Swaying in the chilly winds, the crane stood resolute. A powerful piece of machinery reduced to nothing but ridicule.
It was only a mere matter of a few weeks ago that the crane was flexing and straining against steel, iron, concrete, rubble...Newton’s pissing law.
Now, though, well, now crane was just THERE. An ‘eyesore’ they’d said. ‘Waste of time and money’, he heard from the two footed specks that milled around the concourse below.
The chains hanging from crane’s jib rattled. Crane’s cab was empty, the door closed but the window was not. Rain water had blown in. Travelling on gusts of wind. Blown off course. Crane’s operator had left a half dozen, half-empty bottles of coke, numerous cigarette butts and one bottle of a yellowish liquid filled to the brim.
The driver’s paper was soggy and the ink had bled.
Sponge from the seat had sprung loose, like a sheep’s coat when the sheep had had a rough night of it and had woken up with a severe case of bed hair.
Crane hated this time of year. Weeks of idling around, counting clouds, counting stars, counting planes, counting minutes. To days. To weeks.
He was desperate to turn around. Rotate 90 degrees on his base axis, then he’d see HER once more. She was wonderful. And in this light, on this morning, when the sun bounced from the office windows, she would be effervescent.
All he could see for now, was the back of her cab. A good view, yes, but not the best. He needed to see her gears, her slewing unit.
Being able to see the entire cityscape was nothing in comparison to catching a glimpse of her in motion. She was majestic. She made the work look effortless. As if it were an art.
The winds would be strong today.
Better than the rudimentary rains and the blunder of thunder and the slight flashes of lightening. And he’d heard about the ones who’d been struck down in the storms and he felt a pang of guilt for feeling that doing nothing for week’s on end was something to be ashamed of.
A flock of starlings settled on his machinery arm, their song was abrasive. Starkly signalling intent for food, for warning...a need for a mate. Crane was mute. No way to communicate. Stuck in this conflated ‘r’, part of a semaphore message no one would decipher. Misunderstood and misused.
When the construction cycle began again, he was going to make a real go of it. Maybe she’d notice him then. Maybe not.
But he was going to get things done.
