Precarious Lee had worn his camo because he was going to war: with gravity, with common sense, with basic mathematics in some cases. Things needed to be piled atop other things. Which things? Those things; these things; some other things. The thing that was important was that they were piled atop one another.
Duct tape, plenty. Wooden chocks to hold up half-ton speaker columns, yup. Random ropes, cables, and wires to dangle freely from the naked scaffolding, you betcha.
Precarious wondered how many teenage tuggers he was going to get.
The first sign that he was not having a good tour was the “No Smoking” sign. How can heavy machinery be operated, Precarious asked, without a Pall Mall dangling from the corner of your mouth? I mean: you don’t wanna see too much when you’re welding.
Then, there was the safety gear you see him wearing: imagine getting a cat into a spacesuit. A real, NASA-built spacesuit that takes three PhD.s ninety minutes to put on. That’s the kind of blind, thrashing rage Precarious Lee went into when someone tried to get a neon vest on him.
(Precarious accepted the hard hat after first “proving” he didn’t need it by running skull-first into the backhoe, which resulted in him, you know, sleeping for a while. He’s human, after all.)
The safety meeting in the morning was now an actual safety meeting, Precarious was distraught to learn. The only safety at the safety meetings that Precarious was used to was the cut-off switch for the nitrous tank to keep it from freezing up.
There was no nitrous tank backstage at Santa Clara and Precarious Lee was beginning to think the world had moved some way he could not grasp.