape of the gob were just right. Also hoping for the claxon to go off, because he needed water, and his whole body just fucking hurt by now.
The Friday Ache, he called it. Physical labor and dehydration, incurred over a period of five days, added up even though he kept a water bottle handy the way a long-distance athlete would. Bo loved glass and took pride in his work, but this time around, Friday couldn’t come fast enough.
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FOUR HOURS LATER, BO woke up from his post-work nap, hit the shower, and fixed himself a ham and cheese sandwich for dinner. That, a few wedges of watermelon and one beer was all he could stomach, but he knew he’d eat and drink more later.
He could live on melons of any kind. That, and cucumbers. After a day on the hot floor, they restored him better than any electrolyte drink. Gatorade and such were reserved for the dog days of summer when production started and ended an hour earlier than usual, and when huge industrial fans blew hot air around in an effort to keep them all from passing out.
He enjoyed the cool spring, though, and hoped the weather would hold. Dressing up in leather pants and boots on Friday nights was a bit easier when he knew he wouldn’t sweat buckets. He grabbed his bass and his amp from the spare upstairs bedroom, and checked his go-bag for the right stage make-up and clothing. Then he pulled on a nondescript gray Henley and a bomber jacket, lugged his gear into his Ram truck, and went out to play.
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HE NAVIGATED HIS WAY out of the run-down Sharpsburgh neighborhood where he’d bought his cheap fixer-upper three years ago, and continued down Route 28 toward downtown Pittsburgh. The sun glimmered its pink good-bye against the clouds before it dipped below the horizon. Bo breathed a sigh of relief. After the glare of the furnace, he was more than ready for the night to come and embrace him, its soft silence a perfect canvas for his music and the roar of an appreciative dance crowd.
Left onto the 31st Street bridge, then a right into the Strip District. The RamRod was a new club on the LGBT party scene and its fame spread through the word-of-mouth grapevine like wildfire. His cover band had a semi-steady gig on alternating Friday and Saturday nights. The pay wasn’t much, just enough to upgrade their equipment and cover their own party expenses. He didn’t care about the money.
He got to play.
He liked to immerse himself in the throb of music as though it was an exotic swimming pool. It filled Bo with anticipation. He parked in the staff-only parking lot, lugged his equipment out, and entered the club through the back.
“Hey!” Ralph was already there, sitting on the green room’s ratty sofa and turning his guitar. “Y’look happy today!”
“Fuckin’ happy to be here.” Bo grinned, dropped his gear, and shook his arms and shoulders in an effort to make them relax and let go of his chronic fatigue. “The week couldn’t end fast enough.”
“Oh?” Ralph drove a delivery truck for the city, moving bus spare parts to where they were needed. His schedule was regular, and despite the loading and unloading, he spent most of his day sitting down. His slight belly bore witness to that. “A glass went wrong again?”
“A glass always goes wrong. That’s normal.”
Ralph scratched his beard and started digging between his teeth with his guitar pick. “So what happened?” His words sounded like his mouth was full.
“Yer gross,” Bo said, and shook his head.
“Got popcorn stuck.” He sucked on his teeth, spat the popcorn bit on the dirty green carpet, and leaned back. “Okay, dude. Spill!”
Bo had his bass out of its case by then. He sat down in an orange plastic chair and began to tune. “There’s a new guy,” he said after a moment.
“Oh. Oh!” Ralph’s excitement knew no bounds. “So you’ll go for it, right?”
“He’s a dweeb. Won’t shut up.”
“Uh-huh?”
“But I’m here now, and I don’t have to think ‘bout him no more.” Bo picked an arpeggio and tweaked a tuning knob the slightest bit. He pressed his lips together, knowing Ralph will see the signal and let it go.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about him. Eli Winkler, the new quality control geek, was short and slight. He wore the mandatory long-sleeve cotton dress shirt – cotton or linen, to keep the heat down - that was customary for salaried staff, just like the production guys wore blue shirts and jeans or overalls.
Except Eli’s chestnut-brown hair was just long enough to curl above the collar of his mandatory dress shirt. The hair and the residual, light tan from last year offset his hazel eyes to advantage. Not even wearing goggles could hide their expressive fire.
And he just wouldn’t shut up. Bo knew he was supposed to be nice and cooperate, but come on, having the guy stand behind him and watch him work made him feel like he was undergoing some sort of a test.
Like Winkler maybe thought it was Bo’s fault Pot 16 had stones in it.
Or like Winkler could divine, just by watching Bo do the same, repetitive task over and over again, what might’ve happened to the melt.
Didn’t he have the temperature records? The lab samples? They tested color, thermal expansion, refractive index, the FTIR and all kinds of other shit, the sort of shit Bo would have to go to college for to understand. And Bo wasn’t dumb, nor was he careless. He never touched the ceramic ring with his punty hard enough to shake anything loose. The geniuses in the lab didn’t even know where those stones came from.
Not having gone to college made Bo feel like he was on an uneven playing field when he talked to the white shirts, except he was twenty-eight already and he wasn’t about to start now. He had a plan, and as long as he had a steady job, a paid-for house, and his music, he was reasonably happy.
Tonight wasn’t about the new guy. Tonight was about music. He smiled as his fingers hit the right cords at the right time. The strings yielded, rough and responsive under his fingers, and his calluses slid over them like they settled back home after a prolonged absence.
First, play some music.
Second, drink a little.
Then later, when they were done and the DJ took over, he’d go upstairs to the maze and see if any of his fans would help him get laid.