Louisville Magazine is Louisville's city magazine, covering Louisville people, lifestyles, politics, sports, restaurants, entertainment and homes. Includes a monthly calendar of events.
Issue link: http://loumag.epubxp.com/i/718671
100 LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 8.16 kentuckytotheworld.org e printing instructor would yell at him when he got his fingers too close to the machines. He was mean about it too, but that's the way you have to be when you're teaching someone to run a printing press. "It takes 18 years to be a printer," Duncan yells over the roar of the folding machine. He sidesteps between teetering, head-high towers of paper and feeds pages into one side of the machine. An intimi- dating series of rollers and winding gears sucks them in, spits them into a corner and shoots them forward onto a little belt, each neatly folded three times. Duncan's been working in Wayside's basement print shop for a decade now, the craft quick in his always ink-stained hands. Duncan has lived and worked at Wayside since he came here for the recovery program in 2002. Suddenly the man so accustomed to solitude lived a life of no privacy. "I guess I liked being alone, but it's not good for you," he tells me. e shelter houses 335 to 450 people every night. e concrete floors throughout much of the facility amplify footsteps to clod-hops; no one moves in secret here. ey live together, heal together, work together, eat together in the cafeteria. At Wayside, Duncan barely had time to think about drinking. erapy and work, therapy and work, and don't ever reach in after a snagged paper, William, it's not worth your fingers. Ten years swept by across the printing press rollers: letters, memorials, newsletters topped with crimson ink. Now Duncan runs the print shop himself. Now he knows everyone's name. He talks golf with buddies in the halls, goes out for a game whenever he can. At some point recovering tipped toward recovered, though no one speaks of alcoholism in the past tense. "I went through the recovery program." at's how Duncan puts it. And now he's down here in the print shop from about 8 in the morning to about 4 in the afternoon every weekday, printing and folding with contraptions easily mistaken for 14th-century torture devices. "I'd like to work in a real print shop," he says. "As far as pay goes, there's nowhere to go here." A copy crinkles into the machine and a noise like a jackhammer on blacktop assaults our eardrums. Duncan smacks a big red button and the whole operation stops. Quiet settles like a mist. is is the only silence I have heard at Wayside, the one place that sounds like solitude. Duncan fills an old box with exactly 1,000 folded copies. "I don't have to count them, but I do," he says. "ere's a lot of us here like that." He means a lot of people at Wayside have anxiety disorders like obsessive- compulsive disorder. He grabs one of the boxes, takes an old elevator up to a hallway, and steps out into the echoes to drop it off for enveloping. Fifteen different people ask him about Spike in 20 minutes. He's making it, he tells them. His rock is still there. "Spike is the reason I keep going," he tells me. He can never go back to the bottle and the bridge. e tortoise needs him, now more than ever. Nina Moseley bought Spike from a pet store when he was a tiny little reptile with no unbroken Continued from page 47