John Cayen had asked me to be his spare. He didn’t have one, and we’d been without one for almost a year, necessitating spares from other crews to be temporarily reassigned to our crew whenever our shift boss went off on holidays. It turns out that each of our supervisors had been asking the crew to take up the white hat for some time. Nobody had asked me.
Take that was you will. Lack of confidence? Perceived bad attitude? Maybe. I wouldn’t doubt it, were that true. I probably wouldn’t argue with that, either.
That said, I’d transformed from disgruntled employee with a bad attitude, seething rage, disinterest and a bug up my ass about authority, to go-to, Code 6, lead man. Crusher leader, cage tender, hoist man. I’d definitely come a long way. But I did not have many friends on the crew, either. There weren’t a lot of shared interests. There was a bit of an age gap with those who’d been on the crew prior to my joining and a bit of an age gap with those coming up behind me. Not to sound snobbish, but I’d also been post-secondary educated, most others (none, actually) had not. (You’d be surprised how much even one year in post-secondary opens your mind to other interests). I read, most others on the crew did not, although some were beginning to read some of the magazines I passed on to them, issues of the New Yorker, the Walrus, Harpers and the Atlantic. I found those tattered and dogeared magazines in the strangest places afterwards, belying my earlier statement. Miners do read, not all of them, but most do have something in their lunchboxes to pass the lonely hours they have to endure sometimes, like when guarding a blast: novels, magazines, newspapers (that may date me, but it has been a number of years since I wiled away the hours underground). I’d find those aged magazines in lunchrooms and rock-breaker booths, folded and rolled, their shapes long lost, sometimes with pages missing, the staples that once held them together rusted and broken, or missing altogether. Reading materials can make their rounds underground.
So, anyways, John asked me to spare for him. He enrolled me in Supervisor Common Core and began to take me on his beat from time to time. This meant that I was off the hoist. That saddened me. The hoist was one of the best jobs I ever had. But, upwards and onwards and all that. I spent more time on 2 Cage between those tutorial trips.
I loved 2 Cage. I was busy. There was never a dull moment, always jobs to do, schedules to keep. Hour passed in minutes. I had to keep track of the time, too; always mindful of how much time any given task was to take, and whether I’d be able to do another round trip before one of the scheduled “man” trips were to happen.
Note to self and all aspiring cage tenders: Never miss a “man” trip. Don’t be late, either; the boys are counting on them, and they’re scheduled for those times, too. The white hats demand them to be on time. So, don’t be late; you’ll hear about it! And don’t fall behind on garbage bin trips, either. And don’t skip or do fewer slime trips than need be done, either. And remember that Monday mornings and Thursday mornings are powder days (or were then), and that there’ll be flatbeds waiting to move the explosives off the stations for the powder magazines. Oh yeah, could you get this list of materials to these stations, too, while you’re at it. No yard man? That’s not a problem, is it? Remember not to stray too far from the headframe, lest you miss the cage calls.
I loved it. It was fun. It was fast. The shifts melted away. And I got to see the weather, or more importantly, the sun. Most miners never get to see that.
Then John left and Marcel joined us. Marcel was alright. He wasn’t John, but he was alright. He lacked a certain patience, though. He railed against what he called, “babysitting,” and grew angry when the guys I worked with complained about not getting raises, but also refused to “play ball” when asked to do the jobs asked of them.
Marcel and I were on the beat together one day and on our way to visit J.M.
Marcel was venting on me: “I got to babysit, now,” he said. “I hate having to hold a grown man’s hand.”
“How so?” I asked.
“I hate it when someone bitches about not getting their code when they don’t want to do the work for that code.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Marcel was bitching about J.M., someone who always pulled his weight as far as I could see, but Marcel had a different perspective, I was willing to admit. I decided to wait and see for myself before making up my mind.
I could see the tension between them, straight off.
They got straight to arguing. J.M. wanted to get his Code 5. He did not want to
man the cages. He couldn’t see why he couldn’t get the code, when he never had
to man the cages, anyways. He had all his crusher licenses, and the crusher leaders
never manned the cages. Why did he have to?
Marcel disagreed.
Before long, Marcel and J.M. were roaring, red in the face, their voices
growing as hot as their words were.
“Whoa,” I said, stepping between them.
I asked each of them to tell me their story. No interruptions.
J.M. was claustrophobic when wearing the Scott Air Pack, something that had to
be checked every shift, something that would have to be worn during stench gas
releases. It’s a fire thing. It’s the law. The shaft could presumably fill with
smoke. That might kill the cage tender. Not a good thing. Hence the cage tender
having to be licensed on it and having to wear it. He could potentially have to
wear it for hours. That freaked J.M. out.
I cut a deal with J.M. Did the job bother him? No. Only wearing the mask? Yes. Did he feel terror upon first putting it on? No. After a minute? Yes. I asked him if he would put it on every day, not attached to the tank, a couple times a day, each time keeping it on for 10 seconds more than the last time. He looked dubious but agreed. I also told him that he had to do this for a month straight, and not just a week and then we’d consider giving him his code.
I looked at Marcel. “Good?” I asked.
“Good,” he said.
I cut my first deal. I could see what Marcel meant about handholding and
babysitting. I just didn’t know that I’d be doing it with him and not J.M.
