silly spell passes, the tears dry, I
let out an angry breath. This is not the way to be, not at a time like this. I
wonder if it's possible to discern the same anger behind her sorry smile.
Thursday; still
only Thursday. Out of my mind with tiredness. The cabinets under the mail
counter – let me crawl in there and sleep, get away from this deep, burning
weariness. This is the hardest work I’ve ever had to do. It just never lets up.
It’s like being in school. You have to always be doing something. Even worse than
that, you always have to look like you’re doing something, which is not the
same thing at all.
Even now, with
Candy away at some meeting, and Al is out of a printer-related jaunt, the toils
has to go on, because that mail run schedule has to be met, and the deliveries
are just piling up in the bins behind us. But this is as good as it gets in the
mailroom.
Len’s tongue is
loosened: ‘Never use the names computer as an excuse to have a sit-down. Half
the fellas who’ve started here were sacked because of that computer. She sees
you in that chair for more than a minute, she’ll mark your card.’
Breaks:
enshrined in labour law, and untakeable.
‘Forget rights.
Forget everything except your pay packet.’
When there’s no
post left to be processed, then you can have a break. That’s what they tell me.
But when is there no more post? Never. There’s always piles of it coming from
somewhere. Jesus, the lovely dark cabinet – just enough room to slide in there,
into the dark. Close the door and close my eyes. It would be so great.
You can’t skive
off on your mail run either. Disappear into a toilet cubicle, your cart’ll be
standing outside, someone will spot it, get annoyed, and Candy will get a call.
You try rushing the first half of your run so that you can take it easy on the
second half, some suit will notice his maildrop is off schedule, he’ll get
annoyed, and Candy will get a call.
Only real trick
– a sorry one – is to deliberately mis-sort a pile of post. Just shove them
into pigeon-holes at random. Won’t save you from standing, won’t relieve the
boredom, but it will let you rest the way the dolphins do - sleep first in one
half of the brain, then in the other. Of course, you have to work extra later
to sort out the mess you’ve made, so you’ll always come out a loser in the end.
The house always wins.
Len is really
having a rush of blood to the head here, in this window of opportunity.
Palliness is oozing out of his pores: ‘Fellas used to last twelve weeks in here
before they got sick of it and took off. But when things got really bad out
there, the fighting and that, it was me, Al and the fella Richard whose shirt
you’re wearing. He’s dead now.’
‘Yeah. Al told
me.’
‘Did he tell you
how he died?’
‘No.’
Len’s face
lights up. ‘Killed in his car on the Ballymount bridge when the Unity IRA blew
it up. Well, he made it to Tallaght Hospital. Died there.’
I squirmed in
the shirt.
‘Listen, George,
this is a good thing we’re onto here. Been a lot of fellas through here since
Richie died, but none of ‘em has ever made the grade.’
What exactly is
The Grade, and what’s so hard about making it? Got to figure this out.
‘How long do
they normally last?’
He squinted his
eyes, craned towards me. ‘The real headbangers, a few hours. The better ones –
three days, maybe three weeks. Varies.’
‘How do you
think I’m doing so far?’
‘Ask Candy.’ His
friendliness did not extend to a word of encouragement.
I’m a bit afraid
of Candy. That friendly face – just a mask. She’ll drop me in the blink of an
eye, if it comes to it. Funny thing is that these two old hands here do not
exactly strike me as being top performers. Al looks and sounds like a skiver,
and I bet he’s not doing his job properly. I just don’t know how yet, or how he
manages to cover it up. Len… I’d say he’s conscientious enough, but probably
not
let out an angry breath. This is not the way to be, not at a time like this. I
wonder if it's possible to discern the same anger behind her sorry smile.
Thursday; still
only Thursday. Out of my mind with tiredness. The cabinets under the mail
counter – let me crawl in there and sleep, get away from this deep, burning
weariness. This is the hardest work I’ve ever had to do. It just never lets up.
It’s like being in school. You have to always be doing something. Even worse than
that, you always have to look like you’re doing something, which is not the
same thing at all.
Even now, with
Candy away at some meeting, and Al is out of a printer-related jaunt, the toils
has to go on, because that mail run schedule has to be met, and the deliveries
are just piling up in the bins behind us. But this is as good as it gets in the
mailroom.
Len’s tongue is
loosened: ‘Never use the names computer as an excuse to have a sit-down. Half
the fellas who’ve started here were sacked because of that computer. She sees
you in that chair for more than a minute, she’ll mark your card.’
Breaks:
enshrined in labour law, and untakeable.
‘Forget rights.
Forget everything except your pay packet.’
When there’s no
post left to be processed, then you can have a break. That’s what they tell me.
But when is there no more post? Never. There’s always piles of it coming from
somewhere. Jesus, the lovely dark cabinet – just enough room to slide in there,
into the dark. Close the door and close my eyes. It would be so great.
You can’t skive
off on your mail run either. Disappear into a toilet cubicle, your cart’ll be
standing outside, someone will spot it, get annoyed, and Candy will get a call.
You try rushing the first half of your run so that you can take it easy on the
second half, some suit will notice his maildrop is off schedule, he’ll get
annoyed, and Candy will get a call.
Only real trick
– a sorry one – is to deliberately mis-sort a pile of post. Just shove them
into pigeon-holes at random. Won’t save you from standing, won’t relieve the
boredom, but it will let you rest the way the dolphins do - sleep first in one
half of the brain, then in the other. Of course, you have to work extra later
to sort out the mess you’ve made, so you’ll always come out a loser in the end.
The house always wins.
Len is really
having a rush of blood to the head here, in this window of opportunity.
Palliness is oozing out of his pores: ‘Fellas used to last twelve weeks in here
before they got sick of it and took off. But when things got really bad out
there, the fighting and that, it was me, Al and the fella Richard whose shirt
you’re wearing. He’s dead now.’
‘Yeah. Al told
me.’
‘Did he tell you
how he died?’
‘No.’
Len’s face
lights up. ‘Killed in his car on the Ballymount bridge when the Unity IRA blew
it up. Well, he made it to Tallaght Hospital. Died there.’
I squirmed in
the shirt.
‘Listen, George,
this is a good thing we’re onto here. Been a lot of fellas through here since
Richie died, but none of ‘em has ever made the grade.’
What exactly is
The Grade, and what’s so hard about making it? Got to figure this out.
‘How long do
they normally last?’
He squinted his
eyes, craned towards me. ‘The real headbangers, a few hours. The better ones –
three days, maybe three weeks. Varies.’
‘How do you
think I’m doing so far?’
‘Ask Candy.’ His
friendliness did not extend to a word of encouragement.
I’m a bit afraid
of Candy. That friendly face – just a mask. She’ll drop me in the blink of an
eye, if it comes to it. Funny thing is that these two old hands here do not
exactly strike me as being top performers. Al looks and sounds like a skiver,
and I bet he’s not doing his job properly. I just don’t know how yet, or how he
manages to cover it up. Len… I’d say he’s conscientious enough, but probably
not
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