Shehera glided and galumphed through work, ostensibly in a haze. Everyone assumed she was perpetually high. The office aberration, her whole constitution was outre - especially in a metalcrunching environment. Jim, her favorite miner who had fled the previous week, used to joke, "Commune's that way, m'dear. Boy, you're really lost if you've ended up here!" A Stockade causalty, he fled Metal Parade after his last big deal. He had saved up just enough metal to survive as an ascetic for a few years, living his dream of becoming a full-time painter.
He confided in her one day on a smoke break: "After the Stockade cracked, I lost everything. I lost my chariot, had to break my lease on Plantation Ave. and move in with my brother and sister-in-law, sold basically everything..." He sniffed. "...but the worst part was...was losing my friends. Or rather who I thought were my friends. It was devastating, to be honest." His head shook in residual bitterness. "I get ejected, and suddenly they don't know me from Adam. Since I'm not in the field, I'm out of the gang. Buncha jerks." He inhaled. "I should've seen it coming, though. Down at the Stockade, everything is metal. And everyone. However these were men I confided in; men I thought would be there for me through tough times, as they always had. We spent so much time together over the years that I considered them brothers. Hah! If you can't make them metal, they don't give a damn whether you're doing great or about to slice your wrists. They're too busy drowning in booze and powder, getting clam-" He flustered. "excuse my language - collecting toys to outdo eachother with, showing off their trophy families, taking their mistresses on lavish vacations..." His eyes cast downward in shame. "Story of my life. My former one. I guess everyone's just doing the best that they know how to, but it still hurts sometimes. So many years I could've been making art, desecrated because I flushed myself into a sewer of metal. And when it was all over, I was broken. I had a whole life, an entire identity, deleted before my very eyes. Nothing left but static."
He looked outward. "It was a blessing. A genuine blessing. I had so much to unlearn. After the pain of loss eased, it was liberating! This time next month, I'll be living my life as it was meant to be lived." He shined, irreducibly content.
"That's inspiring," Shehera mused.
" Sorry. You didn't come out here to hear the sob story of an old man," he muttered sheepishly. "Although I'm sure you'll hear many more sad and disturbing things in this purgatory.”
Shehera hesitated. "How exactly did you end up at Metal Parade?"
"An Ad on Bob's Mess," he laughed. "Go figure. My prayers to reputable companies all went unanswered. My iron was dangerously low, and I needed some fast. Who ends up here otherwise?" They laughed. "How did YOU end up here?"
"A friend."
"A friend?!" Jim repeated sarcastically. "In this place?" They laughed.
"My old driver was a monster, and old co-dregs unsociable. I needed a change."
Jim looked alarmed. "You sure this isn't the same cheese, different mousetrap?"
"Oh." Shehera ruminated for a moment. "Well, metal is metal, right?"
"In the short term...yes." Jim was uneasy. "But you can't be in a pit like this for too long without it messing with you. This kind of environment will distort your outlook, your values..." He puffed harder. "Metal is important; you HAVE to have metal. But you also have to have a purpose outside of yourself. Otherwise the excess metal turns you into an overgrown infant, living only to satiate every little impulse and urge. Look at most of these miners: no goals. Just delusions of becoming a millionaire."
Shehera chanced to ask him, "How long have you been doing this for?"
"I've been in ironwork in some form or another for over 25 years now." He angered. "It's all I know how to do to make metal in this mess of a society. As for this place..." He drew a breath. "Metal Parade has been, in 26 months: long hours of torture, a lot of good luck, a lot of holding my tongue, and I'm DONE. Pimping out metal brings out the worst in everyone involved." Shehera cringed, thinking of how many people Jim must've screwed to earn top commission. "The thrill of the catch is a trap. 'Get the metal, and get out!' That's been my philosophy here." He looked at her in gravity. "Don't you get stuck."
She laughed. "Never!"
Shehera stamped out the butt. She welled with compassion. "Good luck in the City of Love. I'm glad you're finally free."
"Thank you," Jim replied quietly, and grinned. Bowing nobly as he backed away, his last words to her: "I'll see you on the Seine."
©M. F. Lemoine
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