No, I didn’t have any problems with that. I was a good electrician. They always assigned me to the toughest jobs. When it came to hooking up new machinery or equipment, it was always me. There wasn’t a problem I couldn’t fix. I got complimented the whole time, they gave me all kinds of certificates. I never missed a bonus. Or even when something needed mending in the apartment of one of the directors, they’d always bring me in, at the request of the director or his wife. Anyone could have done it, it was only the iron or the hot plate, or just a light bulb that had burned out, but I was the one they asked for.
Did you change jobs often? Never? How is that possible? You liked it so much in one place? What job did you have, if you don’t mind my asking? Did you not want to get ahead? That I don’t understand. Everyone wants to move forward, if only to the next level. For most people that’s the goal in life. So it was all the same to you? I don’t get it. What kind of institution or firm was it? You’re not at liberty to say? I understand. I’m sorry for having asked.
For me, it was never better somewhere else. Not in that sense, because the pay got better and better. Maybe I was driven a bit by the thought that where I was going things would at least be different. But everywhere it was the same. There was drinking just like at the previous site. In the end I turned to drink completely. It was only on the site where I played in the band, and I met that warehouse guy, that I worked till the construction was finished. Though it dragged on forever.
On one site, which one was it again? Actually, it makes no difference. Anyway, there was this one guy that worked there, well, you couldn’t really call it work, he kept the overtime records. We didn’t know the first thing about him. He didn’t even make you curious about who he was. Because what kind of job is that, keeping overtime records. He rarely drank vodka, except when we invited him when it turned out he’d done a good job of recording our overtime.
Then one day two civilians and one military guy showed up in a car and asked him if he was him. He was. They twisted his arms behind his back and handcuffed him. Then they manhandled him into the car and sped off. He never came back. And we never found out who he was. He kept the overtime records, that was all.
True, we might have wondered, he always went around nicely dressed, coat and tie, pants with a crease in them, always freshly shaven and smelling of cologne. When he greeted women, whether it was the cleaning lady or the head accountant, he’d always kiss their hand. And he always referred to women as the fair sex. The fair sex, gentlemen. With the fair sex. He never got on first name terms with anyone. Maybe if he’d drunk more often with us. But we only invited him because we wanted to thank him for the overtime. Though he knew how to behave. He was our guest, but still he’d always bring a bottle at least.
Oh, I just remembered one other detail. He’d never take a piece of sausage or pickled cucumber from the tray with his fingers, like all of us would do. He’d always use a fork. He’d bring one whenever we invited him over, it would be wrapped in a napkin. If you don’t mind, gentlemen, I’ll use a fork, that’s just my way. And he never ate the sausage with the skin on, he’d always peel it. I sometimes think to myself, maybe if it hadn’t been for that fork. Maybe if he would’ve just used his fingers, like the rest of us, and not peeled the sausage. Sometimes there’ll be a little thing, but it leaves marks like a trail in the snow.
And then there was the warehouse man. I think I mentioned that we were building a glassworks. In the middle of the countryside. The grain was almost ripe, but they weren’t letting people mow it. We even volunteered to help with the mowing, it was a pity to see so much grain go to waste, how much bread would be lost, when there were often shortages of bread. But it was no, because the plan was behind schedule. Construction was supposed to have started the previous year, then it was supposed to have begun in the spring. They were always urging us to get a move on, faster and faster, high days and holidays, extra hours, overtime, working all hours of the night. The cities were waiting for windowpanes, the villages were waiting, factories, schools, hospitals, government offices, as if everything was to be built out of glass. While here they still hadn’t delivered this thing or supplied that, something was wanting and the work kept getting held up.
So anyway, on that site there was a clerk in the warehouse. He didn’t look like a warehouse keeper, let me tell you. If you’d seen him, you wouldn’t believe that’s what he did. He stooped, he had trouble turning his head on his neck. When he walked it was more like he was shuffling his feet than taking steps. People said it was from the war, from being interrogated. Though apparently he never gave anyone up, never admitted to anything. I don’t know if that was true or not. I never asked him about it, and he didn’t say anything either. In those times people didn’t like to reveal things. Also, his left arm was partially paralyzed, in rainy weather he’d often rub it. He never explained that either, though that particular thing looked like rheumatism. When someone asked him, he’d say it was nothing. His right arm wasn’t all that good either. When he wrote you a chit, he’d press his indelible pencil down with all the strength in his arm to stop it from shaking. The pencil itself was no more than a stub, you could barely see it between his fingers.
He’d always cut a new pencil into four, and use little short ones all the time. Not out of thriftiness. If you have a whole pencil sticking out of your hand, however hard you press down it’s still going to give you away. You could see the shakiness on the chit, even if all he’d written was something like, Screw: one count.
Oh, and also he couldn’t really see out of one eye. To cover it up he’d look at you with the eye that didn’t see properly, and half-close his good eye. Or he’d take turns, first one eye then the other, which hid it even more. And he was a grumbler, he complained all the time. When you went to the warehouse for some item you’d get a virtual inquisition, why do you need it, what’s it for, where’s it for, before he’d scribble the chit and give you the thing. And all the time he’d be going on and on about how we damaged everything he gave us, you could have built a whole other glassworks with the materials we’d spoiled, plus we were probably pinching stuff. He knew, he knew full well. Maybe not you, kid. But they all steal. They reckon that what they’re stealing isn’t theirs.
On the other hand, there wasn’t the slightest thing wrong with his hearing, let me tell you. Maybe it was because of his hearing that they made him a warehouse keeper. You’d be standing in front of him while he filled out the chit and he’d ask without looking up:
“Why are you creaking like that?”
“What do you mean, creaking? I’m just standing here.”
“You’re creaking, I can hear it.”
Or:
“You have asthma or something?” The guy would be healthy as you like. “Keep drinking and smoking and you’ll run out of breath before you die.”
Or whenever he gave out a part, he’d always have to hold it to his ear. If it was something heavy, he’d bend over it. And he’d say, It’s good, or, I’ll give you another one.
You know, hearing means a lot in a warehouse, maybe even more than sight. The warehouse took up an entire hut, he’d have had to always be walking around and checking up. As it was, he just sat at his desk and he could hear the whole place from one end to the other. He would have heard a mouse, let alone someone trying to remove a window pane at the other end of the warehouse.