Weld Shop Madness
Today I ran some errands, trying to get the last of this scooter stuff taken care of. My first errand took me to a welding shop to get the final component to the crossbar lock for my shed assembled. The welding shop I chose turned out to be in the middle of the worst part of town I’ve ever been in. It was up on MLK Drive, and was scary to drive to. Every building along the street was in the worst state of repair it could be, and still be considered a ‘usable building.’ There were almost no windows, just plywood and metal grates covering what used to be windows. The ‘shops’ all had hand painted signs, and spraypaint covering the outside. There were heaps of trash on the sidewalks, and the streets were crumbled beyond recognition. It looked like a third world country. I kept the doors on the car locked, as I am just a soft, pink little boy, not cut out for the harshness of the ghetto. The welding shop itself was manned by a dyed-black hair oldish woman, and an incredibly filthy old man. The shop was also an auto mechanic shop, it seemed, as there were heaps upon heaps of oily black automotive parts lying around. There was also the worlds most beat up Camaro on the other side of the room, engine running and everything, coughing big gouts of smoke out the garage door, which had been propped up with a big piece of pipe. Everything was covered in years of grease, including the people, and the door knobs, and everything. The doors to the place didn’t work, and the original handset/locking system had been abandoned in favor of welding some big ass rods to the door, and putting a hasp on them. Broken refridgerators were heaped up in one corner, piles of oily rags lying around, an ancient Playboy centerfold, covered in grease, was pinned up over the desk (I use the term desk loosely, it was once a desk, I suppose, but now has become a trashed receptacle for piles of scrapmetal, with a small area cleared out for the occasional ‘desk’ work that one might need to do in a shop like this. As I described the details of the project to the man, he continued to shove fried chicken into his mouth. He didn’t eat like a human, he just pushed the drumstick into his mouth, and then bit down, and pulled it out, leaving most of the chicken in his mouth, and sending a shower of crumbs and little bits of gristle into his beard. He made no attempt to wipe himself off, nor check the shower of greasy crumbs erupting from his mouth. He wrote up a ‘work order’ of sorts, utilizing the tiny cleared out space on the desk, and told me he’d give me a call when it was done, and that it would cost about 10 bucks. I left him with the 6 foot steel rod I had come in with, and went on my way. We’ll see what he manages to come up with…
Thursday 21 Nov 2002 | Sam | Personal