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| Condition Grover! We're going industrial, yo. |
I learned a great deal of what I know about cars from Bill, the big brother of one of my best friends John in the old neighborhood. When I was working with Bill (as designated shop lackey!), he'd often send me on errands to pick up this thing and that, coating solvents, fabrication odds and ends, metal stock, a sky hook**, lunch, or whatever. Apart from sky hook hunts and lunch pickups, he'd send me to unadorned buildings hidden back in the light industrial section of Addison. These dimly-lit and often cluttered places would be occupied by people who would either accept that you belonged there by virtue of the fact that you found your way there on purpose, or who would challenge you immediately, since you weren't a familiar face. Bill would always give me a name to ask for however, and I was always supposed to drop his name to stand down the inquisition. I learned quickly some social engineering techniques- to always walk in like I owned the joint, since bewilderment could get you shut out.
Since I'm still relatively new in my town, I struck out to find the secret locations of the following vendors:
- Welding gas and supplies
- Automotive paints, coatings, and supplies
- Steel, aluminum, and other metal stock
Here's the thing, I couldn't take the old approach, since Bill would normally write down
exactly for what I should ask. This time, I had a fairly good idea, but I really wanted to leverage the knowledge of the folks who, you know, know stuff because they're professionals. If I were to fake a level of expertise I really don't have, there's no way I could ask for help, or learn anything new (plus, as good a bullshitter as I pride myself on being, I suspect that they'd soon catch on). The old approach is OUT. I tried a new approach:
Tell everyone the truth (GASP)! Here's how it went:
Met Mary of National Coating Supplies (NCS), who was hidden in plain view in north Urbana. I drove out and introduced myself. She liked my idea of taking body shop classes at community college, and told me that when we're ready to paint, she'll help us with supplies and advice. She also gave me a line on a welding gas supplier, who was hidden away in a different part of town.
Wow, that went well. So far, so good.
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| R.J. Smith hooked us up - time to get at it! |
Drove around the light industrial maze in east Urbana and found that welding gas supplier NCS Mary recommended, R.J. Smith- Walked in and met John. I let John know about the Mustang project, the new welding rig, my level of expertise (modestly described as an "advanced novice", or "have 2 community college classes under my belt, and know enough to be dangerous". Success! John had some solid advice, helped me figure out the correct wire to use on the Mustang floors (0.030"), and walked me through the process of getting a nice tank of Argon/CO2 shielding gas for the welder. I also picked up some tip gel and pliers. Great folks.
Finally, my co-worker Daniel informed me on the low-down that there is a steel material/stock warehouse in town called Kurland Steel Co. He described it as tricky to find, since it's not well labeled.
Sounds familiar! After driving around it once and missing it completely, I saw in the middle of a large gravel lot a dark warehouse with a solitary man donning a heavy tan coat, kevlar gloves, and ballcap, all stained with oil, cutting a 16" I-beam with a behemoth of an industrial saw.
This must be it. I wandered haltingly into the warehouse and was struck by the feeling that it might be an excellent place to film a post-apocalyptic industrial scene- it felt kind of
Blade Runner-ish, maybe
Terminator-ish, maybe
Chuck-should-get-the-eff-out-ish. The gentleman running the saw kept on looking up at me with a puzzled look. After getting in within earshot, I stuttered and half-explained what I was doing. He kindly directed me to the office. The office was nice, potted plants and all. There sat the office manager named Kim. She looked up, also with the same puzzled look I got in the warehouse.
They know I don't belong here. I managed to croak out an explanation of what I was doing, and what supplies I might require. Kim was patient; she did not roll her eyes I think, but I suspect she may have been slightly annoyed that A) I didn't know exactly what gauge and type of steel I wanted, and B) I didn't know "how this works" (
and I totally didn't). Since I did have my welding cart plans on paper with me, improvised, and decided on the fly what I'd need, and in what quantities, she hung in there with me. At the end, she even gave me a suggestion on sourcing some good casters for my cart project. As scary as that was (
first time, whee), I did get a slip to take back to the warehouse, where our original guy got me all set up: 24 feet of 1-inch square tube steel stock, and a 4' x 8' sheet of eighth-inch steel. He helped me carefully load it in my truck. I asked the warehouse worker his name and shook his hand. As he pressed his leathery hand into mine he said, "Grady, I've been working here for 37 years". I was glad to meet Grady. He's probably the guy who saves everyone at the end of the post-apocalyptic movie, probably by cutting the big bad in half with his bad-ass-as-hell saw.
What I learned:
- Social engineering may get you through some doors or past some obstacles, but if you want some help, you'd better stick to telling the truth.
- The secret handshake club is probably a myth. All of the people I met are normal, the apprehension I feel is just because it's all new to me.
- Most folks are happy to help you out. Hooray for humanity!
** On sky hooks: This is the runaround meant as a joke of course. There is no such thing as a sky hook after all. As much fun as Bill had with me, I think when I was in the service, I elevated this idea to a form of art unparalleled since- in addition to sending the uninitiated out to look for the legendary and storied "sky hook", we'd send guys on a hunt for some "shore line" or, if feeling ornery, up to the forecastle to get a "left-handed bosun's punch", which would result in a bruise in the recipient's arm after a burly anchor-chain hoisting boatswain's mate gave him a shot to the arm (or two, for flinching!). Ain't I a stinker?
