The Ron Potter Story

by toddfisk

Ron Potter was always late. This particular morning, he had been 8 minutes late for the bus, 27 minutes late for his hair cut appointment, 57 minutes late for the next bus, and consequently, 2 hours late for work. He slipped in the back door and changed clothes, taking a couple hurried drags of the half burned cigarette that was always perched on top of his left ear. He knew he needed to be more punctual; that his boss was losing patience for his tardiness. Ron pulled on his heavy leather coat and gloves, and grabbing his welding hood, threw himself through the main shop entrance. He stole quietly to his post in the southeast corner of the LaRamie Tool and Die factory, and struck an arc immediately, his skilled hands guiding the molten steel into place with the effortless grace that only comes from decades of repetitive labor. “Potter!”, shouted a voice over his right shoulder. He froze. It was Jensen, the day shift floor manager. Releasing the trigger on his torch, Ron slowly stood up straight, turned around, and raised his welding hood. He found himself staring directly into the eyes of a man he truly hated. Ron Potter is an African civet.

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