The Misfit Pipefitter

by: Jerry Torres

Apparently you didn’t need to have knowledge of mechanics to pass the mechanical test. I was not mechanically inclined and yet had tested and qualified for the mechanical gang. As I found my way to the office for orientation and assignment, I noticed the splinter shops of the main mechanical shop - the pipe shop, rigger shop, carpenter shop, blacksmith shop, weld shop, millwright shop, machine shop and the storeroom which was hidden on the east side of the main building through a hallway were all crammed into a dark, dank, sweaty-walled building. I joined a couple of other new recruits and awaited my fate as the area supervisors divvied us up among themselves.

During orientation, I had been asked if I was the son of "Papa" Torres and being either hungover or just in one of those moods had nodded "yes" not even knowing who Papa Torres was. I guess I rationalized it by thinking that although I never called my father Papa, I could if I needed to.

The ruse worked and I was drafted into the pipe shop and given the plum assignment of being "Papa's" helper. I guess no one had bothered to confirm with Papa if I was related to him. Actually, I was helper to both Papa and a modern day munchkin named Ace, and so they shared the duty of teaching me the craft. I say it was a plum assignment because Papa and Ace had the years, so they worked in the shop most of the time. Papa's job consisted of some pipe fabricating and making sure there was plenty of coffee in the pot. Apparently, he was one of the primary shareholders in the coffee franchise. The coffee was fifteen cents a cup… and I soon found out (not personally mind you) what happened when you tried throwing a washer or slug in the coin box. Papa had a keen ear for that sort of thing, had the grip of a bear and would clamp onto your arm or some other appendage until you coughed up the cash. My point is… we rarely had a dirty job.

Papa was very patient with this wet-behind-the-ear, very green helper. You must understand that I had no mechanical know-how whatsoever. In high school, I took mostly college prep classes and my worst grades had been in electric shop, the only shop class I had ever taken, and crafts. I had never even turned a pipe wrench, let alone threaded a piece of pipe if my life. So he had to teach me everything, and I mean everything from square one. I found out that Papa had never had a son and maybe that was the reason he seemed to take a special interest in me. Papa would even call me mijo, a shortened form of mi hijo, Spanish for my son.

Ace, on the other hand, had little use for me. Having worked with Papa all of those years, Ace knew that I was not Papa's son. For a while, Ace found my comedic attempts at pipefitting entertaining, but the act got old and soon he had put me into the "gopher" category. When he asked me for pipe dope he would smile at me mischievously and I had the feeling that was his unstated personal nickname for me. That didn't bother me too much. Since, Ace always had an unlit cigar in his mouth which he always chewed away within a couple of hours, I figured he had screwed up his gizzards to the point of them making him consistently miserable.

After a few weeks in the pipe shop, three truths emerged:

1. I was not Papa Torres' son.
2. I had little talent as a pipefitter with little interest to learn.
3. I spent a lot of my time hanging around with a couple of my friends who were millwright helpers when I could have been working in the pipe shop.

A reassignment to the millwright shop was suggested by our supervisor. I really didn't mind it too much, but Papa tried to fight it. He must've thought that with a little direction from him, this misdirected young man had potential both as a pipefitter and as a person. I might've recognized what Papa was trying to do but being in my late teens was not attracted to the "slow track" opting instead for the "fast lane" offered by my friends in the millwright sequence.

So, despite Papa's efforts, I was removed from the pipe shop and became a millwright helper. A year later, I was recruited and left for the newly built #7 Blast Furnace - a place where I wouldn't be a helper but a Vocational Mechanic apprentice and assured of "lifetime employment". That lifetime employment lie would be exposed a few years later.

Over the years, I lost contact with most of my coworkers from the "old" Blast Furnace, including Papa. I didn’t even learn of his death until months after the fact. What I found sadder still was the realization that opportunities for friendship and growth had gone unrecognized and unheeded. Papa offered me an opportunity which I naively dismissed.