the shaper

the machine room was a din of noise, as usual. any one of the saws, drills, tenon machines or sanders was loud enough in close proximity. put them all together and then add the giant dust collection system on top of that, and you could hardly hear yourself think. when the day shift got ready to leave, the noise abated slightly, and the night shift never ran all the machines at once. jesse and i had already gotten our job assignments from the day shift foreman, and had passed them on to our teams that would be running the loads. jesse usually handled the sanders, because he had a touch with them, and he handled the mexicans, because he was mexican. i usually handled the saws and drills, because i was precise, and i handled the nigerians, because they regarded me with respect.

the people on day shift earnestly believed i spoke 'nigerian'. the truth was that the nigerians spoke the Queen's english, but they did so with an accent that was difficult to acquire. and a few words were different, like 'spanner' instead of 'wrench'. they were all college students who attended the small university nearby, and took the factory job just to earn a little money to make life easier. they didn't like jesse much, because he felt they moved too slowly, and they knew it. they seemed to have a dignity about them, exceedingly good posture, always polite. maybe not so fast, but steady at least. other than that, they were individuals, like anybody else. kamoru was the tallest, most talkative and most friendly. others were quiet, shy almost. most responded to respect with respect. it was an adjustment for me. i had come from a different department, full of high school students, same as me, whom i mainly motivated by yelling and swearing at them.

our night shift foreman, jim, was an older guy from kentucky. at first jesse and i had regarded him with skepticism. we didn't think we needed him; we could run things fine without him. and he seemed so back-woods. tall, strong, he had a rich southern accent and glasses so thick that they magnified his eyes to about twice their actual size. eventually he won us over though. he was easy-going, never pushy. had a real good touch with the sanders, and he and jesse learned tricks from each other all the time. he was tough, too. he had bought an old honda 350 motorcycle and always rode it to work. then one night he came to me in the middle of the shift and said "i'm not feeling too good. i'm gonna go." he was pale, sweating, and his face was fixed in a grimace. he looked as if he might pass out at any second. i asked him if he wanted me to drive him, but he said no. i thought he would drive to the hospital, which was less than a mile away. instead he rode his motorcyle 17 miles home, and then his wife put him in the car and drove him back that same 17 miles to the hospital. found out later that he was passing a kidney stone.

the day shift had finished clocking out. i had gotten the nigerians started. jim was standing and talking with a couple of day shift foremen in the aisle. i joined them. jesse had just finished getting the mexicans started and walked up to us too. the paint room foreman was telling a story about how static electricity had once ignited the paint thinner he was spraying into a bucket. any fire in the paint room could easily destroy the entire plant if not contained quickly, but to contain it one first had to overcome the compelling desire to flee. he was saying, "had to tell myself, 'self, come on back here.' " we were all laughing at the thought.

as he was finishing the story, i noticed one of the nigerians, arisa, had approached the group but maintained a respectful distance, not wanting to interrupt the conversation. jim was still laughing about the tale, and he quarter-turned to me briefly. i saw his smile, the laughter in his Mr. Magoo eyes. then he continued his turn and for the first time noticed arisa. his countenance changed abruptly, and i heard a serious tone in jim's voice i had never heard before. "what did you do? what did YOU DO?!!" it sounded almost like an accusation. it was surreal. i stood dazed, trying to get the scene to make sense but failing. then i noticed the crimson.

somehow, instantly, i knew. the shaper was a high speed saw we used to cut a clean groove into bed posts. i had showed arisa how to orient the piece of wood. put the foot against the stop on the right. push the piece into the blade, all the way against the fence. slide the piece to the left until the top touched the stop on the left, keeping the stock against the fence the whole way. i watched him run a few pieces to make sure he understood, and he did. then i left him. whether by imagination or divine cognition, i could see what must have happened next. arisa ran several pieces. with each piece, a small amount of sawdust escaped the dust collection system and remained on the table top. if enough dust accumulated it would hold the wood away from the fence and cause the groove to be too shallow. so he wiped the dust away...by hand. at several thousand rpm, the blade of the shaper saw was invisible.

we hurriedly examined the injury on the way to the car. the cut was so clean, so sharp, so deep. there was obviously some bone missing at the joint of his index finger, now a groove that flowed red. someone found a towel and we wrapped his hand. the personnel manager drove us to the emergency room. i sat in the back, one arm around arisa's shoulders, holding the towel in place with my other hand. as we pulled out of the parking lot, it seemed to hit arisa for the first time that this was serious, not something to put a bandaid on and go back to work. he might lose the distal phalanx. at the very least, he would lose some function of the digit. the reality sank in, and he put his head on my shoulder and began to cry. i held him. there was nothing more i could do.