Thursday, March 16, 2023

Rich Beyer Chronicles (1) Guest Author

As mentioned in the title, this is a guest post. Credit to Glynnis.

Rich cracks his knuckles as the button on the Schindler 500A-TB220 casts a sudden pale light on his...SEXUAL face. His rough hands knew the intimate touch of pulley weights, counter-balances, and endless gears of so many kinds of elevators- industrial, freight, grain, passenger... He had caressed their mechanical shafts, greased with industrial petroleum-based lubricant. 

"Going up? Or...Down?" his heated breath whispered in my ear, a haze of Marlboro reds hanging on his sparse... SEXUAL head...Rich deftly scoops me up in his grizzled working class arms and carries me over the threshold as his water eyes undress me. "My double-reinforced pulley shaft is waiting for your doubled bonded steel rope cable," I murmur breathlessly. 

His face lights up, and suddenly turns serious as he puts me down gently. "Safety first, hon" as he conducts a thorough inspection, designated by the county Department of Weights and Measures. His whips his massive rod out of his sun-bleached Carhart coveralls, and uses it to delicately measure the pressure differential in the hydraulic lift column.

"Is that thing metric or... Imperial?" I ask. "I guess you could say it uses...Freedom Units," he muses coquettishly. He takes out his 3/8" torque wrench and head, opens my Patagonia micro fleece vest, and applies the wrench to my ragingly hard nipples. I grasp his Union-made pole, and begin pumping rhythmically. "You like that? Does it measure up to ASME A17.1 Safety Code for Elevators?" I grin, SEXUALLY. 

"Baby, you're giving me no choice but to leverage your hand as a fortified spontaneous hoistway- you're turning me into an escalator!" he gasps.

"CERTIFY ME! OH, GOD, certify me under your tumescent CSAB44-21 Standards! Sign off on me, baby! Loop those letters! OPERATE THIS PUSSY!"

"I'M GONNA LAND YOU! Oh God, oh God..." Rich slumps over, heaving, shaking, sweating. He grunts as his guide rail fixing cable unleashes in my swollen counterweight buffer receptacle. Lights flash before my clouded bright eyes, and we collapse into each other, bosoms heaving like some kind of SEXUAL dying star.

He pulls out a clipboard, pen, and manual, and removes his horn-rimmed glasses from his front pocket. Rich motions for me to turn around, and inscribes some sort of code in his Bic Velocity which read: 

10-03-22 Rich Beyer 4673

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