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.
 
