Quota Friday

Jeezel’s index finger caught on the wire mesh guard, just before the part egress and a good two feet from the rest of his hand.

He doesn’t remember much, yeah, he was working too fast but everyone works too fast on quota Fridays.

Millard was laughing, and that made Jeezel Picanski mad, kinda sad, kinda crazy, but Reynaldo told him Millard was laughing because the 171 spit the part, that 262 spline he was running, the ones that go in them Chevy trucks, and they tested it because they were on Friday quota and it cut perfect.

“Those old ass machines Tullerman keeps refurbishing still cut great,”Millard said.

“Never woulda happened at a union shop,” Jeezel said, and Hahnroy said “Picanskis don’t get hired at union shops because they all got felonies,” and Jeezel let all the saliva build up in his mouth, not wanting to say nothing, then finally saying “I don’t,” but knowing he’d never get into the union because his older brother Ted , Teezel, he shot a committeeman. 

Jeezel looked at his nub, such a small nub he had to learn to smoke with his middle and ring finger. He dropped more cigarettes in three weeks than he ever had in his life up to then.

Went to the bowling alley the night after the 171 amputated his finger, just wanted a drink but left when it hit him in the mouth that he’d never bowl normal again, if at all.

Somehow he knew he could still send pinions into the 171 again, he knew he wasn’t done at Pierson Manufacturing.

He wasn’t nervous about the machines, or nothing like that, but in the week he was out Mrs. Pierson sent him homemade pasties, with a card that said “Feel better soon, Jerry.”

No one had called him Jerry since his mom died.

Hahnroy said no union in America was gonna send nobody homemade pasties.

Jeezel Picanski looked at his nub.

He didn’t have a right index finger or the balls to tell Mrs. Pierson that once you watch your own finger get trapped in the wire mesh of the 171, you really aren’t in an appetite for meat pies.