Tunnel Vision

I had no clue about the passage of time until I’d begun to work for a living. Time was neatly compartmentalized up till then, giving time set markers to place my memories: the start of a school year, Christmas vacations, winter breaks, and later, the start of summer jobs. There was grade school, middle school, high school and post-secondary. Years had titles: grade 1, grade 12, first year, third year, freshman year. Once I began work, these neat compartments fell away. Days became weeks, weeks became months, and months became years. There’s little to differentiate a 5^th year of work from a 10th or 20th year of work. It's almost like having tunnel vision. I’d changed jobs on occasion, crews, and departments, so there were a few markers here and there, but for the most part, one year’s memories bleed into another.

I’d also measured the time by a span of years’ end, as well. Grade school ended, high school ended, college ended. Work would not; until it did; but that would be decades away. Decades! I came to that realization early on. Black Paul Guenette (there are those nicknames again) and Rick Picotte had been working at Kidd for 8 years and 5 years respectively when I joined their crew. They were relatively young by my reckoning, so I was shocked to hear how long they’d already been working. “Holy crap,” I thought, “you’ve been here forever!” Not so, but I hadn’t had to count higher than 4 years for some time before something ended and another something began.

That’s when it hit me. I’d be working for a decades to come.

I didn’t know how monotonous work would be, then. But I soon discovered that work was endless repetition. One task led to another, then to another, and once that cycle of work was done, a new cycle of almost identical tasks began until they too were done.

I was always pleased when the cycle of repletion was broken. Any break, regardless how short, was a reprieve from monotony, a blessing. Most reprieves were broken with clean-up. On rare occasions I helped construct conveyors and build bulkheads. I had little experience with that work so I always had to wait for instructions. The others knew what they were about; and they knew what their partners were about as well. Good thing, because it was all a mystery to me.

It didn’t help that the construction guys on my crew were all French. Being French, they spoke French. I did not. They must have known that, but I don’t think I ever crossed their minds at first. So when the “team” planning was wrapped up, I’d still be in the dark (that was a double entendre, by the way, a little mining pun). As they were set to begin work, I’d have to ask, “What are we doing?” That’s when they would be reminded of my existence.

It was mainly a question of experience. I had none to start. When we were building a bulkhead at the base of a stope, they were working, but they were also listening. They may have been talking, but they were listening, too. They were also attuned to air currents. The slightest noise, the slightest shift in air might warn of a fall of ground within the stope, and of the danger they were in, just then.

One shift, I was building a wall with Lorne Blais and Jim Imhoff. Lorne was hammering boards, I was helping Jim measure and cut. Jim didn’t really need any help, but as I’d never framed a cement wall bulkhead before, I was as useful as expected. There was a clatter of rocks within the stope, not very loud, but a waft of air blew into us along with it. Lorne leapt from the staging and he and Jim were off like a shot. I was left holding a board, watching them race back up the draw-point.

Lorne stuck his head back around the corner, and yelled, “What are you doing?! Get out of there!”
I was confused. I was stuck in place. Lorne had to yell at me again before I joined them around the corner. My continued confusion was apparent, so it was explained to me that if a lot of rock fell, the wall could be reduced to splinters and matchsticks, us with it.

We do not build walls like that anymore. If someone was ever to wander that close to the brow of an open stope today, he’d be handed his walking papers.

I was of even less use at constructing conveyors. I spent a great deal of time holding pieces in place, or with my back to the flash of a welding bead, watching the arc dance across the wall.

I discovered soon on that I’d been labeled a dog-fucker. I could not believe my ears. Those I worked with on a daily basis knew differently, but I didn’t need to prove myself to them if I ever wished to get off the belts. Nothing I did seemed to matter, though; so I gave up trying. It was a waste of energy.
Others saw the truth. On occasion.

One day I overfilled a waste pass. The muck filled the pass, and the chute, and had spilled out overtop, some of it falling to the floor. This could happen if an oversized chunk jammed in the chute, but that was not the case, then. Had I looked more carefully I’d have seen the truth of it, but I did a stupid. I opened the inspection hatch. The rocks within shifted, and try as I might, I could not close that door again. There was nothing to be done but to open it fully, let the contents spill out, and clean it up.
I was mad. A rage boiled up at my stupidity. I grabbed a bar and screamed as I hammered the shit out of the transfer chute. I didn’t damage anything, I didn’t even scratch it. I did tire myself out. And my hands stung from the bar’s vibrations.

When my rage was spent, Black Paul wandered past.

“So,” he asked, without stopping, “did it learn its lesson? Is it going to do what you want, now?”
I took his meaning. My fit was stupid. My fit was pointless. I'd had my little tantrum, and I was right back where I’d begun, with a job to do. Just as Bob Saumur had taught me years before, you fucked it, you fix it.

I began to clean it up, walking each shovelful to where I could hoist it onto the conveyor belt. It took a long time, but I kept at it, wanting to get it done before my shift boss could see my fuck-up. I was hoping that the raise would drop; that would have made my task easier, but it didn’t, so, I kept keeping on. Until it was clean. Then I collapsed in my booth to rest.

The millwrights noticed my extended labour. They didn’t help; I didn’t expect them to. It wasn’t their job to help. But they noticed.

“Holy shit,” they said to Black Paul, later, “that Leonard; he’s a machine! He never stops!” I felt vindicated.

Did it help my reputation? It might have. But I never did join our construction crew.
And I was stuck at code 4 for years to come.