If you have ever worked in a print shop, you know that there is a rhythm to it. If you haven't, it's a great way to decide to go back to college and become a teacher. In my many, many, jobs that I have had over the years, I have taken something away from all of them but the funny stories are what comes to mind first.
I was working in a print shop in Hayward, a few cities over, and I was more or less in charge of the back end of the shop. The front was for the typesetting and designing. The middle was where the camera and the presses were. The back is where the business cards got cut, orders got packaged, and deliveries were scheduled and sent. Because there needed to be enough quiet for the typesetters to think, they had their own office that could be shut off from the noise and machinery in the rest of the shop. That left me with the printers.
I don't know what it was about printers. They moved around to different shops a lot. We were constantly in flux, looking for printers, trying to move one onto the next shop, having me pretend to be a printer when we were in-between the two. If we had one and hired another, they would know each other. If we had none and needed two, we could probably find two who worked as a team. There always seemed to be something a little off about the printers. My thinking is that the ink printers use gets into their pores and makes them...ahem...quirky.
Another thing that all printers (press operators need not apply...too snooty) have in common is that they all take risks! Various safety devices were disabled depending on which printer was working at the time. Some wanted the guards taken off so you could see the inside while the press was running. Some undid the two handed start mechanism. And some seemed like they would be very comfortable if the press were on fire and they needed to operate it with their teeth, hanging upside down, while wearing a straight-jacket. I was always on the extreme caution side of the equation. All rules were followed. All safety switches were engaged. All hands and feet were inside the car until the ride came to a full and complete stop. I was also slower than molasses. That is why we needed to keep hiring these characters, also known as printers.
There were a few characters who were loners and it rapidly became apparent why. There was the one who was from Austria and apparently learned his language from drunken sailors, and his people skills from O.J. Simpson. He just sort of disappeared from work one day. There wasn't a great effort made in trying to find him. There was the chain-smoker who was constantly outside while work was piling up inside. And there was the one I want to talk about today. I cannot remember his name but he stood out.
When I say he stood out, I am not talking about his sparkling personality and how he was the guy everyone talked to. No, he stood out because in a crowded room of strangers, if the police came in and shouted, "All right where is he!?" Everyone would have turned and pointed at him. And he would have just stood there...staring off into space...even as they cuffed him. He sort of reminded me of the big chief in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest." Not threatening really, not a communicator at all, just a part of the machine that spit out business cards.
On this one day in particular it was just me and Big Chief in the back of the shop. I had all the drivers out doing deliveries and I was operating the slicer...a very quiet machine when compared to the whirr whirr whirr whirr of the presses and the heater that dried and carried the jobs to me. It was a normal day and everything was chugging along when I heard whirr whirr clunk....and then silence. Silence wasn't a sound often heard during work hours and "clunk" is never good to hear. So I turned to look. Big Chief had his back to me and he was holding his arms close to his body as if he was a six year old trying to keep me from taking his cookie. And he just stood there...so I walked over. "You OK?" He half turned and showed me that he was holding his right hand close to his chest with his left hand. I assumed that the "clunk" I had just heard was somehow related to a press trying to eat his hand. I said, (foolishly, as I look back), "What happened?"
Big Chief said some of the few words that I had ever heard him say, "I went like this. And I hit this." except he didn't just say those things. He reached the non-squished hand into the press to show me where he was trying to clean. And when he said, "And I hit this." he didn't just say it...he actually hit it, again!! This time there was only half a "whirr" and then another "clunk." Yes, he had "showed" me what he did by injuring his other hand in the exact same way. No yelling. No jumping up and down. He just stood there with his now two hands pressed up against his chest and he gave me a look like, "How am I going to run the press now?" I went up to the front, told my boss, Jean, what had happened, and she suggested that I take Robert to the hospital. "Robert? Who's Robert? ... Oh him! He never speaks, I forgot his name!"
I helped him into the car, buckled him in, and took him over to the industrial accident hospital in Hayward. I knew exactly where it was, not because I needed to get stitches or anything from doing something stupid myself...don't try to distract me with these side notes! After a couple hours Robert came out looking either like a human Q-tip or a giant walking lamb ready for the oven. Both of his hands had been covered with balls of bandages and I drove him back to the shop praying that he didn't say another few words that would have ruined my whole year... "I have to pee."
I was working in a print shop in Hayward, a few cities over, and I was more or less in charge of the back end of the shop. The front was for the typesetting and designing. The middle was where the camera and the presses were. The back is where the business cards got cut, orders got packaged, and deliveries were scheduled and sent. Because there needed to be enough quiet for the typesetters to think, they had their own office that could be shut off from the noise and machinery in the rest of the shop. That left me with the printers.
I don't know what it was about printers. They moved around to different shops a lot. We were constantly in flux, looking for printers, trying to move one onto the next shop, having me pretend to be a printer when we were in-between the two. If we had one and hired another, they would know each other. If we had none and needed two, we could probably find two who worked as a team. There always seemed to be something a little off about the printers. My thinking is that the ink printers use gets into their pores and makes them...ahem...quirky.
Another thing that all printers (press operators need not apply...too snooty) have in common is that they all take risks! Various safety devices were disabled depending on which printer was working at the time. Some wanted the guards taken off so you could see the inside while the press was running. Some undid the two handed start mechanism. And some seemed like they would be very comfortable if the press were on fire and they needed to operate it with their teeth, hanging upside down, while wearing a straight-jacket. I was always on the extreme caution side of the equation. All rules were followed. All safety switches were engaged. All hands and feet were inside the car until the ride came to a full and complete stop. I was also slower than molasses. That is why we needed to keep hiring these characters, also known as printers.
There were a few characters who were loners and it rapidly became apparent why. There was the one who was from Austria and apparently learned his language from drunken sailors, and his people skills from O.J. Simpson. He just sort of disappeared from work one day. There wasn't a great effort made in trying to find him. There was the chain-smoker who was constantly outside while work was piling up inside. And there was the one I want to talk about today. I cannot remember his name but he stood out.
When I say he stood out, I am not talking about his sparkling personality and how he was the guy everyone talked to. No, he stood out because in a crowded room of strangers, if the police came in and shouted, "All right where is he!?" Everyone would have turned and pointed at him. And he would have just stood there...staring off into space...even as they cuffed him. He sort of reminded me of the big chief in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest." Not threatening really, not a communicator at all, just a part of the machine that spit out business cards.
On this one day in particular it was just me and Big Chief in the back of the shop. I had all the drivers out doing deliveries and I was operating the slicer...a very quiet machine when compared to the whirr whirr whirr whirr of the presses and the heater that dried and carried the jobs to me. It was a normal day and everything was chugging along when I heard whirr whirr clunk....and then silence. Silence wasn't a sound often heard during work hours and "clunk" is never good to hear. So I turned to look. Big Chief had his back to me and he was holding his arms close to his body as if he was a six year old trying to keep me from taking his cookie. And he just stood there...so I walked over. "You OK?" He half turned and showed me that he was holding his right hand close to his chest with his left hand. I assumed that the "clunk" I had just heard was somehow related to a press trying to eat his hand. I said, (foolishly, as I look back), "What happened?"
Big Chief said some of the few words that I had ever heard him say, "I went like this. And I hit this." except he didn't just say those things. He reached the non-squished hand into the press to show me where he was trying to clean. And when he said, "And I hit this." he didn't just say it...he actually hit it, again!! This time there was only half a "whirr" and then another "clunk." Yes, he had "showed" me what he did by injuring his other hand in the exact same way. No yelling. No jumping up and down. He just stood there with his now two hands pressed up against his chest and he gave me a look like, "How am I going to run the press now?" I went up to the front, told my boss, Jean, what had happened, and she suggested that I take Robert to the hospital. "Robert? Who's Robert? ... Oh him! He never speaks, I forgot his name!"
I helped him into the car, buckled him in, and took him over to the industrial accident hospital in Hayward. I knew exactly where it was, not because I needed to get stitches or anything from doing something stupid myself...don't try to distract me with these side notes! After a couple hours Robert came out looking either like a human Q-tip or a giant walking lamb ready for the oven. Both of his hands had been covered with balls of bandages and I drove him back to the shop praying that he didn't say another few words that would have ruined my whole year... "I have to pee."
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