Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-44746972-20200205042734

They call this labyrinth of pipes and unbearable heat the "Steam Tunnels."

The supposed purpose is to deliver steam to wherever it might be needed, whenever someone turns them on. And the supposed recipients get nice, warm steam to heat their buildings. I'm going to be fair, this is true. You can ask anybody around here who has the money for heating; when they pay their bills, they pay for heating, and it's plainly displayed on the form that the money goes to whoever controls the steam tunnels. Nobody knows who the money actually goes to. Nobody is actually sure who organizes the poor souls who maintain the tunnels, climbing deep into the manhole with a wrench, a welding torch, and no first-aid kit. That way nobody can be held accountable for when things go wrong because nobody knows who to punish.

I'm a maintenance worker for the steam tunnels. I don't know who I work for - I only know that every Sunday I receive a letter that tells me what I need to do for the week. Enclosed is a check paying me for the work. I don't know when or why I started the job, but every Sunday I get a list of tasks and good pay, so I never stopped. I've come close three times, though.

The first time I almost quit was when I was very, very new. I saw Chris touch the scalding hot steam pipe with his bare hands. The two things you need to know about Chris are that he had a big scar on his face, the cause of which he never talked about, and he was obsessive about his job. For all I knew, he never even came came out of the tunnels - he always arrived before me and stayed later than me. One seemingly innocuous Wednesday, I descended the ladder under the manhole and, after wandering around for a while, found Chris standing in the tunnels, with a blank look on his face. Now, you need to understand something about the tunnels: There are the tunnels and then there are the steam pipes. The tunnels are for people to walk around in. Aside from the high risk of heatstroke, lack of maps and inability to use GPS, dangerously hot exposed metal, and constant chance of a collapse in all parts except for near the manhole, the tunnels were safe. The steam itself was carried through metal pipes. When we had to touch the pipes, we always wore big gloves to prevent ourselves from getting seriously burned. Chris didn't have those gloves on.

Looking back on it, I should've noticed the warning signs. Chris was normally upbeat and always ready for a bit of fun provided nobody was hurt from it, but today he was different. His expression was completely blank. When I told him, "I think you forgot your gloves, buddy!" I assumed he would realize his mistake and get some gloves. Instead, he paused for one excruciating moment. Then he said, without any emotion, "I quit." He thrust both his hands onto one of the steam pipes. The next thing I remember was an ambulance stopping by the top of the manhole. I never saw Chris again.

The second time I almost quit was during the steam explosion. It was another seemingly innocuous Wednesday. I was near the spot where Chris had burned his hands. As I recounted the incident in my mind, I wondered what could have made him done that. I figured that he had simply got fed up at first, but as I started thinking about it more and more as I turned nuts with my wrench it occured to me that up until then he had been completely normal. Not better, not worse, just the exact same. I didn't think anybody could go insane that suddenly. There was probably an external factor affecting him, like the death of his wife Carol or something like that.

Suddenly, I heard steam coming. The section of the tunnels I was in was scheduled for maintenance that day, as I had read in my weekly letter from the boss, and therefore all steam was supposed to be diverted along a different set of pipes. Unfortunately for me, the steam burst out of the pipe I was replacing before I could process this. I blacked out.

When I woke up, the left side of my face was in searing pain. Fortunately, the steam had stopped coming along that pipe. Somehow I managed to stand up, walk to the ladder, and climb out of the manhole.

The third and final time I almost quit my job was after the left side of my face had healed. It was Wednesday, which at this point had stopped being so innocuous. I went to the site where the pipe "mistakenly" not been turned off and where Chris had burned his hands. I knew something bad was going to happen. As I trudged along the tunnels toward the site where I was supposed to go, I started to feel hotter. The tunnels started to feel smaller. I knew it was all a figment of my imagination - my thermostat was reading normally, and the tunnel height seemed normal when I looked at it closely - but it all felt so real. To distract myself, I tried to think about other things. It occured to me that I was spending more and more time in the tunnels, coming here earlier and staying here later. Once this thought had squeezed through my brain, the heat was almost unbearable. I couldn't do anything except stare blankly. I took off my gloves and dropped them beside me in an attempt to lose a bit of heat. I heard a voice, "I think you forgot your gloves, buddy!" At this point, I had had enough of these tunnels. They were hot, cramped, and I knew I deserved better. "I quit," I said. Then I took my ungloved hands and put them on the hot pipe. I wanted a souvenir other than the scar on my face.

I remember waking up in a hospital. My hands were bandaged. I never physically returned to the steam tunnels, but I never really quit. It's with me to this day. I remember how I thought Chris was insane, but as it turned out he was right all along. I'm in a bad place now - it's hard to find a job without two good hands - but I'm certainly skilled enough to give you this:

Don't ever go into the steam tunnels. 