I suppose it was all the attention he was getting that got to me.  Not that he didn’t deserve it.  He had hand crafted a cute little wooden bench for his grandchildren and had it sitting in his office.  Everyone that worked at John Deere or happened by his office liked it. 

I made my way back to the bay that I worked in and thought about it.  As I rolled open the right-hand top drawer of my toolbox, I spied something that provoked the imp that constantly whispers in my ear to hiss a bit louder. 

I grabbed the nickel and eased back towards his office, waiting until he left it so I could make my move.  I could see this wasn’t going to be your normal heads or tails game; I guessed that ultimately if things really went wrong, I could lose my job.

As soon as he left his office, I slipped in and tipped that cute little wooden bench up ever so slightly and placed my nickel underneath one of the back legs, making very sure none of it showed from under the leg sitting on it.  I stepped back out, but near enough to see when he would return, and waited for this thing to develop.

Once he was settled comfortably back into his cushy office chair, left hand on his left-hand mouse, even though he was right handed, I stepped back in with a work order of mine to discuss with him.

Nonchalantly, and partly into the first couple of sentences explaining my work order, I rested my hand on the opposite back leg of his cute little wooden bench from the one I had placed my nickel under.

With the weight of my hand, and the tiniest bit of subtle persuasion from me, unseen by him of course, his creation rocked precariously.  

I stopped abruptly, mid-sentence, and stared hard at him.

I could read the mutations of panic as they scampered and short-circuited across his brow as easily as I read the cattle market this morning.  And, if I was any judge of the matter, those said mutations were indicating that he feared the market for his cute wooden bench was tanking fast, and not necessarily in an upward direction.

Striking both hands down to the armrests of his chair, he pistoned out at an alarming rate of speed.  I heard him muttering something about “the floor in this office has always been out of level,” as he levitated his way across to the cute little bench.

He grabbed his creation by both its arms, risking, I’m sure, severe dislocation of its joints in the process, and reefed it up and over to another part of the floor.  But he never made it to where he was going.  His transit was arrested as his frantic, darting gaze took in something shining and silver, good ole Abe himself, grinning and glinting back at him from the floor.

His bench slowly sagged in his arms, and if I had been watching closely, I’m quite certain I would have seen slower and slower jerks as it sagged, which I’m sure would have matched his heart rhythm. 

I offered a bit of helpful advice to him down the line of being careful where he set his items for display the next time, being cautious to scan the floor for any nickels, etc., that might make it rock wantonly back at him.  He looked at me and back at his bench in a not too kindly manner, and I began to think my time at that facility might be drawing to a close.  Eventually, though, a smile broke through, but not for long. 

Because once he went to set the bench back where it was, the floor was truly uneven, and no amount of picking up and setting down in all manner of locations fixed the problem. 

I wonder if those joints were actually a bit were dislocated from their previous seizure after all.  Whether his or the cute little bench’s, I can’t tell. 

*****

I never named the Service Manager, his intercom number was 24, or the place I worked at, which is quite local to where I currently live.  But both were very kind to me during those days when I was trying extremely hard to learn a trade I didn’t know a thing about.  Including the times when there were distractions, such as the above.