I moved away from wine country twenty years ago. Came back last month.
My hands are used to a torch and a rod. But here, I was just another old guy looking for work.
I went to the pawn shop to sell my old welding helmet and gloves. They were the only things worth anything.
The owner was an old man with a dust rag over his shoulder. He picked up my helmet and turned it over slowly.
He pointed to a takeout menu on the counter, annotated in the margins with tiny handwriting. 'I remember when you fixed the vineyard's gates,' he said. 'Keep your tools.'
It was closing time. The checkout line was empty—just me and him and the buzzing fluorescent light.
I walked out with my helmet. Next day, a garage called. They needed a welder.