The balls go rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle. Much of the steel that makes up the machines is shiny. The balls are shiny. The head of Mr. Barnes the foreman is bald and shiny. Lou hasn't been to the factory for a long time. Getting out of the grey Toyota, rented, clean, shiny, he's surprised by how large the building is, how well kept-up, how healthy and well-watered the decorative plants are here in the middle of the Sonora desert, among the grey and weathered rocks that stick up here and there out of the sand beyond the edge of the plant's campus, where the very green grass abruptly ends, as though God had been distracted by a sudden phone call, an unexpected martyrdom. |
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