Darryl was stationed at a machine which put threads on smooth, conical surfaces. This may sound Adam Smith, but think wood nail with flathead, aluminum or steel finish. Now think, machine boring spiral tracks into the smooth shaft of the nail. An added step was gouging a grove into the nail's flathead making it Philip's for screwdriver instead of hammer. One heavy piece of machinery in a tiny workspace.
Workday in and out, Darryl manufactured these steel pine cones, fifteen cones per hour eight hours a day. Then it happened.
He went home late, time and a half, and drank blueberry beer (8% alcohol) instead of Belgian IPA.
He started shopping at Whole Foods when Christopher was living in Motown. He was a little tipsy the next morning.
His safety glasses were on; his hardhat pressed his hard-packed Afro into a mushroom. Sweat beaded his forehead, 60 more cones to go. His hair was starting to grey. It was time for lunch. He thought about his Reuben, the corned-beef, the cabbage, the horseradish. He lost concentration for a split second, when the hand-held slipped. He pressed fast-forward instead of pause.
The bore, the business end of the press, went into his left hand. He was right-handed. An alarm went off on the factory floor. 911 was called."Man down!" blared from the speakers on the showroom floor.