Lunchtime rolled around.  Everybody came and sat down by where I had set up my mini-headquarters.  One notable exception, however: Spider was missing.  I pretty much knew what he was up too, though.  Spider was probably out inhaling his lunch, I thought (wistfully).

     We all set about the business of eating.  I looked in my lunchbox to see what my wonderful part-time girlfriend Joletta had put in it this morning.  It wasn’t bad, except that lovely Joletta had used two of her little children’s super-hero thermoses for my soup and chili.  How could these men respect me, if I carried the Incredible Hulk and Mighty Mouse around with me in my lunch?

     Bud was interesting to watch eat.  He produced a tall glass, a jar of salted peanuts, a jar of green picante sauce, and a can of tomato juice.  He filled the glass half full with tomato juice, dumped in a bunch of peanuts, and topped it off with a liberal dollop of the green sauce.  He downed it in one gulp.

     “Now that’s good stuff!” Bud proclaimed.

     Spence was looking ill.

     John Fact had only a big mason jar full of hot peppers, green and yellow and red ones.  I sampled one of them.  They were stout as hell, even for my own good-old-boy self.

     John ate about ten of these babies before he put the jar up.  He looked like he’d just eaten an ice cream cone.  Tough guy.

     Spence opened his virgin mouth.  Bud was watching this closely.

     “How come…” Spence wondered aloud, “I mean, why… I mean what… what happens if… like, a panel or… or a transformer or something like that explodes?”  The prospect of such an occurrence clearly excited him.

     “Well, bird brain,” I said to him, “guess we’d have to return it to the manufacturer.”

     “I saw a transformer blow one time,” Bud told us.  “Buddy of mine bumped into the damn thing, and the wires must have been loose or something, ’cause one of ’em popped out of its lug, and Blammo! we went flying through the air!  Could’ve been killed,” Bud shook his head.

     I got Spence’s attention.  “You know,” I said, “the reason this company hires kids like you is primarily for turning on power in the building.  We wouldn’t want more experienced men to be burned or killed if something goes wrong.  You understand, right?”

     Spence had lost interest in explosions.

     “You won’t believe this,” John Fact spoke up, “but I saw a guy get blown out of a building, fifteen stories in the air.  He kept telling us, ‘I know what I’m doing, I went to trade school five years’ before the shit hit the fan.  That’s what happens,” John looked paternally at Spence, “when you use automotive tools to do electrical work.

     We all shuddered at this horrible truth.

     “Lunch is over!” Bud informed us, our only clock-watcher.  “Let’s get back to work, boys!”  Bud liked to work.

     I was glad I was his boss, and not the other way around.

2026 R.M. Reliable Electric