I think I found a job I shouldn't apply for. Mechanic's Helper. Yep. That's me. Mechanic Man needed a helper and so I stood around and acted, well, helpless.
First, he managed to hit his hand with a sledge hammer, totally without any help from me. I just clapped my hands over my mouth to keep from screaming.
Then, he went right back to pounding steel so it would be straight. This is a brace that will be at the top of a 12-foot tall shelving unit, where nobody will be able to tell if it is straight or not, so any advice from me on that topic seems to land on deaf ears. Five minutes after thinking that this was for no good, he went and whacked his thumb on the same hand.
I danced around a bit, trying to think of something positive to say, something comforting, but nothing would come out.
Then he decided to grind down the ends of the braces that he sawed, to shorten the shelving unit, which started out at 14 feet - foregoing the "measure twice, cut once" theory, to now be "measure once, cut, measure again, cut twice." And while he was grinding, the grinder jerked and suddenly grounded out a chunk of Mechanic Man's finger. A chunk - not a piece. If it was MY finger, I would have lost the whole thing. He's got beefy fingers, and now missing a chunk.
I supplied a band-aid and we rolled along with the grinder without blinking an eye. And then his shirt caught on fire. In the meantime, I stood around trying to remember what the emergency number is - 119? 199? 911? Too late, fire's out, and Mechanic Man continues on.
Tomorrow we are going to weld.
Mechanic's Helper, Part II