Whenever I see myself as unlucky or depressed and just feeling sorry for myself, I think about the summer of 1968, when I worked at Inland Steel in East Chicago, Indiana. I have to say that the money I earned there was better than anything I could have earned at Macdonald’s, Walgreens, or the Hammond Public Library, but I thoroughly earned every cent for which I labored that summer. My worst day during my thirty-five years as a high school teacher was a joyful party compared to even my best day at the steel mill, which made Dante’s Inferno look like a lovely, paid vacation.
Our usual foreman was named Ernie, a twisted, sadistic brute of a guy, who seemed to enjoy torturing the three of us that summer who were college students, working there for only June. July, and August.
I recall vividly that first day of intense heat, ear-shattering noise, the heavy physical labor, and Ernie’s demonic voice. There were nine of us on the work crew on the “cold strip” that summer, and there were three of us who were college students, who would carry the burden of Ernie’s angst until we cartwheeled out of there in early September.
“First,” said Ernie, “I want the college guys to step forward.” Carl, Tom, and I stepped out of the line as Ernie said with intense sarcasm dripping from his lips, “I have a special job for you three knuckleheads. Step this way.” Then he led us to what he called “the grease pit,” which also contained some kind of hydraulic lift. He continued, “I want you three college clowns to remove the grease from this hole. There are some buckets and shovels down there. One of you can operate the lift control up here and then take turns at that control while the other two work on the oil and grease.” There was on his face at that moment a smile the size of the Florida Pan Handle. “Now get to it!”
Of course, the heat was oppressive, though not as intense as it would have been in the open hearth, where there were more furnaces. At that point, I wouldn’t have known the difference anyway. As it was, there were huge machines rumbling in the background every minute, so that lip-reading became a true asset in the place. The “cold strip” (What a misnomer!) made me appreciate ever after the epic poem “Dante’s Inferno” about a man’s journey through hell. After a couple of hours of heart-stopping heat and foul air, I began picturing Mom and Dad planning my funeral for which I would choose a closed casket, since I thought the grease and oil stains on my face and hands probably couldn’t be removed until I reached the age of at least forty.
This maltreatment continued through most of the rest of my time there until late August, when I needed to get things together for my trip back to the campus in Muncie, Indiana, which would seem, in contrast to the steel mill, an ascension into heaven.
By the way, before Carl, Tom and I returned to our campuses, we went to a bar to celebrate our escaping Inland Steel with our lives and bruised egos. We got deservedly smashed before calling a cab that got us home. JB
