I was working in a mobile home factory in Costa Mesa California, with my new friend Jimmy Gustafson. Jim was from Michigan, and I was from Oregon. He got me the job interview. Together we were learning Spanish and building mobile homes.
The factory, “Ardon Mobile Homes,” would push three or four new “5th wheel” trailers out the doors each day. Jim and I (and usually one other) were the FLOOR DEPARTMENT. I laid out the pre-cut 2X6’s on an enormous table and shot them together with a huge, powerful pneumatic nail-gun. This gun shot three-inch nails! I then covered one side of the new floor with a skin of sheet metal, and the other with a layer of plywood.
At the same time, Jim would be preparing the metal chassis, and when we were both ready, he would hoist the chassis into the air, roll it over and lower it onto my wooden deck. We then fastened them together, flipped it back on its wheels, and the other guy would install the wheel wells and glue down some linoleum.
The factory was a busy, noisy place. Every day, above the combined roar of factory sounds, you could hear the buzz signals from the plant’s communication system. Each department head had his own “buzz code;” two buzzes for one person, three buzzes for another, and so on. If you heard your code, you were to report to the office.
The metal buzzer itself was mounted on the wall, just above our heads, and just below the second-floor office window that overlooked the indoor plant operations.
One day, Jimmy was in a particularly bad mood. Nothing was going right. We were busy at our usual tasks, when overhead came the blast, “BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ!! BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ!! BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ!!”
The code was a series of three quick blasts, summoning a certain department head to the upstairs office. “BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ!! BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ!! BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ!!”
It must have been quite urgent; the code was repeating faster than any human could possibly respond to it. “BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ!! BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ!!
BUZZ! BUZZ!! BUZZ!!!
“SHUUUTTUUUUUUPP!!!!” Jim screamed at the top of his lungs, as he shouldered a gigantic nailing gun. Without hesitation, he swung it towards the buzzer, pulled the safety back with one hand and let go with rapid fire: “POP!-POP!-POP!-POP!-POP!-POP!-POP!-POP!-POP!-POP!!
A hush suddenly fell over the entire factory. The last of the three-inch nails from Jim’s barrage could still be heard hitting the office window glass and bouncing on the cement floor below like spent bullet casings.
I stood there in shock, mouth agape, watching to see if the shaking glass would finally shatter when I noticed the top of the secretary’s head slowly rising into view from below the window, where she dove to safety.
When Jimmy saw her and realized what he had done, he spun around, dropped that giant nail gun to the floor, and kind of sideways over his shoulder asked me in a very quiet voice, “Do you think she heard me?”
