Put your finger right there!

A shop I once worked at had a beautiful cast iron welding table. It was 5 ' wide × 12 ' long and had started life as a surface plate for assembling diesel engines. The owner bought it at auction for $100. With a screen in the middle, two guys could work on it at once.

At the time I was the new guy, so all the crummy jobs no one else wanted got handed to me to see if I’d crack. One of these jobs was building a run of 3 '-cube angle iron stands.

It seemed like it took weeks to produce an order of 100 stands, and when I finished, I was almost immediately given an additional run of 100 stands with a slightly different configuration. I didn’t know it at the time, but I got the additional run because I had set a new time record building the first lot.

I was pretty bummed at facing another run of stands. While making one, Steve, who made the stands before me, came to give me some “constructive” harassment. If shop co-workers know how to get under your skin, they will—and often.

I responded to his ribbing by saying, “They gave this job to me because you screwed it up so many times.” We went back and forth a bit, until finally I said, “Put your finger right there,” pointing to a spot on the 5-ton welding table. In my other hand I was holding a small ball peen hammer, which I still have. He asked, “So what, you’re going to hit my finger with your hammer?” I responded, “Yep! I sure am.”

Well, the dope put his finger right on the spot. This was one of those character-defining moments. If I didn’t hit his finger, it would have meant backing down. If I did hit it, he could have responded in the same way and then all hell would have broken loose. I carefully calculated my options—then I whacked him. At that moment, my reputation was sealed.

He yanked his pulsating finger back and yelped, “I can’t believe you hit me!” I responded with a dumbfounded look and an “Umm, what the heck did you think I was going to do?”

I really didn’t hit him that hard—hard enough to make my reputation, but not hard enough to break his finger. I could hear him telling the story to somebody else a while later, and whoever he told started laughing at him when he got to the part where I whacked him.

That wasn’t the end of the story. After nursing his finger back to strength for a few days, he came back. I was adjusting some stands with a No. 5 rawhide mallet, which weighs 10 lbs. and has a cast iron head and a 3 "-dia. rawhide face.

He asked something like, “So, how are those stands coming? I hear they have another batch waiting for you after these.”

I said, “Steve, don’t you have something better to do than hang around here getting your finger mashed?”

“Yeah, why don’t you put your finger on the table and see if I’ll hit it?” he shot back.

“Well, Steve, I’m not that dumb,” I said. “I’m pretty sure you would, though, after what happened to you. I’ll tell you what, why don’t you put your head right here?” I proceeded to brush off and pat a nice cozy spot on the table.

“You wouldn’t hit me in the head,” he said confidently.

I couldn’t believe what happened next. He actually laid his head on the table. Fortunately, he was looking away from me or he would have seen the what-should-I-do-now look on my face.

“OK,” I said, “here it comes.” I picked up the big rawhide mallet and did a mock swing to his head, making sure to pull up short. So what does the ding-dong do but lift his head off the table just as I’m coming to a stop a few inches above him. DOINK! He thumped his head right into the mallet. It sounded like testing a fat, ripe watermelon at the supermarket.

He squealed in disbelief. I immediately jumped on the opportunity. “Well, Steve, when are you going to learn that I mean what I say? You’re two for two right now. Care to go for a third?”

He sulked off, rubbing his head a bit. I am still amazed that he didn’t pummel me. I guess there was enough uncertainty and seemingly erratic behavior on my part to give him pause.

Later that day, another guy came up gloating about me having to build stands for so long. Steve arrived shortly afterward to enjoy me possibly flailing at the hands of one of his remoralike minions. After a while, I asked the guy to put his finger on the table. Steve rushed forward, eyes bulging out of his head to save his comrade and blurted out, “Don’t do it! He’s wacko! He’ll smash your finger for sure!”

After that, I didn’t have any trouble at all. CTE