Good equipment can't be trusted to stupid New York natives. I heft the cutter, balance it against my thigh. My goggles darken, shutting out the buildings, even the lot we are clearing to build. With my goggles dark I can't see anything but the glow at the end of the cutter as it goes through rusted, twisted steel, girders in tangles and lying there like string dropped in a pile. Where the cutter touches it goes through like butter, and where the steel is cut it will shine clean and rust-free.
Steel drops spatter like quicksilver, glowing metal white.
The air smells like a thunderstorm coming. I swear softly at the foreman in Spanish, but he is too far away to hear anything, which is good. He does not know I speak Spanish. Meihua, beautiful language, because this is Meiguo-America. The foreman is all right, for someone born inside.