of dust. Trapped inside a blinding blanket of filthy black dust, the engineers were coughing, hacking, and cursing up a storm.

We scrambled around the backside of the station in time to see them stumble outside. Grim-faced and glaring, they climbed into their vehicle, and sped away.

“We’ll never see those jerks again,” Rev said, choking on laughter.

And he was right—we never did.

Shovel Maintenance

The Yard Gang was where workers were posted when a furnace was shut down. It was its own little feudal fiefdom within the steel plant. Rules and pecking orders were set and enforced by an interrelated and inbred band of wannabe big shots.

I did several tours of duty there, each time falling in with a Yard Gang lifer named Eric. He was determined to prove that onevisit other areas, take naps, and generally loaf.

It was an ingenious system. He kept the rotation fair, even taking his turn once a week or so as one of the designated workers. As long as the tasks got done and everyone appeared busy it worked like a charm.

The key was to always stay ahead of bosses and their sycophants. And sometimes that meant hiding in plain sight, with a shovel or rake in hand while staying on the move from one job site to the other.

One spectacularly gung-ho boss named Frankie was an object of derision and the customary target for many of Eric’s practical jokes. To be fair, Frankie invited most of it upon himself. He had the IQ of a kumquat—he wore the hardhat of a