text: I’m an oil man, in broad terms. My fingers were made black from years of smut, and by the time I settled down, I could hardly remember what my real hands looked like. The dye is fading, and so am I. Perhaps it’s time. I made my start working in the Navy yard. I was nine years of age, rolling empty barrels aboard ship after ship. “Reworking material” they called it, hauling used barrels back down the coast. As a lad, there wasn’t much money in it, at first. I worked for scraps and loose change, and mercy from the men. The yard had become my home, as I hadn’t a real one elsewhere, and it was all I could do not to swipe lunches for myself. Belcamp, a tall burly man whose torso was twice my size, befriended me. He was merely a crewman with no money to his name. He owned no stock, nor did he have any prominence to speak of, and yet every day he’d sacrifice a quarter portion of his lunch to my belly. It was Belcamp who watched over me, even if I didn’t see it. And it was he who arranged my first paid position with the yard. My first dime, and my survival, I owe to a man I never truly knew. At fourteen, I managed to convince a captain to bring me aboard his ship. They were sailing for Charleston; another hoard of barrels was to be retrieved there. But afterward, they were bound for Havana. Whales were plenty in the Caribbean. So, I left home. I hadn’t left those docks in my entire life, and now I was watching them vanish into oblivion. A crewman told me it was the ‘curvature’ of the Earth. Another said it was simply smog clouding our view. It wouldn’t be until 1829 that I learned the first crewman was right. After a few years of scrubbing and some ship-laden injuries, I was an official member of the crew; the harpoon master’s right hand. If not set for sea, I apprenticed by his side, learning to craft different variations of spears and mechanics. Larger rigs had contraptions the size of stagecoaches; massive cross-bow-like machines. Ours was small and mostly handheld. When on the job, I stood by his side at nearly every instant, ready with rope and knife, able to seize any moment. It was important to have multiple shots tied and ready, six at least. Melville’s pros are theatrical, whales do not harbor grudges, at least, to my own knowledge. However, the dingy holds no salvation against a ramming white. The terror is real. The instinct to dive away weighs heavier than all the steel on Earth, yet it’s crucial to stand your ground; there is no other way to make the shot. It was during these misadventures that I lost two fingers, one on each hand. Soon after my second finger sunk into the ocean, I decided to find different work. I had drudged some long years in the whaling business and had accrued a decent sum that funded my pilgrimage home. Upon my return, I found that the city had changed since I was young. I was now one and thirty, and I intended on doing two things: starting a business and starting a family. Elisa and I had a baby girl and had taken residence downtown. I had wished for a boy, but when Abigail grew and began showing interest in my work, I took it as consolation. A few years since returning home, I used my profits to purchase my own dock and warehouse, not too far from where I had had my first job. Per her request, I took Abigail here often and put her to work. Many of my men found Abigail strange. It was unbecoming of a young woman to drudge her hands in oil, but it was her preference. I often spied some men making advances upon her. I took the liberty of firing those men. She had grown beautiful and capable, and she was under my protection, just as I was under hers. She helped me strike a deal with the city to sell our oil for city-wide street lamps, and various government-owned residences and office buildings. At the time, we were the smallest business and had a little reputation. But Abigail had made these flaws our advantage by convincing them our oil was as high a quality as our competitor, but at a lower price. Despite this lower price, the deal still brought us a profit and a good living. I lost many acquaintances during this bid, but Abigail had found love. Perhaps this is a partial reason for our success. She chose to leave my side in business and pursue political standing with her new husband, a state legislator. I was older then, still toiling away at my desk at the age of three and fifty. Elisa would ask me to retire, but I knew my hands would tremble if idle. So, I demoted myself. I stepped down as chief, leaving my business in the hands of younger men, and accepted a more leisurely position among the even younger lamplighters. They were scrappy like newspaper boys, but decent nonetheless. I hardly fit in. In the winter I’d have lunch with Elisa then head to work. I’d pick up my pail and ladle, my match and soot pouch, and my folding stool, and walk. That’s all it is. Walking. Walking, dolloping, and lighting. In all my years I had hardly the time to see the world for what it had become, but as a lamplighter, I could. The stone on the streets had turned straighter and shinier. The very lamps I lit had gotten more abundant. People’s clothes had gotten leaner, suits brighter, and dresses shorter. I, myself, hadn’t noticed such changes and realized that all my clothes at home were undoubtedly a decade out of date, at least. Regardless, my uniform for lamp lighting had no business being fashionable. It had all the business of being black and slimy, and so did my hands. I kept my position until I was forced to leave. Elisa was pleased that I kept busy, but grew ever anxious as I got older. This was reason enough to settle, but as fate would have it, I was also laid off. A man named Edison had developed a lamp fueled by ‘electricity.’ I’m told it’s the power of lightning in the palm of your hand, able to produce light that shines brighter, and lasts longer, than the oil I had furiously harvested my entire life. The discovery left me melancholy. I was amazed by this new device, yet saddened by my place in it all. The men I had served, the men who had served me, even the lamplighters I had served with, were now relics. Everything’s changing, and I hope it’s for the better. I know it is, for Elisa and me.