By David Henson
When I was a lad, Dad took me to the plant with him for bring-your-kid-to-work day. My father and I started at the receiving dock where Dad selected a rusted, bent tricycle.
My father took the three-wheeler to his workstation, donned safety glasses, and rubbed the metal with sandpaper and steel wool. By the time he was done, he’d filled a vial with rust dust. I remember how the grains sparkled.
Dad scrubbed the rust from one piece of junk after another. By the end of the day, his hands were swollen, his eyes red, and his shirt drenched with sweat. No wonder he came home from work too tired to play catch or do much of anything but clean up and help my mother fix supper. Sometimes, after we’d eaten, my father would lie on the sofa with his head on Mom’s lap. My mother, if not too fatigued herself from her own day at the magnetism plant, would run her still-charged fingers through Dad’s hair to remove the orange flecks he wasn’t able to wash out. As exhausting as my father’s job was, he, like my mother, loved having meaningful work. I looked forward to following in Dad’s footsteps in rust dust production. I never imagined what was to come.
I still remember that evening Dad shouted “Hogwash!” at the television. I noticed from then on my father always seemed on edge. Many was the time he’d be reading the paper only to wad it up and mutter about the “damn lawyers.”
By the time things played out, I was old enough to sort of understand. Lawsuits alleged rust dust was a fraud. It didn’t enhance heart health, prevent kidney stones, restore hair growth or deliver on scores of other claims. Perceived benefits were psychosomatic. Attorneys junked the rust dust company. My father lost his job.
Mom tried to get Dad on at the magnetism plant, but it wasn’t hiring because of an uncertain future. Lawyers, like evil knights riding black stallions and thrusting lances, were trying to poke holes in the assertions about the special power of magnetism.
My father found work as a night mopper at the supermarket. We got by money-wise, but the emotional toll overwhelmed Dad. All those years he thought he was doing something worthwhile, he wasn’t?
Dad wasted away from mourning the loss of meaningful work and died within a year. Why? I wondered. Dad still had Mom and me. Why weren’t we enough?
Years later, I understood. The lawyers gave up trying to prove their case against magnetism, and, when I was old enough, Mom helped get me on at the plant. I spend half my waking life on the job. I need it to be meaningful.
My mother never remarried and worked deep into old age because her job was so fulfilling. Her health failed soon after she retired, and she was in the hospital more than not. When her doctors believed the end was approaching, they sent her home. A few evenings later, conditions were perfect, and I wheeled my mother out back. The skies were clear, and the aurora borealis was rippling in the north.
I’d crafted a magnet at work using the plant’s proprietary processes. I rubbed Mom’s arms and legs with it, then placed it on her lap. My mother nodded and closed her eyes. I saw a soft glow rise from her. An instant later, the northern lights sparkled and in that moment I knew my mother’s soul — guided by magnetism — had become a part of them.
After admiring the majesty of it all, I took the magnet from my mother and pressed it to my chest. Then, as I called the mortuary, I heard a sound. Mom cleared her throat and asked me to take her back inside.
Mom held on a couple more weeks. I didn’t tell her how I’d let my wishful thinking get the better of me. When she died for real, I performed the magnet ritual again and didn’t see a thing.
I quit the magnetism plant, and now I’m also a floor cleaner at the supermarket. I enjoy how the tiles brighten when I slosh the soapy mop across them. I like seeing the dirty water swirl down the drain when I empty my bucket. Is it meaningful work? Well, clean floors are important around food so, yeah, I guess it’s meaningful. Anyway, it’s what I do, so I make do. Like so many others, I make do.
David Henson and his wife have lived in Brussels and Hong Kong and now reside in Illinois. His work has been nominated for three Pushcart Prizes, Best of the Net and Best Small Fictions and has appeared in various journals including Moonpark Review, Literally Stories, Gone Lawn and Fiction on the Web. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His Twitter is @annalou8.
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