Mister Stevens was a maintenance man and had #1 seniority in the entire ammo plant, rumor having it that he started when the plant was first activated during the Korean War. Him being on the maintenance crew guaranteed continuous employment, because the Army always kept that department on even when the place was deactivated. Dude was something like 80 years old and had spent the last half of his life working there. There wasn't a lathe, press or furnace in the entire plant, even the mothballed shit, that he wasn't intimately familiar with.
His name was Mister Stevens. Nobody ever called him by his first or any other name - bosses, clerical help, engineers, set-up men, not even the other mechanics on his crew. Hell, I don't think there was a soul in the entire plant other than Payroll Patty that knew his first name and she wasn't giving it up.
I was in the maintenance shop one time and happened to see his timecard laying in his open locker, so I snuck a peek hoping to find out for myself. In the spot for his first name was typed in the word 'Mister'. All righty then.
Even his wife called him Mister Stevens. I've met her a few times, mostly at company functions like barbecues and shit, and any time she mentioned her husband it was Mister Stevens this and Mister Stevens that. I remember one time at a barbecue she gathered up her purse and said "Mister Stevens, are you ready to drive me home?"
Me and Real Pancho were sprawled out in my living/reloading/bed room passing a joint back and forth, stoned out of our minds, and right out of the blue he says," You know what would be a trip, homie?"
"What's that, Real Pancho?"
"What if Mister Stevens' first name really is Mister? Like on his birth certificate and everything, you know?"
Fuuuuuck...
Mister Stevens always wore a beat up old yellow hard hat even though they weren't required in the ammo plant. The only person that wore one was Mister Stevens. His was one of those old skool hats that looked like a WWI helmet with dings in it that were older than me. He wore it cocked off to one side and never took it off.
He always had a stub of a cigar firmly anchored in a corner of his mouth and I swear, it was the same stub the entire 9 years I worked there. I never saw him with a fresh cigar and I never saw him with it lit. It was just there, a fucking geriatric pacifier. The only time it was out of his mouth was when he was drinking a cup of coffee, but in between sips it was back in its customary place. I've personally seen him eat his lunch around his cigar.
Johnny Jones and his wife were having dinner at a nice sit-down in Modesto one night and Mister Stevens and his wife came in. They looked very nice. Mrs Stevens was in a nice pantsuit and shawl with matching shoes, gloves and bag, and Mister Stevens was in his Sunday suit and tie. Johnny Jones told me later, "I ain't never seen him in nothin' but greasy coveralls, so if it wasn't for the fact that he was wearing his yella hard hat, I might not have recognized him at all."
Johnny Jones told me too that Mister Stevens had his cigar stub, but the damned waiter seated them out of sight, so he wasn't able to see if he took it out while he enjoyed his prime rib.
I went over to the Stevens' house one day to buy some truck parts off of him and when I walked in, it was like going back to the 1960s. Fucking TV and stereo cabinet combo, wall paper, Archie and Edith armchairs side by side, and in the kitchen it was all 1960 appliances from the Frigidaire on down.
Mister Stevens was wearing his hard hat the entire time I was there, inside the house and out in the garage.
Mrs Stevens had Hansen's Disease, the only person with leprosy I've ever known. She was missing the ends of a couple fingers and her hands had bandages on them, but she wore gloves when she was out in public. Dad told me the the progression of the disease was arrested.
I had met her several times over the years. She was a lovely old soul, very outgoing and friendly and nosey as hell. She was one of those people that would ask you a question about your family but would do it in a way that made you want to talk. She'd have your entire family history, even the time you tried to feel up your cousin at your 9th birthday party, inside of a half hour.
Rod, my boss, came over and handed me a card. "Sign this card, Pancho. Mister Stevens' mother died."
Taking the card and pen, I said, "Aw, that's too bad, sorry to hea..... wait, did you say his mother? How fucking old was she?" Like I said, Mister Stevens was pushing 80 if he hadn't already passed it.
Rod gave me a rare grin and said, "We're on a roll here. Every single person that signed the card asked the same thing. She was 103. That cranky old fucker will probably outlive us all."
I was sitting at home a couple years after I got laid off and the phone rang. My wife-at-the-time answered and then handed it to me.
"Sir?" I knew who it was, there was only one person that ever called me anymore.
"Hey boy, you're not gonna believe who died today." Dad never wasted time on the phone.
"Mister Stevens."
He sounded surprised. "How did you know?"
"Easy. He was at the top of the list of people I thought would never die. Please tell me he died at work."
"Yup. Well, not technically but close enough for government work. He was found slumped over a cup of coffee at the break table before his shift began. They knew he was dead as soon as they saw him because his hard hat was laying on the floor."
"Ha ha, right on, that's a sure sign."
One good thing about Mister Stevens' death was that I would finally get to find out what his first name was. The obituaries were (and still are) a daily stop for me, mostly hoping to see motherfuckers I hate, so I figured in a day or two I'd finally have my answer.
Bastards didn't print one.
I wasn't able to make the funeral, but Dad did. When he walked up to the casket, Mister Stevens' hard hat was inside it with him. No funeral card with his name on it though, damn it.
