cutting through steel // damen

The factory is just as hot and noisy as ever. Metal clanks, chains jingle, blowtorches sing, and buzzers sound. It’s like some chaotic orchestra that I’ve grown so used to hearing so I don’t quite hear it any more. To speak to one another in this facility, you pretty much have to yell; at the end of the day, your throat’s usually sore and your voice is scratchy. Already, though it’s only about ten in the morning, I can feel my voice becoming hoarse. Having spent years in this place, it’s amazing that I still even have a voice left.

Fortunately the owners of the place have allowed me to take up a rather responsibility-heavy job under the title of “quasi counselor.” Since I’d been working here for so long, the man in charge knows that I’m very familiar with how things operate and how taxing the hours are, and how family life at home and make an impact on work life, I’m the one that the workers know they can go to if they need to get something off their chest. I'm their confident. A friend when they feel like they've got no one by their side.

A fitting turn of events considering all the mistakes I’ve made in the past. Turn it around by making sure others are doing well and are happy and healthy.

Another thing that I’ve been entrusted with is dealing with contractors. Normally the boss would be here at the meeting, but he had some other business to attend to, though he said he had full faith in me to handle the visitor who was supposed to come.

The stranger was coming on the prospect of giving us some lasers, or something of the like, that could help cut the steel. I don’t know much about lasers; they’re the stuff of stories for me. I’ve never actually seen one so I don’t know what to expect. The boss mentioned it was probably something small, maybe handheld, but that seemed too far-fetched to comprehend for me. Regardless, I know to keep an open mind. Progress that makes things easier for the workers is always a plus so long as no one loses their job.

I wait outside where it’s far less noisy. The possible contractor's easy enough to spot when approaching; I know every worker here, so when anyone arrives that’s not “one of us,” I’m quick to greet them.

“You must be the laser contractor.” A smile’s on my face and I extend my hand to him. “I’m Hopper.”