The giant bag of earplugs landed on the desk in front of Calla.
“Always wear plugs,” Dickinson said.
“Two warnings for no plugs, then you’re terminated.”
Calla smiled and the smile set Dickinson off.
Duhlman watched from the small row of lockers next to the open office at Precision Grinding”
“My grandfather went deaf working here, Dickinson said. “My Dad, God rest his soul, wasn’t gonna let that happen to anyone else. We take plugs seriously. Wear ‘em. Or else.”
“No vorries,” Calla said, still smiling.
Dickinson’s brow creased like someone was making a paper airplane out of it.
“I’m serious,” Dickinson said, voice lowering in tone and slightly raising in decibel.
Duhlman wondered where Calla’s accent came from and wondered why Dickinson wasn’t medicated.
They hadn’t had a new guy at Precision in a long time.
And Mike Dickinson’s old man was no saint. There was a class-action suit against the company. In the ’80s over a bunch of guys having hearing loss, that’s why ear protection was mandatory.
Calla opened the bag and put in his earplugs, the kind that came in pairs and had a small rubber cable that connected them behind the head.
“When you need more, come get ‘em,” Dickinson told Calla, who was still smiling.
Calla put his coat in a locker; small shop, no locks, honor system.
“Keep pumping out clean 823’s and Dickinson won’t fire you if you don’t wear plugs,” Duhlman said to Calla without introducing himself. “It’s all about quota.”
“I vear plugs,” Calla said. ‘Happy to be vearing plugs.”
“We all go to The Graze for lunch, Duhlman said. “Great burgers, if you’ve never been.Veggie burger if you’re vegan. Lattimore gets those. There’s an unwritten two beer limit, but that’s about all we have time for anyway.
“Thank you,” Calla said, “I have plans. But thank you. Maybe sometime.”
Duhlman noticed Calla hadn’t brought a lunch. Maybe he thought he could go to The Silver Wok out on Telegraph. He’d never get his food and back in time, Duhlman thought.
They walked out to the shop floor together, Calla taking his place at the only unoccupied beast at the end of the row. Some guys started early so they could finish their number early, play euchre.
Duhlman sipped his gas station XL coffee, well fortified with whiskey. By lunch he’d be ready for the cool refreshment of two beers, coffee would be gone an hour after lunch, he’d gut it out til end of shift. Been doing this routine for 18 years. Wondered where Calla was from. Wondered what he drank. Was he Greek? Ouzo? He was older, but no gut, had to be a booze guy.
At lunch bell Duhlman repeated his invitation to The Graze, just down the block, they walked, but Calla, no longer smiling, scurried to his car and drove off, north on Prudential, his earplug cable still dangling behind his head.
Duhlman had his beers and burgers and Julie B snuck him a shot of Maker’s down behind the service bar. She was a sweetheart.
Calla’s car screeched up to the shop as Duhlman, Lattimore and the rest of the guys were walking down the front hallway.
Duhlman took him aside on the shop floor.
“Fuck those plugs, bro, Dickinson will fire you if you’re constantly late coming back from lunch. Better come to The Graze with us.”
Calla smiled. “I be quicker next time. I was having fun.”
Duhlman’s eyebrows wiggled a bit. He wondered where Calla’s fun was.
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