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Goddammit, get back here! Cobb loses his temper. He kicks one of the machines, and his cursing momentarily stops. He falls to the concrete holding his foot, rolling back and forth, howling like he's just been shot with a .44 Magnum. "My toe! My toe! Christ, I broke my fuckin' toe!" The shift change horn blows, and all of the workers from the surrounding lines come over to see what's going on. The men who had departed early from L-17 also wander back. This is a show that nobody wants to miss. And now I commit a serious error of judgment. I wander over to where Cobb is rolling around and say: "Gee, Mr. Cobb, guess you should have been wearing those steel-toed boots, eh?" Cobb's face turns from red to purple as the other workers laugh at him. He shimmies across the floor on his butt, still cradling his injured foot in one hand, and reaches up onto the halted conveyer belt. With his free hand, Cobb grabs a jar of pickles. Jowls shaking, his face glowing crimson, he screams: "God! Damn! Fucking! Smartass! Kid!" He hurls the jar at me with all his strength. I raise my stiff arms to shield my face. The jar shatters against my wrists.