The Iron Washer

A flat, corroded square iron washer lay trapped under blown soot beneath the bottom maintenance step. Its center bore was encrusted with rust, dead and motionless. I knelt into the cedar dust, planting both boots firmly against the weathered deck. Clamping two spiked fingers around the heavy iron plate, I pried it from the grain. Then, aligning its square edge flush against the outer stanchion seam, I drove the metal into the joint with a single downward strike of my gauntlet. It bit deep into the gap. No rattle. No displacement. The catwalk edge is reinforced.