WORKMEN By Christina Ramazzato
The men worked well, in a timely manner. Each labored enough for double their pay, but stayed content with what they were given. All for the sake of maintaining a delusional comfort. They assumed that if heads were kept bent over each broken cry, and every job was buried under booze, a strange type of innocence could be preserved. That was their attempt at keeping sane. They told themselves it was only a few more years, and then they’d have enough money to move on. As long as they didn’t act unsure around the boss, who would often pay a visit. He didn’t speak, he watched. The only noise in the hall would come from his shoes clicking on the yellowed tile and music that echoed from the rusted speakers, music that was more static than melody. Mr. Frederick Shire had just started that day. The first steps through those doors made his stomach turn like every man before him. After all, nobody grows up wanting to do this. But beggars can’t be choosers. And in that economy, everyone was a beggar. The inspection had come as a surprise, and since nobody wanted to waste their time with a trainee in front of the boss, he was left with a simple position. Sign-in clerk: he was promised it would only be temporary. As the work bell tolled, the obsolete began to file in. They each leaned on their personal escorts, whose white uniforms were still clean and stiff. By closing time, they would be stained with tears from those who had given up and Midazolam from those who hadn’t. The escorts themselves matched in more ways than the uniform. Each had worked behind counters and machines for years before ending up here. It showed clearly in each wrinkle, in each silver hair and hunched pair of shoulders. Their skin was grey and dull, scarred by the clawing of desperate hands and roughened by the daily disinfections. And if you
