...every time I would blue, the shop was never quieter than when I would reach up and turn off that last fan with a hammer (cause I couldnt reach over Doug's bench for fear of impaling myself on a something sharp), and this humid *hush* like a hot wet blanket would roll over the place. The tanks and burners would make the occasional tink as they cooled down. I'd take a step outside and it was now cool and dark, with the stars just becoming visible in the east. I'd take off my apron and hang it on my vise, wash my hands with Comet ('cause I was filthy) and hit the door.
I can still smell that long-gone place. Cigars, bullet lube, BreakFree, Bondo, Beer, and the garbage that someone didnt empty.