Vera started to walk along Lincoln Avenue, by the parking lot. “I really should introduce myself. My name’s Vera.”
“I’m Blue,” I answered. “I mean I’m called Blue. Glad to meet you.”
“It’s down that road over there.” Vera pointed to an intersection ahead. “I’m about a quarter of a mile down there.” She took my arm, letting her breast nudge me in the direction of the road ahead.
I could barely read the sign on the corner, Corncob Road, an old tarred road that wound past a few factories that bordered the rail yards. I knew the road; it curved by the rail yard for about a half-mile to a dead end, a favorite parking spot for teenagers in love. The factories along the side were the dark shapes I could see from my fire escape, old and abandoned. The trains had cut back freight service years ago, and the factories died or moved out of town, where they relied on trucks and highways to carry their freight.
Unused freight cars stood idly about the rail yard. I remember standing by the tracks and watching the boxcars slowly rolling by. I once counted a hundred cars pulled by two tandem steam engines. I was jealous of the history carried in the names on the boxcars: the Erie Lackawanna, Chesapeake and Ohio, Southern Pacific. Perhaps that is why I live in the Arms, on the hill overlooking the tracks. I could watch the trains come and go, leaving for another world and then returning with stories to tell. Now, from my window I watch a locomotive push a few coal cars around, but essentially the freight service is dead, the tracks unused and rusting away. The shiny new electric passenger trains that clicked in and out of South Station live elsewhere.
8
We turned the corner and started down Corncob Road. The asphalt was broken into pieces, rain had left deep ruts, and the last street light was on the corner we’d left behind. The silhouettes of abandoned factories loomed ahead. I couldn’t see anything that resembled a house, and I was skeptical that anyone actually lived on Corncob Road.
Vera anticipated my question. “I know. It doesn’t look like anyone could live here. But when it’s late, sometimes I don’t want to go all the way to the city so I stay in an old factory.”
“Is that the Bishop Pipe Factory?” I remembered the name.
“Yes. My father owned it. He was an old-time factory guy. Worked his way up until he eventually owned the place, but it’s deserted now. We’re almost there—it’s just around the bend.”
We walked on, without talking. I began thinking of the scene I’d somehow let myself be caught in. Perhaps this was an elaborate ruse. I would walk along the deserted road. A car would pass by slowly, and stop a few yards ahead. The doors would open and bright lights shine in my eyes. The back seat of a long Cadillac beckoned. It was pitch black inside. “Get in!” a deep voice ordered. I got in. A woman snuggled in beside me. She didn’t appear to wearing much. We drove until we reached an abandoned warehouse. The man’s voice gave the orders. “This is the place, get him out.” I smelled perfume and heard a woman’s speak. “He looks okay. Are the girls ready?” I was pushed toward the door of the warehouse. Bright spotlights blinded me. “Did you check the size of his dick?” she asked. Deep voice answered, “I’m told it’s good—should look okay on film. Get the cameras ready. Quiet on the set. Action . . .” I was wondering what they’d call the film when Vera interrupted my starring role.
“Home is where the sewer pipes are. We’re here.” She pointed to a large open gate. We stood before an imposing hulk, a factory built of glacial stones. Pipes were piled in front, some stacked neatly, most just thrown around. Rusted, piled, scattered, broken pipes. Massive sewer pipes three feet in diameter, water lines twenty feet long, smaller one-inch gas lines and electrical conduit. The only working machine in the lot was a compact, two-door, white Ford Focus parked in front. We stood inside the gate gazing at the impressive pipe sculptures and the huge shadow of the stone structure overlooking them.
“Wow!” was all I could come up with. “Why did it close?”
“Technology changed, demand collapsed. Dad went broke, and so did his heart. I think it killed him.”
“It’s yours now?” I asked.
“Yes. I have a loft on the second floor. Come on.” We followed a path through the pipes to a side door. Vera took a ring of keys from her bag and opened the padlock. She slid the bolt aside and pushed the door. It opened reluctantly with a deep groan. We were facing a large cavernous space. She switched on a single overhead bulb. The abandoned factory space stretched out before us. The dim light didn’t reach the back walls. A graveyard of iron dinosaurs loomed before us in a ghostly glow. A series of machines formed a line along the center of the space, disappearing into the darkness at the far end. Pipes lay on the assembly line that stretched away from us, as if the operation were shut down with no notice given. Wide leather belts criss-crossed the ceiling and ran over pulleys to descend vertically to bring power to the devices below. A soot-covered furnace rose to the ceiling. It used to blaze with a fearsome heat and exhume molten metal, but today it stood cold and still. A giant press stood to one side, its threatening jaws permanently rusted open. Parallel with the central row of machines was a thirty-foot long lathe that cradled a pipe nearly a foot in diameter. Benches against the wall were littered with bits of metal, hammers, files, and wrenches. The scraps of metal that were scattered about the floor were covered with a thick coal dust. A single work glove lay, palm up, at my feet. The silent motionless machines left over from an industrial age were patiently waiting. Waiting to create another pipe.
“Beautiful, aren’t they.” Vera was admiring the classic machines. “This will be a museum. These guys are unique.” She referred to the huge creatures as though they were her buddies. “They’re irreplaceable. The Bishop Machine Museum. My Dad would like that. Someday,” she said dreamily. A narrow set of wooden stairs rose along the side wall. The machines watched us as we started up. One step complained so loudly I thought it was about to crack and send us back into the arms of the nasty-looking pipe crusher below us. At a small landing twenty-five feet up, Vera found another key on the ring and we entered her apartment. I was faced with total blackness until Vera reached around behind the door to flip the master switch in the fuse box. The place came alive. A huge room with ceilings that must be at least twenty feet high. Four lamps hung by chains from the ceiling to shaded bulbs. Bookshelves covered the walls from floor to ceiling on two sides. They were packed, row after row of books, with more stuffed in on their sides. The floor was concrete, but Vera had covered it with classic oval rag rugs. A long flat table in the middle surrounded by a few wooden chairs gave the place the flavor of a hidden library. An open curtain at the far end revealed a single bed and a standing closet. A small kitchen was built against one wall, looking as if it didn’t really belong there. I sat on the one piece of comfortable furniture, a large overstuffed couch in front of the bookshelves.
Vera broke the silence. “I don’t stay here all the time. I have an apartment in the city, but this is awfully convenient if I’m tired, or just want to be alone. Can I get you a drink? What would you like?”
“Do you serve martinis here?”
“No. But I do have scotch.”
”Sounds good me, with a couple of ice cubes to stretch it a bit.”
Vera walked over to the kitchen. I looked over the shelves behind the couch. An encyclopedia of industries, manuals from machine shops, a book of photographs of old industrial sites, the autobiography of Henry Ford. Vera brought two glasses, each filled to the brim with a well-aged Jameson, and sat down next to me on the sofa.
“To Vera,” I smiled and raised my glass, simultaneously putting my hand on her soft knee.
“Boo,
