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.”