Molton Metal
Frank stands at the counter after the meal has been served. He wears a plaid flannel shirt, yellow waterproof overalls, and the usual hint of a smile that seems to indicate he knows something I don’t. Which is true. Always.
I pour him a cup of coffee, black, the way he likes it. He hangs around, sipping from the heavy brown mug.
I ask, “So how are you doing, Frank?”
“Good.”
I smile. “So, what’s good?”
“I got a job.”
“That’s great!”
“Yep.” Frank always speaks as if his jaw is wired shut. If I had to choose one word to describe his face, I’d say wily. Not that he seems like a trickster, but more like a person waiting to insert a pun. Among all the guys at St. Ben’s, Frank is one you can count on to tell the truth. That’s not to say the others are liars, it’s just that sometimes their view of reality can be somewhat tenuous. Still, it took me a couple of weeks to realize that Frank wasn’t making stuff up.
Since he doesn’t elaborate, I ask, “Where are you working?”
“Maynard.”
I know this is a steel company on the south side where they manufacture huge machine parts. Think mining equipment huge. I say, “Holy cow. What kind of work are you doing?”
“Pouring molds,” Frank says, as if this is no big deal.
“As in molten metal?”
“Yep.”
Man of few words.
Frank has a tendency to sway from side to side with a warm sparkle in his blue eyes. He’s a big guy, not heavy, but fit and strong. He looks like he could hold his own in a fight. And like he could handle pouring molten metal.
He says, “Good money, too. I start at $18 an hour.”
“Wow, that is good money.”
“Yep.”
“What kind of hours are you getting? Full time or part time?”"Part time. Third shift.”
"I’m confused. Third shift would mean he couldn’t be spending the night at St. Ben’s. I ask, “How do you get to work?”
In answer, he holds up the bus pass hanging on a lanyard around his neck. The buses run few and far between that late, and he’d have to transfer at least once, maybe twice.
Still puzzled, I stammer, “But, what time do you have to be at work?”
“Midnight.”
Not enough information. “Do you have to be there by midnight tonight?”
“Nope.”
This time I wire my jaw and give him the side eye.
He says, “If they don’t have any molds to pour, they send me home.” He smiles, implying how funny this is, given that he doesn’t have a home. “Sometimes they call me, but not always. Then I just sleep there.”
“Outside?”
“Yeah.” There it is again. No big deal.
He adds, “I’ve been saving my money. This job will get me over the top. I’ve almost got my first month’s rent and the deposit on an apartment saved up. I already found a place. Right over on Plankinton and Wisconsin.”
All right. Since this is about the longest commentary I’ve ever heard from him, I venture, “Are you working with a social worker? Will this be section eight?”
“Nope. This is on my own. I had bad luck with social services.”
I’ve heard this answer before. Frank would need to work with social services to navigate a complex series of steps to qualify for section eight housing. Plus, it’s hard for a homeless person to get a placement because they need to show a steady source of income, and the waiting list is long. A lot of people have told me that they’ve given up on finding housing because of these hurdles.
Frank goes back to swaying and clenching his jaw. When he sees I’m not asking any questions about his bad luck with social workers, he adds, “I have a felony.” He watches intently for my reaction.
The last thing I’ll do is ask why a person has a felony. Seriously. I don’t want to know.
“I’m glad Maynard is giving you a chance at such a good job.”
I’m thinking, “One more hurdle.” To qualify for housing, you need a job, but you can’t get a job because you’re a felon. It’s the best example of a catch-22 that I’ve ever seen.
Milwaukee has a program called Housing First that is flipping these requirements over. The idea is that once people have stable housing, they can begin to access the services they need. Sometimes this works.
Frank moves about an inch closer. “I was in prison.” He gauges my reaction. “What happened was friend overdosed. I didn’t know it. I thought he was just passed out; I could tell he was really out of it, but I left him there. Then some people told me he died. I turned myself in. "That was on me. I shouldn’t have left him, but I did. So, I served my time.” He takes a sip of coffee. “I don’t do heroin anymore.”
“That’s impressive. A lot of people wouldn’t have done that. They’d have kept that to themselves to avoid going to prison.”
“I know. But I would have known all my life. That’s no way to live, knowing somebody died and it’s your fault.”
“You’re a good person, Frank.”
He nods.
I figure that’s enough details for a volunteer at St. Ben’s about this personal story, so I ask, “Aren’t you afraid of working with molten metal?”
“Nope.”
“How hot is that metal when you pour it?”
“2500 degrees.”
“Oh, my God!” I can’t imagine handling anything like that. “Do you wear protective gear?”
“Just some long leather gloves and a vest.” Again, no big deal.
“I’m telling you, Frank. I’m too chicken to even stand a hundred yards from molten metal.”
He snorts.
I can practically hear him thinking that a woman my age couldn’t handle it anyway.
I say, “Seriously! How do you pour the metal?” I’ve seen photos of men pouring steel, lit by glowing fire, wearing way more protective gear than leather gloves and a vest.
“From a ladle. A really big ladle.”
“A ladle! As in an open vat?”
“Yeah. It’s on a hinge. You turn a bar and it tips out.”
Yep. No big deal.
“Do you work with a crew? How far away do you stand? I mean, does Maynard follow OSHA safety standards?”
He snorts again. Odd how a person can wordlessly ignore my concerns so deftly. I can practically hear him thinking, “You’re funny, Jonnie.”
“Well, I’m really happy for you. I hope it all works out.”
Frank shrugs. “If it doesn’t, I’ll just move to California.”
No big deal.