CHRISTINA RAMAZZOTTO Workmen

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

met one, you would find yourself meeting one of those rare types of people. The type that is just as ugly on the inside as they are on the outside. If Mr. Shire had known that day where he too would wind up, he would have walked right out those doors and continued to starve on the snowy streets. He would have been happy to. But losing your soul was not in the job description. Besides, it happened so gradually that most of the workmen just attributed it to the wear of life. Very few caught on, and by the time they did, they didn’t care enough to tell anyone. So everyday Mr. Shire came in, his distaste for the job fading little by little. For the first few weeks, he signed people in. Upon proving he could do that well enough, he was set to work behind the medication counters. Here he supplied sedatives and aspirin to his colleagues. Eager to escape meniality, Mr. Shire was actually excited for his next promotion, machinery specialist. This is where he got to learn a few trade secrets. He had always assumed that it happened quickly, that they didn’t feel a thing, but that sadly wasn’t the truth, even though it easily could be. The deaths were slow and painful for no other reason that if they weren’t, it would be boring. It was so much more fun to press each key, to program each movement of the equipment and watch as those deemed out-of-date screamed and writhed on the cold metal table. Mr. Shire came to work each day, enjoyed the feel of money in his pocket, and tried to drown the memories each night. Eventually, the truth no longer sickened him and he realized why the escorts had stayed until they couldn’t leave, until he became one himself. There his mind could slip away as he worked. In that job, there was nothing left to do but think; think of all the wide eyes and hollow screams until he himself was declared obsolete.