My new shoes have steeply curved soles. They honestly remind me of a bentwood rocker’s curved bands. Grinning, I asked my wife, “Know what I call my new shoes?”
“Your rock ‘n rollers?”
“No, they’re just my rockers.”
She’s such a smart ass sometimes.
The Factory Dream
I was a young man, possibly in my early twenties. Some other fellows were with me at a factory. I’m not sure how many were present. There were at least three, but maybe five, not including our overseer. I never took a head count.
We were in a factory doing a special job. No details of that job are available. It was cold but sunny weather. The factor was a plain, spare building with a whitewashed apparance that presented an air that it was on the verge of being abandoned or falling apart. Corrugated metal construction. Gaps in the walls. Bare, cracked cement floor. Signs that it’d be used for something else before and was now on a fifth or sixth life.
Under an uneven combination of weak overhead lights and sporadic, fading sunlight eking in through large, filthy windows, we worked around a long, dirty conveyor belt putting things together. As part of this, each of us were given some small black devices which seemed to be some sort of governor and also a CPU that told the system what to do. To install mine, I had to climb up a tall metal shaft and slip it into a slot just so. Some jiggling followd and then the conveyor belt sprang into noisy activity.
I don’t know what we were making but we shut everything back down and gathered again. The overseer, an oversized white guy in his mid-forties or early fifties, receding brown hairline and white short sleeve shirt with a tie, told us that we had one more run and then we could go home. But the other run was at another factory, about a mile away.
I had a car, a dark brown 1970s era Chevy Malibu. Sort of a ratty vehicle. I asked another for a ride to the other factory. Once we got there, I realized that I would need to return to the previous factory. We’d been sleeping in some little locker room there on cots. I’d left my clothes and gear there, not to mention my car, and would need a ride back.
This seemed to irritate the other guy, a big, good-looking guy with short, curly hair. He turned surly, and then shunned me during the rest of the session and wouldn’t speak to me. I was taken back by the change and wanted to talk to him about it.
The regular factory workers arrived. They all seemed to be foreigners to go by their dress, appearance, and language. They watched me as I climbed up to install my governor, laughing and joking about it. I gathered they had some other way of doing that and my method seemed strange to them. I tried explaining, “This is what I learned,” and asked for information about the other way. They wouldn’t address my questions.
That’s where the dream ended.
WTF, America?
It’s another WTF, America news item today, courtesy of Alabama. This story happened Sunday, but the news is spreading. A couple were in a car. It had hit a deer. A man stopped to help them. They walked to a nearby house. Naturally, the 34 year-old man in the house shot at them. Killed the person who’d stopped to help. The driver was armed and returned fire. He and the resident were both injured and taken to the hospital.
That’s ‘Merica too often these days. Someone asks for help, and someone else tries to kill them. Sad, sad, state.
Wezda’s Theme Music
Cold and bright, Ashlandia has reared up out of the darkness anew. It’s January 22, 2025, and now 36 F, ten degrees above the morning’s start. Fog, precipitation, and that sort of thing has abandoned the area, leaving sunshine a clear path. ‘They’ tell me our high will be 56 F today. And again, continuing a trend — three days! — this looks attainable.
I had a song loaded in the morning mental music stream. Then I read that John Sykes, guitarist associated with Whitesnake, died at 65. So The Neurons brought in “Still of the Night” in memory of Sykes. Ah, such music. Classic metal hair band. Rarely listened to it but was familiar with it due to being in clubs and radio rotation. Coverdale is the vocalist and I was a fan from his earlier efforts with other groups and songs.
Coffee has presented a peace offering. Be strong, and keep rocking. Here’s the music. Cheers
Michael Seidel, writer 