Life as a Steelworker
4 years of graphite in Pittsburgh's Hulking Mon-Valley
Here’s a little ditty from my long-ago past. As one of the few people who lived to tell the tale of life in Pittsburgh’s steel mills, I spent four years at USX National Duquesne Works—a place so massive it employed 50,000 people across its plants and even had its own ten-bed hospital with two ambulances on-site. Yeah, it was that kind of place.
From ’78 to ’81, my world was about as masculine, dirty, and blistering hot as you can imagine—definitely not fit for man or beast. Fire-resistant clothing, spats, goggles, and hard hats were the armor of choice. I worked with a bunch of guys who were rough as hell but, deep down, as good as gold. We were making lettuce while the rest of the world was making cabbage—stacking up paychecks at a time when steel still ruled.
Now, this is just one of many experiences I had in that inferno.
I worked at the 36” shear, and my job was to use these massive tongs to pull off test pieces for the metallurgical lab. This was the kind of job that only a 21-year-old with more guts than sense would take—or, let’s be honest, a total fool. At the time, I was probably a bit of both.
The shearman would cut billets all night long with this loud, clanking, steam-belching monstrosity—a relic from the 1930s that should’ve been in a museum, not still working. We were slicing up yellow-hot billets, taking six-inch pieces from the head and tail of select ones for testing. That’s where I came in—Shearman’s Helper Carl, wielding 15-pound tongs like some kind of blue-collar knight.
Here’s the fun part: I’d trudge up to the shear table, dodging a monsoon of steam and water they used to cool the blades, then wrestle these 25-pound test pieces while getting blasted by heat that could cook a steak. If the Devil had a sauna, this was it.
The test pieces were, of course, still glowing hot and slick as hell. After snagging one, I’d cowboy-walk, bowlegged, down a corrugated metal slope with the chunk of molten iron dangling between my ankles. Then, standing over a collection box stationed below ground level, I’d rock back and forth like a madman until I could fling the piece into the bin for the crane operator to collect later.
On an average shift, we’d roll eight to ten heats, cutting 250 ingots. That meant I got to play "don’t drop the lava rock" about 20 times per shift. Oh, and let’s not forget the shift rotations—every damn week, we’d cycle through 7–3, 3–11, and 11–7, with our off days creeping along just as unpredictably.
But here’s the kicker: the mill was dark. Always. It didn’t matter if the sun was shining outside. The air was thick with graphite, so much so that after a few days off, you could actually taste it when you came back.
Now, imagine reaching under a shear knife for a glowing-hot test piece while steam and water turned your safety glasses into a fogged-up mess. Half the time, I was grabbing those things purely on faith. By the time I got hold of one, it would be shimmering through the mist like some molten ghost, while water poured off the brim of my hard hat. And I was doing all of this while wearing oversized gloves and heavy work boots—like some kind of steel mill rodeo clown.
Damn, how the hell did I not get killed?
Oh, and here’s a fun little memory: One morning, after a night shift, I noticed blood on my pant leg near my ankle. Turns out, I had brushed ever so slightly against one of those test pieces. The weight and heat had neatly filleted a chunk of skin right off me, and I didn’t even notice until I was in the shower getting ready to go home. That’s how numb you got to the danger.
Now, I’m not a religious man, but on the way home that day, I prayed to God to get me the hell out of there—or at least off the night shift. Well, the Lord works in mysterious ways. Less than six months after that prayer, the entire Mon Valley steel industry was dismantled.
Good times.
An old girlfriend once told me about American factories, quoting some famous writer: “Men go into factories, and materials come out.” And she was right. A lot of those tough men ended up as nothing more than materials to their families—used up and worn down.
There were two other guys who worked as shearman’s helpers, both doing the job for 15 years. By the time I met them, they didn’t have much left to say. They had become material. Almost zombified. When they looked at me, there was this quiet, mortified sadness in their eyes. They couldn’t quite say it, but I knew what they meant—this was no place for a human being.
And, looking back, they were right. That said I was never more proud to be an American.