Bruce walks into the cafe and commands attention; towering at 6 foot 2 inches, others notice he is there. He orders a caramel frappuccino and takes a seat in a posh chair that looks too small for his body. His hands are rough, nails are dirty, and many of his knuckles look dry and cracked; it is obvious Bruce works with his hands. He has an unidentifiable odor; a combination of sweat, sunblock, grease, and something else that cannot be pinpointed; maybe it is energy. It is not a bad smell; it is an interesting, unfamiliar smell. His brown hair is a mess, as it has been hidden under a hat for most of the morning. His brown eyes have specks of black, and grease smears around them; they sparkle as if he knows something you do not. Heavy, blue, cargo pants and a khaki, button-up shirt drape his broad shoulders; the clothing looks hot and dense. "It's flame retardant, keeps me from igniting in flames if something goes wrong, " he mentions casually to the women asking him about his shirt. He walks out of the cafe', with his specialty coffee drink, knowing that today could be the day the flame retardant clothing is needed. Bruce will spend the next several hours lifting cables, cutting wires, making elbows, climbing up and down a ladder that leads to an underground hole--filled with toxic fumes, sludge several inches deep, and enough electricity to light up 12 city blocks--he is a lineman and keeps the power on. If he can survive the next few hours, he can survive anything.
Bruce Thompson is a third generation lineman. His father currently works for Southern California Edison, and has for many years. His grandfather worked for Pacific Electric and helped design the wig wag system used at many railroad crossings across America. Bruce has been around electricity his whole life; his education started early, and his teacher was his father. "It's what I know, inside and out, it is in my blood, " he says with a smile.
