The jump school was a no frills organization. Its runway was a length of tamped down and hardened dry mud that was situated at the end of a rutted dirt road abutting cornfields in every direction. In a small clearing nearby there was a shack for a school that was solidly built. Just off to the side of it was a three foot high platform. The learned consensus had it that landing with a parachute on was comparable to jumping down from three foot height. Thus when the time came we practiced landing by jumping off the platform. The trick was to roll naturally with your momentum when you hit the ground.
I suppose if I'd taken an aptitude test beforehand the guy who hired me as a machinist in training would have seen trouble coming. But there was no test to take and my employer remained blind to my shortcomings. All he had to go on was my fake enthusiasm and assurance that I picked up skills quickly and was rearing to learn a skill and trade that would keep me in the money for many years to come.
First thing they had us do at jump school was to sign a waiver freeing the school of all liability. After the paperwork and some thoughts of what might go wrong we were arrayed before a blackboard and introduced to the mechanics and nomenclature of parachuting. The words "velocity," "ratio" and "wind speed" came up several times in that chalk and blackboard overview.
My initial trouble as a would be machinist was the nature of oil. It was not that I was overly neat or fastidious. I wasn't. But I didn't like feeling all oily. However lesson number one in machinist 101 was that oil was your ever-present friend. It was a coolant; it was a lubricant; it was, in short, a film all over me.
After the parachuting overview we were strapped into jumper's harnesses that were suspended from the ceiling of the shack. (There was a step stool to get up and into the rigs.) Our instructors yanked the various belts tightly and then let us dangle. But not for long. Soon they were barking commands and peppering us with problems from every direction. "Your main shoot isn't opening what do you do?" Time, like us, was suspended as we grappled with what to do. Then we climbed up on to the platform and jump off in mock parachute landings.
In a matter of a couple hours my employer had me run a job. There were eight steps to it and all eight steps had been programed into the machine which was in fact a drill press. All I had to do was make sure I used the right drill bit for each step of the job. Piece of cake, right? Wrong. I was forgetful and sometimes I put the wrong drill bit on at the wrong step. When I did so the machine screeched hideously in protest and it sounded to me like the amorous cries of two dragons fucking. Each time it happened my employer came running, incredulous and demanding. "What are you doing?" In turn I meekly told him I'd made a mistake and it wouldn't happen again. And sometimes I made it through all eight steps with no mistakes. However when I used the micrometer like he'd shown me to check my work and make sure it was within two thousandths of an inch tolerance I'd often find my work to be upwards of a quarter inch off. It was either that or I was reading the instrument wrong. But I wasn't about to ask my boss if I was. Instead I tossed the piece into the finished box and went at it again.
We were ready to jump. We were each outfitted with a parachute and a one way walky talky which our instructors on the ground would use to guide us down. On our instructor's command we piled into the plane and it zipped down the runway and we were aloft. Soon we were cruising at 3,000 feet. The ground below was a vibrant quilt work of green, yellow and gold. When it was my turn to jump I stepped over to the door and the pilot cut the engine. I stepped out onto the wheel of the plane and held on steady as I could until my instructor said go. When he did I let go. I was on a static line so as soon as I did so my parachute opened. However when I released my grips of the plane I rolled to the left and something smacked me between my lower lip and chin. I looked down and a drop of blood plopped on to my right foot. But it was one drop and one drop only. My instructor told me "Looking good," and I fell to the earth in a state of wonder.
Whether I quit or was fired I don't rightly remember. But the end of my days as a machinist came quickly which was cool with me. I was glad to be free of all that oil. As to my output as a machinist I've grave doubts that I produced in the course of my labors one salvageable finished piece of work. Oh well. I walked away with no regrets and in doing so I chalked off one more would be viable path to prosperity.
Hitting the ground was a mild jolt and I rolled with my momentum. I had to do it again. I paid for another jump and was soon aloft and looking down at the wondrous earth below me. Then I jumped and began my slow descent. After that second fall through space, as glorious as it was, I never jumped again.
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