This summer’s extraordinary rescue of nine trapped Pennsylvania coal-miners verged on miraculous. Scarcely noted was the hellish nature of everyday conditions below. Those who work down there seldom live long, or well.
Like many horrific occupations, mining has acquired something of a cultish cachet. Our quintessential California hippie band, for instance, the Grateful Dead, performed an evocative ballad called Cumberland Blues — “Can I go; buddy? Can I go, now? Take your shift down at the mine?”
Songwriters Garcia, Hunter, and Lesh didn’t glamorize the dig, situating desperation and poverty at center, where they belong. There are lots of soul-devouring jobs, even in this “post- industrial” society. And then there’s mining.
I put in time underneath, enough to get the union card (Oil; Chemical & Atomic Workers), and to never forget how wretched a pursuit it is. First; you must descend. So this poem starts from the top.
THE COMMUTE
by Erik S. McMahon
I’d compare it to a tub
Picture hotel laundry bins or
Those decorated dumpsters they
Cram you into on unsafe, old
Uninspected roller-coasters
Yard wide, maybe; five feet long
Two benches, seating six workers
That's how we commuted
Before even punching in
Lanterned hard-hats, pounds of gear
Hanging from our belts, wearing
Cartoon versions of gloves and boots
Attached to the tubs were
Pitted, rusty metal wheels
And, theoretically, brakes
Bins clattered crazily along
Shabbily-welded, neglected track
Lurching, jerking, jolting
Last downtown local subway
Blank as elevator passengers
No one said a word
You were allowed to smoke, though
So everybody did
Two Lucky Strikes for that endless ride
(Couple, three minutes, really)
Extremely steep angle
Wire-masked lamps flashing past
Less and less real air
No way around it — we had to get
Half a mile underground, fast
Nothing cute about the conveyance
It hauled us to the dark, damp place
Where we stood a good chance
Of becoming hideously maimed, or worse
Depending on your shift
You boarded at dawn, noon, four, midnight
Made no difference once you disembarked
Immeasurable tons of rock and dirt
Around you and above you
Every species of ornery machine
And volatile explosive invented
Comfort food for your inner
Nihilistic maniac
Tourist caverns are solid, smooth
In mines, fissures, fault-lines, random
Trickles of gravel serve as reminders
The whole damn thing might
Collapse at any moment
We got handsomely paid
Riding rickety tubs to hell
Performing dementedly dangerous tasks
Searching for gold, for silver?
No, elements and minerals
Most could barely pronounce
Think of watering the lawn
On a relaxing suburban weekend
Underground, that hose swells
Thicker than an anaconda
Propelling slurried concrete at 500
Pounds per square inch each second
Major mistake to ever release
Then all bets are off
Copper spout darts, whips, dances
Eager to fracture your skull if
Given the slightest opportunity
When loose boulders commence rumbling
Gathering speed along unstable, not
Entirely shored-up drifts
You try and believe something else
Might be creating that sound
When a granite shelf slides free
Like an Arctic glacial iceberg calving
There are neighborhoods you'd rather occupy
On the surface, I've seen people shot
I've been beaten and been stabbed myself
But to watch a man get crushed
Well, that's another matter altogether.
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