We disassembled and reassembled the equipment over and over, changing configurations, tightening bolts, loosening them again. The components were heavy—large industrial fans and pumps—too heavy to move by hand, so we used machines to lift them, hold them in place, and lower them carefully into position.
Most days, it was just the two of us. He was older than I was and knew the procedures by rote, the kind of person who respected every step because he understood what depended on it. I brought energy and curiosity, with a willingness to learn that hadn’t quite settled yet. We worked well together. The work demanded it.
We talked while the equipment hummed, temperatures stabilized, and gauges crept toward their set points. Those were good days. We were piloting something new, testing a system that didn’t yet know what it would become. At the time, it felt ordinary—long hours, dirty hands, problem-solving in real time—but later I understood how rare it was. Back then, it was simply the two of us learning how to make things work and enjoying the fact that they often did.
The moment came in the middle of an ordinary task. He was driving the forklift, easing a piece of equipment into position, focused on clearances and weight. I was stepping down from the platform, turning as I reached the floor. We moved at the same time; two worlds collided.
There was a brief contact, more surprise than pain, as the side of the loader bumped into the side of my knee. Everything stopped. He switched off the key and climbed down immediately, his face already full of apology before I could react.
What stayed with me after all these years was not the contact itself, but the compassion. The way he looked at me, shaken by the sudden, careless encounter. I told him I was fine, and we continued our work.
Not long after, the company grew, and the pilot plant was moved to a modernized facility. I moved back into the office, where my days were spent translating system behavior into numbers—entering equations, testing assumptions, watching results appear on a computer screen instead of gauges on a wall.
I don’t know what happened to him after that. The work changed, and then he was gone.
What remains is the memory of those days—the sound of the machines, the care taken in doing things the right way, working without supervision, and the brief stillness in a noisy place that, for reasons I can’t name, stayed with me.
© Douglas Bayliss, January 15, 2026
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