The Rig

 

      “Yo.  Tommy.”

     The two workers drove in the aging marking rig. It was Robbie at the wheel, as usual.  They were on the night shift and had started later than normal, as the temperature had taken a nosedive, and the rig needed a full 20 minutes to warm up. Robbie was at the wheel while his partner, Tommy, intermittently changed the radio station controls and checked his messenger for texts from his wife, or better yet, his girlfriend.  “Beat It” by Michael Jackson came across the airwaves.

     “Sixty years since this damn song came out and they still playing it every hour,” Tommy said as he leaned back into his seat, going over the math while his gaze floated out the window.

   Robbie observed the blinking dashboard lights.  “Hey man -- that’s fascinating but we have something else to worry about.”

   “Eh?”

     “Yah. Nah.  Last mark, it seized up for a second and then...” he searched for the right word, “it lurched.” The machine he operated was more like a tank than a truck with treaded wheels, a protruding exhaust pipe, and the rotating mixing drum.  Its operation was accompanied by a rhythmic “kerplunk-plunk’ caused by a shifting center of gravity of the hydraulic stamping output. Robbie noticed an aberrant “plunk” and remembered it was due for servicing, but not before the sensor light came on.  He put the rig into ‘park’ and killed the ignition with a flick of the switch.

    They looked behind them at the oversized parallax word.  The letters spelling “SCHOOL’ had smeared at the bottom with diminishing traces of yellow paint left in their wake.

Robbie took a cigarette out of the pack, lit it, and routed around the console looking for his gloves.  “Ok. Something’s jammed. Let me give it a looksee.” 

   Robbie heaved his stout frame out into the cold, slamming the door behind him.  Outside, he pulled a lever down which exposed a control panel.  He changed the diagnostic controls on for the stamp assembly, and the indicator light for the shock mounts began to blink.  He opened a paint-spattered side door and used his pocket light to inspect the mounting pads behind the hydraulics.  Sure enough, they were worn to nothing. Robbie disengaged himself from the opening that was too small for his frame, and looked disdainfully at the thick viscous retroreflective paint that now coated his overalls. “It's not the first time,” he’d learned to tell himself.

   “Tommy,” Robbie said through the window.

   “Eh?”

   “I have to shim the mounts. They’re loose.”

   “Ok." Tommy still peering at his phone.

   Robbie took the last drag on his smoke and tossed it on the ground.  

   “It’s freaking cold out here.” 

   “Yah.”

   Robbie opened a panel on Tommy’s side and pulled out a variety of shim packs from the toolbox, as well as the oil can, and a baby sledge.   After reassessing the gap, he decided a mid-sized shim-pack would do the trick, and wedged it into the tiny space left by the deteriorated shock pads.  Using the baby sledge, he tapped the shim pack in deeper still. He oiled the arms and pivots for the hopper, and checked the dispersion filter. He cleaned the tips. “A clean tip is a happy tip!”  one of his instructors had said at trade school.

   “Ok.  Let's see what we got.”  Robbie switched the ignition and the radio and interior lights came back on.  “Thriller” by Michael Jackson played. The dashboard, with its array of LEDs was further embellished by the custom crystal knobs that had been put there by the former driver.  Nothing could be done about the botched SCHOOL stamp except let the paint cure and peel it off in a few days. More work, so that was good. They drove from zone H to zone I, where their detail map showed a scattering of schools in the northwest corner were all in need of traffic control signage.  When they were positioned according to the designated coordinates, Robbie selected “stamp” on the controls and pulled back the lever handle. “Here goes nothing.” The hydraulics made their typical kerplunk plunk; paint pumped into the hopper which coated the stamp plates. These hammered into place and retracted leaving the word SCHOOL flawlessly emblazoned in the specialized paint.  Tiny glass beads included in the emulsive mixture gave the paint its retroreflective property, which aided in nighttime visibility, and “made the world a safer place” as they guys liked to tell their families. 

   “Aye! Look at that!”  Robbie congratulated himself.

   Tommy nodded appreciatively.  “Sorry you had to go out in the cold like that.”

   “T’aint nothin.”  Robbie drove to the next set of coordinates on the map. 

   “I’ll do it next time.”

   “Terrific.”

   They were in place, and it was time for the next stamp.  Robbie pulled the lever. There was again a pause before the kerplunk plunk, followed by the aforementioned lurching.  The stamping pivoted down on its arm and made its paint deposit, but did not come to rest after retraction, but rather stamped and retracted repeatedly and with enough force to push the rig a few inches each time.  The word SCHOOL echoed itself across the asphalt.  The kerplunking turned into thrashing and heavier dispensing of paint—the sound dampening as the paint deposit grew thicker.   The hopper lost stability at the pedestal and sent paint splashing to either side of the rig.

   “What in the...!”  Robbie yelled. “What the hell!  I’ve never...” He killed the ignition, but the stamping enclosure had become detached at the main power and was working off auxiliary.  

    “Turn it off!  Turn it off!” Tommy yelled back.

   “I did!  It won’t!  I have to…”  Robbie jumped out of the rig, and pulled open the control panel door struggled to disconnect the auxiliary power on the heavy pivoting machine.  He breathed out a bedraggled sigh and returned to the driver seat.

   “Well, partner,” Robbie pulled out a cigarette.  “Here’s your big chance.”