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Day 584

Dave drove me to work a few mornings ago.

I was ready to go ten minutes before we had to leave, so Dave asked me to run downstairs and retrieve the load in the dryer. I came up with an armful of an outfit he had washed in a rush after he spilled black oil down his left pantleg. I relocked the basement door and came upstairs; he only wanted the jeans.

Dave works in a machine shop that uses machines like this lathe.


Working with metal in this capacity has the same perils of wood-working - sawdust and wood chips - except that the chips are metal instead of wood.

So as Dave shoved on his pants, he grumbled, "I hate wearing shorts to work. I always get metal chips in my shoes."

"Well, that's no good," I replied.

"Yesterday one fell down the back of my pants."

I began to laugh. "That's terrible!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, yes it is," he said as he tightened his belt.
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