During the 70's I worked in a small factory that manufactured industrial knives for cutting cloth. It was just another job at first, but as I worked there I became close to the individuals who kept the place running. The machines that produced the knives were designed and built in-house and were all one of a kind beasts, each with its own personality. And when the place was running full tilt you could tell by the sounds that each machine had its own voice and needs. The high strung din of clunks, clangs, and bangs isolated their attendants with a wall of noise. There were no idle conversations taking place when the machines were running. It was a little strange working five or ten feet from your co-worker for eight hours and not being able to talk to him. Sure , there were two coffee breaks and a half hour lunch, but when you were working, you had to surrender your time to the machines. None of us actually liked what we did, and we all knew that it was a dead end job. But every morning at eight we'd punch the time clock and coax our machines through another day of making knives.
