There are white collars like Tony. Older guys whose work has started to catch up with them. It’s happened right in front of my eyes. You can’t see it at first because it’s deep inside. Then one day you notice a grey moustache hair or a widow’s peak receding. A step that’s lost its spring. Before you know it, sick leave. Ulcers and migraine headaches. I’ve never worked an office job, but I’ve seen people come and go.
And then there are white collars like that young instructor. And like Adam, the guy who’d been hired on as the new secretary. Adam’s face was clean and pale and his hair always combed to the side. Poking out the sleeves of his button-down, his hands were white and chalky as latex gloves. He reminded me of a fawn being exposed to the ugliness of the world for the first time. So cute you want to kiss or snap its neck.
It was on the bench outside the warehouse I first talked to Adam. Right after the training video. I’d just tapped a cigarette on the pack a few times and brought it to my lips.
“I always see people do that,” he said, sitting beside me.
“Do what?” I said.
“Tap their cigarettes. I’ve never known why.”
“Me neither.”
We sat there for a minute, looking out at the field. It wasn’t winter yet but most of the weedy grasses had already died back. It was only in late spring and summer they looked almost alive. A couple months later the field would be hard with ice, and the garden plants on the warehouse-side of the chain-link fence flattened out and yellow.
“Do you have an extra one of those?” Adam pointed to the pack of cigarettes lying on the bench between us.
“Go ahead.”
He took one out of the pack and put it to his lips. “Do you mind? It’s the wind,” he said. He shielded the cigarette with his hands while I flicked the lighter.
“Thanks. I’m Adam, by the way.”
“Tom.” We reached out to shake hands. Me with my fat parsnip fingers and him with his hairless, pencil-thin ones. By his grip, you knew he was a typist or a secretary, and couldn’t have handled a day or even an hour downstairs. Steam and boiling water and splintered backs and anger. Packed together like wet clay and chucked into the corner of the warehouse. The Pit, it’s called.
“How long have you worked here, Tom?”
“Long enough, anyways.”
“I should’ve been looking at your test, then,” he said, laughing smoke out his mouth.
“That may not have helped.”
“So where do you put the butts?” He held out the half-smoked cigarette.
“Just anywhere.”
He dropped it on the ground, twisted it out with his foot.
“Thanks for the smoke,” he said, then got up and brushed off the front of his pants.
—
I’d come out of the bathroom wearing my new uniform. Navy blue work pants and a white T-shirt. “They’re a little tight,” I said to Tony.
“You’ll grow into them in no time. It’s like a sauna down here,” he said. “In a good way.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Great,” Tony said, clapping his hands together. “Charlie here will show you everything.”
There were three dryers side by side. Each as big as an upright minivan. At a right angle to the row of dryers were three washers. The machines formed an L, and gave a sense of enclosure. At the near side of the dryers was an open space with a large table. This is where Charlie Simms took me. Wheeling a cart of hot, tangled mats behind.
“Watch closely” were the first words that left his mouth. While Tony had talked, Simms just stood there, eyeballing. Trying to think of one good reason not to go batshit crazy and scare me away.
Simms bent his knees and clasped one of those rubber mats. He jerked his legs straight while tugging with his arms. He tugged again and again. Like a shock absorber having a seizure. When he finally yanked out the mat, like a tooth, he slopped it on the table. “If it’s not working,” he said, “get angry. Anger’s your friend here.”
“What am I doing exactly?” I asked.
“What I just did there,” he said. “And when the mats pile up on the table, fold ’em and put ’em away. Now get to work.”
Partway to the washing station, he looked over his shoulder. He saw the dumb look on my face and came right back to where I was standing. “What the fuck did I say? Start ripping those things apart or you’re finished. You hear me?”
With most jobs, there’s that awkward first moment—even if it’s only a minute or two—where you get your instructions, where you look at one of the old-timers and try to follow what they’re doing. But at a warehouse, there was no real first moment, no moment that lay somewhere between working and not working.
—
The door was opened. And as it closed, I heard the bristles along the bottom sweep across the concrete. Then the scuff of dress shoes as Adam came to the bench. He bent over beside me and put down an empty can of tomato sauce.
“For the butts,” he said, sitting down. “Do you mind if I have a cigarette?” he said, slipping a few quarters out of his pocket.
“It’s all right,” I said. “Go ahead.”
“Are you the only one who smokes around here?”
“No, a couple of the other guys do.”
“And where are they?”
“I guess if we all took break at the same time, we’d fall behind.”
“So what’s it like working downstairs?”
“Well. We clean the mats and then we dry and fold the mats. That’s all there is to it. And before that, we unload them from the cube vans.”
“It must keep you in shape, at least. Maybe not like pushing pens all day, though,” he said, laughing while pretending to flex his biceps muscle.
A noise left the back of my throat, halfway between a huh and a laugh. “Probably nothing like that,” I said.
—
A guy came into the lunch room an hour into his first shift. “I messed my back up some good,” he said to me. He was hunched over and reaching around, squeezing his lower back with his hands.
“Then take a seat,” I said. “Drink some water.”
Simms stormed into the room and put his nose in the new guy’s face like he was acting out some sort of mating ritual. “Get the fuck back out there,” Simms said.
“I think I threw my back out, boss.”
“I don’t care what you did. We’re falling behind. I’m gonna see you in the Pit in thirty seconds,” Simms said, then left. I’ll tell you now that Simms doesn’t discriminate. What I mean is that nobody’s off the hook. It’s fuck this and faggot that with everyone. His own mother could snap her arm in half and Simms wouldn’t feel bad.
“I don’t know about this, pal,” the new guy said to me. “I’ve done my share of construction over the years, but nothing like this. No, not like this.”
“You have about fifteen seconds to decide,” I said, pointing at the wall clock.
Just as the new guy’s lips touched the arc of water spurting out the fountain, Simms came in. “What the fuck did I tell you?”
“It’s my back, boss,” the new guy said.
“Stop being such a pussy and get out there.”
“I think I’m finished.”
“When are you off break? Five minutes?” Simms said to me.
“I looked at the clock. “Seven.”
“Fuck.”
Simms walked out the lunch room and the new guy out the front door. I once saw a guy quit after ten minutes. “Tell your boss ‘thanks but no thanks.’ This work isn’t for me,” he said. Walking off. Something I should’ve done by now. Before getting on at the warehouse, I’d jumped around for a couple years. Dishwashing, food prep, mopping floors. It was easier to leave those jobs. Sure, I was younger. But I also hadn’t had a ten-year habit in my system.
—
“Mind if I have a drag?” Adam said.
“You can just take one,” I said and grabbed the cigarettes from the bench.
&n
bsp; “I never smoke a whole one, anyways.”
“I guess not.” I blew smoke out the side of my mouth and passed him the cigarette.
He brought it to his lips and inhaled. He took another drag, then passed it back, a smear of saliva across the filter. “Sorry about that,” he said.
“I don’t mind.” I brought the cigarette to my mouth, and my lips covered the smudge. It tasted sweet. Like honey or jasmine. Kissing him flashed through my head. Then jamming my dick down his throat. Those lips. Soft as applesauce. That’s what happens when you go so long without touching someone—things pop into your head from nowhere.
I blew the smoke out my mouth, then took one last drag before dropping it in the tomato can beside the bench. It was just a blotch of glue keeping the label attached.
I lit another cigarette and gave it to Adam. After he inhaled the smoke, he rested his arm on his knee, the cigarette dangling between his limp fingers.
“How’s it going downstairs?” he asked, giving me the cigarette.
“We had a new guy in there this afternoon.”
“How’s he doing?”
“I don’t think he’s coming back.”
“No?”
“He couldn’t relax, is all. The thing is, no matter what you do, the mats keep piling up.”
“So what happened?”
“The usual story. It was his back. And Simms.”
“Simms,” he repeated, as if turning the world over in his head.
“I guess there’s nothing you can do, though.” I took a long drag and looked across the frozen field. I took another, passed Adam the cigarette. “And how’s it going upstairs, then?”
“The same as downstairs, probably, except that it’s paper, and there was no new guy,” he said, laughing.
We sat there for a minute. I looked out at the icy field and Adam stared at the ground between his feet.
“So what’s the deal with Charlie?” he said.
“You mean Simms? He’s a piece of shit is what’s the deal with him.”
“’Cause he calls me gay whenever he sees me. Nearly every day for the past two months.”
“You mean he calls you faggot?”
“Right.”
“And are you?”
“Of course not.”
“Then I wouldn’t go around feeling special about it. He’s called me faggot for ten years, along with everyone else. If it’s not that, it’s fuck face or shit hole or pussy.”
“Isn’t there something we can do?”
“Not really,” I said. “I’d tell you he’s still around because he’s loyal. And because he’s a good worker. But that would be horseshit. Between you and me, I think Tony’s scared of him.”
“Really?”
“Maybe. I don’t see what else it could be.”
“Jesus,” he said. “And it’s just the two of you every night?”
“For the last couple hours.”
“How do you do it?”
“I ignore him. And that’s what you should do.”
“Still. Be careful, Tom.”
“I’d worry about yourself.”
—
Barney’s teeth are bucked and crooked, and his mouth’s always half open. Like he’s on the verge of talking. And his face sags like he’s got weights hooked into the cheeks. His shoulders are sloped and he’s a little bent over. As if he’s constantly about to grab something off the ground. He goes fast but doesn’t run. Or even walk. He shuffles with varying degrees of speed. Loading one dryer, unloading the next. Rolling carts of spun-up mats to the folding table.
By the time I start shift, he’s been running the dryers for an hour. And there’s a line of carts waiting for me. We’ve worked together a few years, but I couldn’t tell you much about him. If we’re lucky, I have time to say, “Hey, Barney,” and he says, “Hey, bud,” and the afternoon starts off on the right foot. Otherwise, Simms tells us we’re not paid to fucking socialize before Barney can get a word in. So I grab one of the knots of hot rubber and tug, feel the blood rush into my crapped-out back. And Barney slouches over to the machines, ready for eight or nine or ten more hours of steam and vinegar and bleach. Screaming into his eyes and palms and gums like a shattered windshield.
Sometimes I’m on a roll. Yanking mats out of the rubber snarl, flopping them onto the folding table. Like I have a gift. But sooner or later, Barney brings a lump of mats that ruins my rhythm. Even if the mind’s still game, the body won’t cooperate. It’s irrational, but in these moments I resent Barney. He seems like a decent guy, but I want to shove his face into a vat of antifreeze.
On top of the three regulars—Barney, me, and Simms—and the guys driving and unpacking the vans, there’s a drifter. A guy who works wherever he’s needed. Untangling, folding, shelving. He might last a day or a week. Or half an hour. For that, he can thank the muscles and joints in his back. Shutting down before toughening up. He can also thank his hands. Covered in blisters and boils, some of them bloody. And it’s not just the heat and friction. It’s the rubber studs on the mat bottoms. A thousand thumbtacks chewing across twisting palms.
This guy—the drifter—rarely straightens out a cart in under ten minutes. But someone whose hands have been burnt numb, who’s okay with gripping a tar-hot mat and wrenching, not letting go till it’s free—someone like me—can tackle a load in six or seven minutes. Once or twice—and only once or twice—I may’ve gone down to five minutes. If I ever did four minutes, Simms would cry to management. “We gotta knock thirty seconds off the dryers,” he’d say. “To keep him on his toes.” That’s because a dry cycle’s twelve minutes, and there are three dryers. Which means every four minutes, Barney wheels over a cart.
My back and hands may be hardened, but I’ve never gotten used to the bells. A buzzer means something’s ready, but a bell means something needs to be done. A dryer bell clangs every four minutes, which is fifteen bells an hour. In a twelve-hour shift, 180 emergencies. And double that with the washing machines. No matter how far ahead you are, you’re always on edge. Like trying to sleep under a smoke alarm with a low battery.
Bells take the place of familiar things—sun, moon, flower bud, nut sack, nipple. Naked men are in line. Marching beside a staggered row. Pyramid cedars and drying machines. One of the men is Adam. A bow tied around the base of his erection, his balls jingling. He tries to say something, but he’s got a dinner bell for a face. So a metallic screech comes out. A bolt shot into my eardrum. Waking up wet. I sit, make for the lump of tangled rubber beside the folding table. But I stop and go back to bed. The people in those banks and office buildings don’t know about this. Or that I even exist. A mat’s taken away, another’s slopped down. If my body hadn’t been cut out for the warehouse—if I were a drifter—maybe I’d have gone to college. And become a filer. Hiding behind staples and pencils and stacks of paper by day. Cold sweating over them by night.
—
Adam was already sitting on the bench, which meant something wasn’t right. He was looking at the field, all its grasses soggy from the spring rain.
I sat down, then lit a cigarette and passed it over.
“I’ll see if I can’t quit once and for all,” he said. “A fresh start.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Today’s my last day,” he said. “I wanted to tell you sooner but couldn’t. I don’t know why.”
I took a drag, then dropped the cigarette in the can. The label that said tomato sauce was gone. The wind and rain had been sneaking under, peeling the strip of paper from the steel. I don’t know how many times I’ve walked over to the green garbage container and dumped a full can of butts. I never get them all out, though. Some always cling to the bottom. Wet and brown and permanent.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you leave a cigarette unfinished,” Adam said.
I’ve spent my warehouse years losing touch with everyone I know. At first, I’d still go out on weekends. I was proud of my thick arms and think fingers. Stained with sw
eat and solvent. Dark as tobacco juice. I’d even bring the odd guy back to my apartment. Put my seven inches to good use. But I changed with time. And could never sleep enough. Then Adam came along.
“It’s funny,” I said. “How you get used to it. A job, looking out at a field, sharing a cigarette on a bench.”
“Have you ever thought about leaving?” he said.
“I’ve thought about a lot of things.”
“No. Seriously.”
I squinted at the clump of maples at the far end of the field. Short and fat. Like candy apples stuck in mud. “Did Simms have something to do with this?” I said.
“With me leaving?” he said. “I wouldn’t say that, but just thinking of him gives me the creeps. I had a dream a while back. I’m working upstairs as usual. Everything looks fine, except I’m alone. I hear someone walking up the stairs. Turns out it’s Simms. He stands there, pointing a gun at me. Just as he’s about to pull the trigger, I wake up. And I never even worked with him.”
“So it’s because of Simms?”
“I never liked it here. The money, the hours, the work. None of it. Except you.”
“Let me talk to him.”
“There’s no use. You said so yourself. Besides, even if he had something to do with this, it’s too late.”
“I guess you got a job lined up, then?”
“Yeah,” he said. “It pays well.”
“Maybe I can go work with you.”
“A couple clerks riding off into the sunset together,” he laughed.
“That would be the day, wouldn’t it?”
“Let’s go for a drink sometime, though. Here’s my number,” he said, handing me a piece of paper. “I should get going, but call me.” He put his hands on his thighs, then sat up from the bench. He patted my back and headed for the door.
—
I went with Adam the other day. This bar on the other side of the city. “I came here in university,” he told me. Oak tables and oak chairs and oak countertop. Glazed and cloudy. Mozzarella sticks and fries and nacho cheese bubbling behind swinging doors. The place was divey enough that Adam could squeeze the inside of my leg under the table, slide his hand up the denim. But not so divey that he couldn’t have his red wine.
He had his little boy’s haircut and his collared shirt. But he drank, all right. Until we stood and walked past the table of college kids. Past the neighbourhood men slouched over the counter. So shrivelled they’d be wasted—although you wouldn’t know—off a single pint. Paid the tab and fell into my car. Drove to my place. “Because I have roommates,” he said. His hand on the back of my neck, the other down the front of my pants. My hands on the steering wheel. Raining outside. The red and green and yellow lights like slits. Then fumbling for the apartment key and teasing it into the key hole. Kitchen with a toaster oven, microwave, and a buzzing fridge. Dishes teetering in the sink. A mattress, and a television on a stand. Grey carpet. Musty like maggots on compost. And we’re both naked, lying in bed. He’s how I imagined. Chest flat as plywood. Just enough ass to grab on to. Nipples the size of fly bites. “It’s been a while,” I say. But no words behind his wine-pink teeth. Just his lips on my neck. Wet bodies slow. And then fast. Like mats being slapped together.
The Journey Prize Stories 29 Page 4
