AND FROM THE SIMIANS, WE CAME....

Well, according to Charles Darwin, that is. Other factions may disagree, most notably the strict Creationists and the dumbfoundedly-literal folks who read and believe the Bible's verses down to the strictest dates. These are the people who think that the world is actually 6000 years old ('cause the Bible says so) and may or may not (I cling to "may not") believe that God placed the dinosaur bones and the carbon-dated, million-year old fossils as "tests" to their faith. They may also believe that a groovy old white dude with a white beard lives up in the clouds, somewhere, but I digress.

Also, did you know that Abe Lincoln and Charlie Darwin were born on the same day in 1809? Again, I digress. But--gosh damn!--what a heavyweight birthday date!

Please allow for my digressions. I tend to do that, sometimes.

At work, very rarely, we have to work on scarily-blowing natural gas--we have to be right down there in the hole, as no other options are available. Listen: natural gas, on its own, is not a killer. It stinks (because of the added odorants), it is highly-flammable, it is sometimes accompanied by a viscious fuck-quid called "drip oil," but, on its own, it ain't gonna kill you if you inhale some of it. The problem comes when you are in a place in which the natural gas is blasting like a motherfucker, and you can't safely get a clamp on the break. That is the point in time in which the LEL (Lower Explosive Limit) is making a name for itself on the indicators and that is a point in time in which any carbon-based life form in the immediate area is walking a tightrope between this world and the next, seeing as how natural gas, pressurized to 60 pSi, will thisquickly replace needed oxygen with, well, not.

And it is quick. I'd like to say that I know that the displacement is quick because I heard it from someone or I read it in a textbook, but, no. I know because it happened to me, once, about six months after I entered the department of Gas Lines/Distribution. 'Twas a broken and blowing two-inch steel main that was busted--via frostball--right underneath a big-assed tree's roots. The lineswoman on duty, at the time, was a 60-plus do-nothinger who stood on the bank of the hole and gave absolutely no direction, no help. (I think she's terrified of natural gas, but I digress--again.)

Another player in the near-tragedy was the on-call supervisor who wanted Sharon and me to clamp the break and make the flow stop...a quick fix, sure; do you think he was thinking about the fact that is was January First, a triple-time day? Do you think he was seeing diminishing dollar signs instead of worker safety? I do. Now, after some time in the department? Yes, I do, now. But, I have and will let it slide. The guy was new in the department, too, and all ended well. But....

(And, yes, this is a major-league digression.)

But, this: Young Adam is trying like hell to help Sharon get the Skinner clamp on the fucking main. It's a two-person process, most definitely. There is, one, the awkward angle of the break: it's inconveniently-nestled between big-assed tree roots--can't get to it. There is, two, the 60 pounds of pressure blasting out of the gaping (corrosion) hole on the steel two-inch main. There is, three, wanting like hell to be a feather in the cap of the Gas Distribution Department. Call it misplaced heroism; call it a newbie wanting/needing to be good. Call it ignorance of just how quickly gas can overtake an oxygen-breather. Call it all of those, but call it, mostly, newbie-sim.

The clamp wouldn't work, but we kept trying. I raised my head up a few times, to get good ole non-gas-saturated oxygen, but, finally, I was overcome. I'd told myself, Just get the fucking nuts and bolts on the break and then this fucking roaring noise will cease, motherfucker. Just do it. Yeah, well, as I leaned in there for that last time, I concentrated soley upon getting the rachet on the nuts--at an incredibly-awkward angle--and I kinda forgot about not-inhaling.

***

From above, Boy sees two figures in an excavation. There is a delightful warbling noise, kind of like the burble of a brook. Boy thinks the figures are talking about baseball statistics. Boy doesn't give a shit; Boy is tired, more tired than he has ever been. Boy thinks a nap is in order. He is so fucking tired. He is somewhat aware that he is slumping, physically, but, at the same time, he is looking down at the figures in the hole, the figures who are discussing, in a far-off rumbling tone of voice, the baseball statistics. Boy leans in, sleeps.

***

That is getting gassed. Luckily, I had an uber-cognizant co-worker--Sharon--and she, and the on-call supervisor, pulled me out and away from the Blast o' Gas. It had just happened so quickly. We had not "suited up." We had not put on the fire-retardant suits and had the oxygen masks on our faces. And we had almost--we coulda--lost me. And this has been a huge digression. But, not really.

Every year, we in the Distribution department go through "Fit-Testing." It is a day in which we put on our gas masks and make sure that they're fitted correctly to our ever-widening faces; we need to make sure that they seal tight, so that they will allow only oxygen from the air compressor lines--gas ain't invited. In order to get a correct fit, the males in the department need to shave their mugs from any and all facial hair near the jawline. That means: no beards, no goatees, no Van Dykes. We can rock the porn 'stache, but, no. Hell, no. And so that means that I had to shave my friggin' goatee. And, that means that I look--in my own eyes--like a baby-faced monkey. And it pisses me off.

Charles Darwin, indeed.

Survival of the fittest, mang.

Fit-Test this, motherfucker.

Postscript: I've learned my lesson, though. Gas is very dangerous. I shall never again put myself in that situation. There is a procedure in which we can dig two "remote" holes and stop the gas flow from those dual points, and then fix the break--without the steady roar of 60 pSi. There is rarely ever a need to "cowboy up" and jump into a dangerous hole. Let me please amend that: there is never a reason to jump into an unsafe hole. The on-call super should have been cognizant of that fact. He was thinking dollars, I think. He was also a newbie, straight out of the engineering department (read: no field experience) so I can't and don't hold it against him. But, damn....

And that is my Baby-Monkey-Face story! =o)

Hope you enjoyed it, and....

Peace to you and yours. It's a fucked-up, violent world. (But, also a world in which Beauty is omnipresent; you've just gotta have your eyes open to find it.) Enjoy every God-given moment.