Chapter 11

It turned out I'd prepaid Beth for services she didn't have to render. Monday morning after she left for school I printed out my drawing of the swivel head and drove to the scrap yard, picked up what I hoped was the aluminum I needed and drove to the shop.

"Hey, Tommy, how's it going?"

"Pretty good, Bud. I've got the week off and thought I'd see how much I remembered about machine tools." I walked through the shop to the office, waved hello to Beth's parents and waited until one got off the phone.

"Hi, Tommy, sorry about the delay. It seems when one person calls someone else gets the same idea. What's up?" Beth's dad asked.

"Just wondering if it would be okay if I try to mill out the parts for my latest gadget."

"What have you got there?"

I showed Chuck the drawing for the head. "Hmmm, not a bad design. Give me a few minutes and I'll give you hand."

"I don't want to bother you, Chuck. I think I can hog my way through this myself."

"I'm sure you can," he chuckled as he stood up and led me out of the office. "After all you had an excellent teacher. But you really shouldn't be working on machine tools alone. Beth would never forgive me if something happened to you.

"Besides," he mock-whispered behind his hand, "I haven't been down there for too long. I don't want to forget how to do things the real way.

"These machines," he pointed to the row of CNC mills we were walking past, "are great for getting work done but there's nothing like watching something take shape under your own hands."

We walked downstairs, turned on the lights and Chuck thoughtfully looked around. "Oh, man, it's been way too long since I've been down here." He ran his hand over a couple of the machines and I could almost see the memories jump from the old iron to his fingers. "I feel sorry for people who call themselves engineers who never have the opportunity—or never take the opportunity—to work with their hands. They're missing so much.

"Okay, Tommy, let's see what you can do." Chuck shook off the memories, pulled up a stool and planted himself next to the big Atlas mill.

I'd had the metal yard cut the aluminum into pieces approximately the right size so I only had to grab the right piece, clamp it in the mill and—referring to my drawing to check to make sure I didn't cut something wrong—power up the monster and start the first cut.

An hour later I had the pieces done.

"Very nice, Tommy. Obviously you're a quick study."

"No," I said as I started assembling the parts, "I just had a couple of great teachers."

When I had the head put together it didn't work the way I expected; the swivel didn't ... at least not very well. "Looks like I'm going to have to find some way to lubricate this," I said, holding out the piece to Chuck and showing him how the parts were binding.

"There's a better solution. Go upstairs and ask Bud for some Teflon. We used some a couple of years ago on a project and I'll bet he kept the extra stock. If you ever need to find anything around here, Bud's your guy."

"Teflon, huh?" Chuck's foreman said when I showed him my problem. "Rod or sheet stock?"

"Um, I don't know. Chuck just told me to ask you for some."

"Well, let's see what you're up to."

I showed him how the parts were binding. "Hmm ... some Teflon sheet stock between those two parts should work." He walked back to the shop's supply room and came back a couple of minutes later with some stuff in his hands.

"Let me see what we've got here..."

Five minutes later Bud had cut the Teflon to fit and reassembled the head. "Damn, it still binds a bit. Hmmm ... How about a Teflon washer under the knob..." And he was off to the supply room again.

"How's it going, Tommy?" Chuck had come up to see what I was up to.

"Hi, Boss," Bud said as he came back holding a rod of white plastic. "I was just scrounging up some Teflon bar stock for our young inventor here. Can you turn a washer out of this to fit under the knob?"

"Sure. Tommy, has Beth shown you how to use the lathe yet?"

"No, she said that would be a lesson all by itself."

Chuck just laughed, "Yeah, she found that out all by herself."

"Sounds like there's a story behind that."

"Yeah. You've seen that tiny scar on her right wrist? Ask her where it came from."

Chuck took me over to the lathe and started pointing out what we were going to do. "All right, Tommy, let's start by replacing the chuck with a collet that will fit the rod, then tighten it up ... A little tighter, remember Teflon's slippery and you don't want your work spinning in the collet.

"Okay, now slide the tailstock back so we can get a bit in there. Yeah, that part," he said with a chuckle. Obviously I was wearing my little boy lost look.

"Now we have to figure out what size hole we have to drill." I noticed Chuck had been carrying a wooden box. He set it down, opened it up and picked up one of the micrometers inside.

"Yeah," he said when he noticed my look. "This is the set Beth was playing with when she was five. I could just use a ruler but this just seems appropriate, considering everything.

"Okay, looks like a little better than a quarter inch will do it. Let's go with a nine-thirty-second-inch bit."

I found the right bit, tightened it in the chuck and moved the tailstock up closer to the headstock—at least that's what Chuck called it— and tightened it down.

Chuck had me set the speed to maximum, switch on the lathe and turn the wheel on the tailstock until the bit had gone about half an inch into the Teflon.

"All right, Tommy, back the bit out and move the tailstock well out of the way.

"Now to cut it off and you'll have your washer..."

Eventually I ended up with a disk of Teflon in my hand and a lot more respect for machinists. Damn there was a lot to learn!

"Now for the acid test—will it do what you want," Chuck said as I slid my new washer into place and reassembled everything.

IT WORKED! Everything moved when it was supposed to and didn't when it wasn't.

"Wow, thanks, Chuck!"

Beth's dad just chuckled.

"So how did you spend your day while I was sweating over finals?" my lady asked when she walked in the house.

I held out the completed swivel head.

"Tommy, that looks great! Ohh, nice and smooth, too. So when do you go into production?"

I took Beth's hand and turned it over. "Not until you explain where that cute little scar on your wrist came from," I grinned.

"Damn, Daddy's been blabbing again!" Beth didn't stamp her foot but it looked like she was thinking about it.

"Okay," she sighed, "I guess the truth had to come out sooner or later.

"I was maybe eight or nine and had just finished up a piece on the lathe and I shoved the tailstock back just enough to get my part out. I loosened the collet and started twisting the piece to remove it. Before Daddy could stop me, it slipped out of the collet and my hand flew back, right into the drill bit. Daddy chewed me out for ten minutes about how I should have moved the tailstock further back out of the way first. After we got back from the Emergency Room."

I shuddered, thinking about jamming my hand onto a bit. Ouch!

"So, are you going to add this gadget to your Photomongery menagerie?"

"Well, yeah. I mean I came up with the idea when I needed something for my tripod extender. So it seems like something somebody else might want. Joe thinks so too."

"Tommy, if you keep coming up with these great ideas, when are you going to have time to take pictures?"

"Hey! I just came up with all of these things to fix a problem. I didn't set out to be a manufacturing mogul. I certainly don't want to spend all my time making things."

"Even me?" was her purred response.

Silly girl.

The next day I got an e-mail from Cliff with a list of the pictures he wanted the rights for. I loaded his choices in Photoshop, converted the images to TIFF format, and burned them to a CD. I included a copy of my invoice and dropped them off at his office.

My next stop was at the photo shop to show Joe the sample of my swivel head.

"Hey, Tommy. What have you got now?" I showed him the head.

"I haven't had time to get this one powder coated yet. I just wanted to show it to you and see if we could come up with an idea of how many to order."

"Hmmm ... I think if you price it right you'd be able to sell one for each of the extenders."

'That many?"

"Well, probably not for the ones you've already sold. Folks either had a head they could use or bought one of the other ones we offer. That's why I wanted to give you a nudge. You're losing sales."

We kicked numbers around for a while and came up with a number. Now to call Jeff and get things going.

I spent most of Wednesday cleaning up and organizing all the files on my computer and making sure my backups were current—just the kind of stuff that takes time but has to be done.

By Thursday afternoon Beth was done with her finals and we invited Cindy and Greg to join us for a pizza celebration.

"So, how do you think your finals went?" I asked Greg and Cindy when we were in out favorite booth.

"I'm just glad they're over!" Cindy replied with a sigh.

"Lucky you. I've still got one tomorrow," Greg answered.

"Greg, have you decided on a major yet?" Beth asked.

He just shook his head. "I really don't know. I'm pretty sure I'll end up working with Dad in his business but I don't know if engineering or business or something else would be best."

We drove back home, wished our friends a good night and got ready for bed. A last glance out the window showed a light snow. Oh, what frabjous joy, another chance to clean off the driveway and sidewalks tomorrow.

It may have been late March, but the Midwest being what it is, a snow-dumping blizzard didn't come as a big surprise. It didn't come on Friday but Beth woke me up Saturday morning by yanking the covers off me at what felt like some ridiculous cow-milking hour.

"Come on, Tommy! It's already ten o'clock and Greg's shoveling his way to the garage so he can get the snow-blower. Move your butt!"

I groaned and curled up into a ball to try to stay warm but my beautiful lady wasn't having any of it. She ran her—COLD!!—hand up my leg finishing with a frozen goose. Suddenly I was on my feet, wide awake.

"Damn, woman! You could cause permanent damage doing things like that!"

"It worked didn't it?" she grinned, then yelped—she'd forgotten I knew where her ticklish spots were.

Grumbling to myself about how unfair life was, I got dressed, put on my parka and Sorels and trudged to the garage where Greg was just filling the snow-blower with gas. I grabbed the shovel and looked out at the driveway, that white expanse that looked like the size of a runway.

I was just finishing the sidewalks when I saw Greg pilot the red monster across the alley to start on George's driveway. I remembered our neighbor telling me he could do his driveway himself, but he never refused help from either of us.

Greg started at the alley end while George worked up at the garage. I was almost done cleaning up the spots the blower had missed on our driveway when I saw George clutch his chest and drop to his knees in the snow.

Greg waded through the deep snow and knelt down next to him. "Tommy, call 911 and tell them George had a heart attack, at least that's what it looks like! Give them our address. It'll be easier to get him loaded from there. They'd never get down the alley and I don't know what the address is over here!"

I pulled out my phone and made the call. Five minutes—and a lifetime—later I heard the siren. I was waiting in the street and waved them up our driveway and pointed across the alley. As the EMTs hauled the gurney through the snow I looked up and saw a face I recognized.

"Hi, Ron, am I glad to see you!"

Ron Quigley, the same EMT who had taken care of Beth, looked up. "Hi, Tommy!

"We've got to stop meeting like this," he puffed as he and his partner finished plowing their way across the snow-packed alley.

They got George on the gurney and struggled back to the ambulance. I wanted to find out how he was, but knew not to bug the guys trying to save his life.

As the driver was getting behind the wheel he looked at me. "Looks like he had a pretty serious heart attack. We're taking him to the hospital downtown if you want to follow us."

By that time Beth and Cindy were backing the Jeep out of the garage. Greg and I climbed in and Beth followed the ambulance through the un-plowed streets. The snow was deep enough that even with lights and siren they were only traveling at maybe twenty miles-an-hour. We had no problem keeping up.

Once we got to the hospital it was the same hurry-up-and-wait routine that I'd gone through when Beth was in the ER. Practice didn't make it any easier. After all three of us had taken turns wearing a path in the carpet, one of the hospital-types walked up.

"Are any of you children related to George Jeffers?"

"No," I answered, bristling a bit at being called a child. "We're his neighbors. Greg was the one who found him. How is he?"

"Does he have any family in the area?" she asked, totally ignoring my question.

"As far as we know the only family is a cousin, Irv Jeffers."

"And what is his phone number?"

"I have no idea, but it should be in the directory. Can you tell us how he's doing?"

"I can only give that information to a family member," she said in that voice that said children shouldn't bother adults while they're working.

"I remember George saying he hasn't had any contact with his cousin in many years."

"That makes no difference. I can only give that information to a family member," she repeated as she walked away.

We went back to pacing.

Beth's folks showed up shortly after Miss No-info left. "How is George doing?" Bev asked.

"Who knows. Miss Tight-ass at the desk won't tell us squat," I grumbled.

"Now, Tommy, she's just doing her job."

"Yeah, I know," I said with a sigh, "but her attitude just set me off, I guess."

"Let me see what I can find out," Chuck said as he walked to the desk.

A couple of minutes later he walked back to where we were all waiting. "Bev, apologize to our future son-in-law. Tommy, you're right. She won't tell us anything. Looks like we'll just have to wait. I guess patience is the key."

Key? That triggered something in the black hole I use in place of a memory.

"I'm sorry, Chuck. What did you say?" Pay attention, doofus!

"I just said we might as well get comfortable. We probably won't get to see him until they move him out of the ER. They've got everything locked up pretty tight."

Locked? Key? DAMN, that's what was bugging me! I grabbed my phone and called Chad, our neighbor.

"Hey, Chad, this is Tommy. Can you do me a favor and watch George's house?

"Yeah, the ambulance was for him. Greg was helping him with his driveway when he had a heart attack—

"No, I don't think he locked his doors. He was just out shoveling—

"Yeah, we'll try to get his keys so we can lock it up when we get home—

"Thanks, Chad. I'll let you know as soon as we know anything."

"Good thinking, Tommy," Chuck said. "There're some slimebags who look for situations just like this. They figure the house will be empty for a while. The same way they'll check the obits to see when a funeral is scheduled so they can break into the deceased's house."

After another hour of so, I saw a doctor-type walk out of the ER.

"Excuse me, doctor. Can you tell us anything about George Jeffers?"

"He's not in any immediate danger. They got him here in time. We should be moving him to the CICU later tonight."

"CICU?"

"Yeah, the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit."

"Oh, thanks. We've all been worried about him."