September 9, 2003
Amite Foundry and Machine Inc., Amite, Louisiana
Talk about a meltdown.
There they were. Big, tough, macho steelworkers brought to their emotional knees as they liquefied seven and a half tons of salvaged steel from the World Trade Center. One man flipped up his visor and buried his face in the crook of his arm, pretending to wipe sweat from his brow. Another uttered a prayer, lips moving, not caring who saw him pray in public. He crossed himself, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and continued to shovel.
Others were so emotional they left the foundry altogether, slowing down the process. The goal was to complete the smelting that morning, so they could spend the afternoon pouring the sacred steel into the cast for the bow stem of the United States Navy’s newest ship in the fleet: The USS New York.
Two steelworkers, one noticeably taller than the other, stood side-by-side, staring into the fire. They leaned on their shovels, sniffled, cleared their throats repeatedly, and tried to appear as if they weren’t emotionally overcome. The tall man shook his head from side to side and muttered, “Jesus.”
“You can say that again.”
“Did you hear when the steel arrived, the foundry manager touched it with his bare hand and the hair on the back of his neck stood up?”
“Yeah. Didn’t know the guy had a heart, but I guess he does.”
The first man pushed up his sleeve. “Look at me. I’m covered in goose bumps.” He caressed his forearm as if to prove it.
His co-worker reached under his safety goggles and dabbed at his eyes. “So, do you think there’s…?”
“Yeah, I do.” The taller one leaned closer to the pit, then turned back to him. “I guess nobody will ever know what or who might be in there.”
“So what do you think about mixing it and casting it into the bow of a Navy ship? Shouldn’t they be allowed to rest somewhere peaceful?” He tugged at a gold cross on a chain around his neck. Rubbed it and brought it to his lips.
“Hell, I hope there’s a bunch of New York cops and firefighters in there. I say let ’em get their revenge.”
“I don’t know. I believe all the victims went straight to heaven and what’s here is just symbolic metal.”
“Well, you go ahead. I think there are some truly pissed off souls in this mix and they’re not gonna rest in peace until the USS New York gets built and tracks down all the bad guys and kicks their asses. And if we don’t get back to work, that ain’t gonna happen.”
The shorter man nodded, picked up his shovel, and gingerly scooped up more salvaged debris. With reverence, he lifted it and tipped the contents into the fire. Then he stepped back and mumbled a prayer so low not a soul heard him.
At least, not a living soul.