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Gold Medal Software - Volume 3 (Gold Medal) (1994).iso
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1994-03-03
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112 lines
The Shop
Copyright (c) 1994, F. Edson Meade
All rights reserved
The Shop
by F. Edson Meade
Raymie leaned forward to sooth his aching forehead against the
cool pane of bullet-glass at the top of the rotting oak door.
He recalled how as a child he would need to struggle and
strangle in the dust and bloodwash of the earthen floor, in
order to drag the hardrock pine chest to the entrance door,
hop atop, and stretch to the tips of his toes to peer out. He
could hear his father call out, "Good for ye'. That'll build
ya'." The chest held the larger hooks and tongs for the ice,
and to him all the heaviest tools in the world.
As this summer morning stirred, Raymie strained his aching eyes
open and looked out upon the workyard at a different time and
season. He could see the largest of the horse-drawn sledges a
good distance off, beating it's way through the gray, bony
spouting great and small huffs of breath and snow. As it neared
the eastern barrier of the largest pen, the sounds would carry
easily to his ear in the crisp air. The weighty, dark jangle
of chains, hooves and steel runners finding hold in the rut
of the team's harness, all in glorious concert.
"Progress. Hah! Dammit!" Raymie heard clearly. Just behind his
eyes. "Progress be damned!" His eyes darted to the right, and in
another season saw Drewson, his father's top cutter, mimic letting
go a great gob of spittle to the floor. The men knew better. "Got
the best cuts and the cleanest house!" The boss' endless anthem.
The men also knew they were the best at the trade there was.
Drewson went on. "Them units ain't nuthin'. Ain't nuthin' but a
fancy guy makin' a buck!" He looked a little past Drewson and saw
his father's muscled fist thrum against the tool-crib wall. It
would return a rumble and clang from the heavy wood and leather
handles of the larger cutting blades, which hung on spikes along
it's width. Raymie brought his hand up through the years to the
bridge of his nose and tried to rub away the noise from behind
his eyes.
The summer's morning would soon roast the air of the butchery to
an inexpressible stench. A sealed hotbox of decay. The
"..bloodin' room.." as his father called it, would reach searing
temperatures, and spew out dragon-like streams of brownish red
haze that would eerily wind and glide about, circling found
objects, leaving them seemingly luminescent. The wheel, the
central fixture. "A brand new day! Let's get to work!" Raymie
heard clearly.
"Nope. Summer ain't too easy. Hard on the men. We go a little
slower in the heat. Bloodin' room gets a little tough, but then
we just jump in the box and cool down. Best a' both worlds ya'
might say." As Raymie turned from the door he heard himself say
every word. He spoke in the great steel drum voice of his father.
"I'll just be getting a blade from the crib. Set yourself. Cut
to order. We can handle it. Yup. Heard of them units. Out more
west they gottem'. We ain't gonna see `em here. Too fancy.
don't ya' know." Raymie's legs wobbled a bit as a mocking
blood-dragon flitted close. A spear of heat shot across his
shins. He turned to the open door just behind the first
customer of the day to see the sun peek it's forehead through
the trees. "Runnin' late. Eyah. We're open for business. Just
gonna sharpen one up." He moved to the tool crib door which
was full open against all rules and orders. "Damn! Someone's
gonna hear me about this!" Raymie muttered as he looked up at
the vast wall of blades. Knee high again looking up at his
future.
His father brought the largest of the blades down from it's spike
and turned it this way and there to catch available light,
brought his thumb to his tongue, wet it, and ran it along the
edge of the blade leaving calculated marks. He hurried to the
wheel. Raymie mounted the makeshift seat, placed his right foot
in the cast treadle and brought the grinder to motion.
"Keep a blade sharp and it will work for you." Like steel. The
noise of the wheel. Raymie rocked the cutter back and forth across
the spinning grindstone. He moved an idle hand up through the
showering sparks to the bridge of his nose, gave a light tap,
smiled, shooed a small blood-dragon that had purred about his
idle foot, and turned to face the first customer of the business
day.
"Yup. Your right ma'am. Little slight on help today. All the big
orders filled. Kinda go made to order in the hot months. But we
can help ya'." Raymie moved matter of factly to the pine chest
that sat against the wall and lifted the lid. A little creak
escaped. After a little rummaging, he retrieved the the special
leggings he devised from old hide to protect his knees, shins and
forearms from an ill swung blade, and briskly strapped each
formed piece to it's model. "Have a seat ma'am. We got the best
cuts and the cleanest house around!" Raymie lifted the sharpened
tool of his trade to the brim of an imaginary hat and with what
he thought a gentlemanly touch, gave a light tip, and pushed
strongly through the entrance doorway.
The aged oaken door separated easily from it's hinges, and
crashed to the ground onto the rubble strewn about, sounding like
the great thunder of the workmen's sledge aproaching. Raymie's
heart beat loudly while his body rythmically, encased in the old
weathered leather, moved shuffa-shuffa like the great team's dance.
The long blade arced high, caught the sun. He let out a whoop.