Abio episode 7: Cheryl leaves, enter carbon, then Jane - January 28 2024
Abio episode 7: Cheryl leaves, enter carbon, then Jane
Upon our return home to Ridgway from the Long Island abortion clinic, I discovered that Cheryl still wanted to get married on the date her parents had arranged, five months away.
We could see the world together, she explained.
Not me. I was just getting started at becoming a young adult, leading my own life, going my own way. I wanted out, not because of love, but because of her desperate desire to marry too soon. I couldn’t consider it. We were obviously not right for each other. We wanted different things.
Our relationship had the benefit of educating me on the safe way to love and the importance of thinking twice. Good times take work.
Alice Cooper released “I’m eighteen,” and I identified.
Cheryl refused to end our relationship. She hunted me up every day, wanting to have fun together again, like old times. She grew more adamant that we remain together forever. What to do? Also, I wanted my diamond ring back.
My plan was to turn the tables, make her break up with me. I tried to ghost her, refusing to call her, cancelling dates, avoiding her, nothing worked. She kept hunting me down. Bulk had ruined my mother’s life, and Cheryl was on her way to ruining mine.
At this time my mother, Bulk, and I had moved out of the bowling-alley apartment to save money. They got married and he was soon taking her to Boone’s Mountain to live next to his mom and dad.
We took an apartment at the bottom of the infamous Boot Jack Hill, which had caused many crashes, including a truck filled with carnival rides, and fatalities, including my father’s fiery crash when I was nine, which killed four – his drunken fault. The sounds of 18-wheeliers either gearing up for the hill or breaking for the sharp left at the bottom resounded in our living room.
One day Cheryl knocked on our all-glass front door. She wanted in, “just to talk.” I stood inside the locked door shaking my head no. She began banging on the glass. Still, I said no. Finally, she punched the window so hard that she shattered the glass and cut her hand. I had to let her in and bandage her wound.
“Please, let’s get married.” Again, I said no.
She stood up and ran out the broken door and onto the steep highway as a big rig was coming down. She stood stoic on the center line, facing the 18-wheeler. She held her arms in crucifixion.
The truck was breaking hard. I ran out on the highway to her and pulled her back to safety.
We ended up back in the apartment where she sat on the couch. I stood. She pleaded again for the marriage to continue. I said, “No, and I want my ring back.”
“Well, you’re not getting that.” She covered it with her other hand. “You gave it to me. You’re breaking off the engagement. It’s my ring now.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be an engagement ring,” I told her. “It was just a gift.”
She didn’t agree. I tried to take it off her finger, but she fought me. Soon, we were wrestling. Soon, we were both off the couch and onto the floor, grappling.
Finally, I got a hold of her hand and stuck her finger in my mouth. I slathered it up and pulled off the ring. She began slapping me. I held tight to the ring and escorted her to the door. At last, she marched off in a huff.
A month later. Cheryl was dating Alan. They eventually got married and had two curly-headed kids, cute ones, and moved away to Modesto, California.
That page of my life turned.
Still uneducated, still not interested in college, still unemployed after being fired from the leather company, still without my own apartment after being evicted from the dry cleaner’s apartment thanks to Ward and his pack of white German Shepards.
Pure Carbon Corporation gave me my first job. For me it was a big step downward to a solid job and steady income at a carbon-covered price.
Carbon factories dominated the region, and still do, due the county having the perfect weather for powdered metals and an abundance of skilled tool-and-die workers who prospered.
I worked there for a year. Early in the job, I got a close-up taste of the internal struggle between management and union labor.
My first assignment was making carbon parts at a massive press. Pretty easy. Shake the black powder into prescribed shapes with great pressure, wham, fill a box, grab another box, and so on for eternity.
I got into the rhythm. I was knocking out full crates faster than anybody like a man possessed. My bosses loved me. They smiled when they walked by and said “Good morning, Steve.” I was apparently a star.
Then one day during break, I was sitting at lunch, and a worker came and sat across from me. It was our union steward, Willie.
His pale head was nearly bald with black carbon creases around his eyes. “I hear you’ve been knocking out eight crates an hour, while we are all doing five. How long have you worked here?”
“Two weeks,” I said, proudly. He didn’t congratulate me.
He cleared his throat. “I’ve been here 22 years. I’ve got four kids. Grandkids. Arthritis. Do you think I could knock out eight crates an hour?”
I shook my head no. No way. I was young, spry, at the top of my abilities. He could never do eight crates.
“How does that make me look?” he asked, sternly. “Disposable? You want to know why we all do five crates, Steve? It’s a pace we can live with for the long haul. This job must be a walk, not a race.”
The sense of it penetrated. I got his message loud and clear: You can’t sprint a marathon.
The next day, my production dropped to six for a few days, then five crates an hour. My bosses no longer smiled or said, “Good morning, Steve,” as they passed. However, the workers began to smile, and I got cannoli at lunch.
Around this time, I also met Jane, the lovely Jane, at a party in town. She was home for the summer from Marquette, Wisconsin, studying to be a nurse. We hit it off right away, and she didn’t want to get married.
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