Chalking the Turnbuckle

I set my glass bottle down onto a flat wooden pallet to keep it steady. Right by the stair riser, someone had dropped a heavy cast-iron barbell spring collar, coiled thick and stiff with industrial rust. Perfect tension. I gripped the dual squeeze handles with both hands, throwing my full weight in until the metal wings pinched together with a sharp screech, then clamped it tight onto a low steel handrail strut. It snapped shut like a bear trap. I pulled out my yellow chalk nub and struck three heavy, defiant cross-hatch marks right across the dark iron. Every contender who mounts those steps now knows whose ring begins at the bottom.