Right after I graduated from high school, I took a job at a small nearby foundry to earn money for college. My job was to assist the shop mechanic and since we all had nicknames the guys all called me the Tinker. I was also assigned to distribute asprin and bandaids from the first aid kit.
The foundry owners were fond of the cheap labor that was available from the walking fruitcakes that seemed to revolve in and out of the local funny farm. It was an interesting experience working with those crazy people, who were declared sane and returned to the streets. Most of them ended up working in places like that foundry for a while, before they would go off their nut and return to the farm for more therapy. Because of the unstable nature of those weird guys, I always carried a fishing knife, just in case one of them got too fresh with me.
One day, not long after I got to work, I was greasing the wheels on an ore cart when I heard a howling from near the furnace. I didn’t really pay a lot of attention to what was happening, because noises like that were normal from the group of guys that worked in that area. A minute later, one of the workers ran up to me and told me I better get my first aid kit and go over to the furnace area. So I went and got my stuff.
When I arrived, I saw one of the crazy guys laying on the floor holding his hand, moaning like a pig in heat. Blood was pumping from between the fingers of his good hand, running down his arm and dripping from his elbow into a pool on the floor. I realized right away that he was in trouble, at risk from the loss of too much blood. I had never been trained to do anything more than put a bandaid on a scratch and I began to wonder what I was going to do.
Evidently, the guy thought he’d be funny and layed his hand on the track, when one of the carts rolled away from the oven, full of molten iron. The weight of the cart full of iron flattened his hand out rather nicely, making a real mess of it. When I finally got a good look at his hand, I knew I couldn’t do much for him, but I also knew that he’d die if I didn’t do something. Without really thinking, I remembered reading stories of Civil War surgeons who cut off soldiers legs and arms and applied hot iron to the stump to seal off the blood vessels and I knew that was what I had to do. I whipped out my fishing knife, before anyone noticed and whacked off the guys hand. Then I grabbed his arm and shoved it against the side of the very hot furnace, which effectivly cut off the flow of blood. The guys all stood there in a state of shock and the fruit cake who just lost his hand howled like a babboon being fed through a wood chipper.
Soon an ambulance arrived and carted the poor victim away.
I continued to work there for six months, until it was time to leave for school. For the rest of my days there, I was called Doc Tinker.
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