We arrive at the sectioned off area where we char the barrels and she slips the rubber gloves on, getting ready for whatever she thinks she’s about to do.
“We need to set up the barrel before you can char one.”
“I can do that. Which barrels do we start with?” She’s only five-foot-four and probably doesn’t weigh much more than a hundred and ten pound barrel, but she thinks she will move one from the stack and place it between the grips.
“They’re heavy. Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” she says, clearly insulted by my assumption of her lack of strength.
I point to the stack of barrels, the one where there are only two—one on top of another. “You can grab the top one of those and place it down in between the vice grips here,” I say, pointing to the charring mechanism.
I watch as she makes her way over to the stack of barrels and tries to lift the top one as if it’s just a few pounds. She’s quick to realize it’s much heavier than she assumed it would be because she shifts the top one a couple of inches, wraps her arms around the middle and presses her knee against the bottom barrel. She moves the top one to the edge, so it’s teetering. I want to make sure she doesn’t break her body, but I also fear the thought of getting kneed in the balls if I try to help. Just in case, I take a few steps closer as she’s focusing on a plan to place the barrel down on the ground. She presses her knee into the bottom barrel again and arches back as the full weight of the barrel sits between her arms. The barrel slides down the length of her body before touching the cement floor.
“I’m not going to lie. I thought the barrel would flatten you,” I say.
“Thanks for the confidence.”
“Well, I’m almost positive the barrel weighs more than you, so—”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
There I go again, saying something innocent that ends up being offensive. “I didn’t mean for it to be an insult,” I reply, questioning her response.
She releases a huff of air and eases the barrel down to its side so she can roll it over to the grips. It will be impressive if she can lift the thing a few feet off the ground to place it on the charring rods.
I feel bad when the barrel doesn’t move against her strain to lift it up. I know she’s trying to make a point, but I wish I knew why. “Mind if I step in?”
Journey stands up and brushes her gloved hands off on the coveralls. “Okay,” she says. The word is full with the sound of defeat. When she takes a step back, I scoop up the barrel and place it down on the rig.
“You make it look easy,” she says.
“Years of practice repeating the same movements over and over will do that to you.”
“And muscles, I suppose,” she continues.
“Maybe a little of that too.”
“I don’t like it when I can’t do something because of my size or weight. It frustrates me,” she says. The honesty is unexpected, but appreciated. “I’m not competitive, but I like to know I can handle whatever situation arises.”
Am I the only one standing here with a dirty mind right now? Does she know what she’s saying because if she does, and it’s intentional, I would like to know.
I clear my throat because I don’t know how to respond. “You can crank the vice grips,” I say, pointing at the wheel.
She locks her focus on the green button to her left as she completes the process of securing the grips. “Now, I press this button and the machine fires up?” she asks.
I lean over to check the grips to make sure they’re as tight as they should be. I can’t experiment with the safety of a flaming hundred pound barrel. She locked it in pretty tight though. So we’re ready.
“You can hit the button,” I tell her, but put these on first. I grab a pair of goggles from the side table and hand them over. She places them over her head without arguing and I place a pair over my face as well. “Okay, now you’re all set.”
Journey grins as she hits the green button and her eyes light up as the metal pipe shoots flames into the barrel. She’s a little too close for my comfort, so I take her arm and pull her back several feet. “How long does it take to char?”
“About a minute.”
Journey glances down at my hand still clenching her wrist and I release my hand. “It’s hot,” she says.
“I’m hot?” I respond.
She cocks her head to the side with a wry look pinching into her eyes and mouth. “Cute,” she continues.
