Tuesday, May 25th
My
life this Tuesday morning was to take on a new experience. I had barely sanitized my dirty self when Butch Sue approached like a reversing truck.
“Could
I borrow you please?” Like a floundering Gnu calf I had been singled out from
the herd by the predatory lion(ess) and we advanced towards the mysterious
plastic strips. What horror was I about to greet? Was I being led into the
dungeon where light starved forgotten men lick blood that streamed down the
walls? Had Butch Sue been studying my lax performance and now deemed that I was
nothing better than to become a new product for Lee to tip onto the conveyor
belt? She burst through the strips and was gone. This was it. I was never going
to realise my dream of making it to machine manager....
Just
another bland room. Phew. Less machines and workers but still windowless. She
kept going. On and on to the far end. Workers I had never seen before stopped
momentarily to eye my orange status. They nudged each other and whispered. They
had seen the slaughter many times before. Butch Sue sucked through another set
of strips and I followed.
Beyond
was a loading bay of pallets and trolleys and men and clipboards. Far away on a
distant wall was a tiny window. Illusive daylight shone through. Should I make
a run for it, for freedom? Smash the glass and gasp at the fragile air. They’d
chase me but surely I’d make it to the fence. They’d pursue with knives and
carrier bags full of chicken heads, but I bet I could make it. I might slice my
arms as I’d clamber over the barbed wire but I’d make it, I’d be free....
None
of it. Butch Sue was waiting by the door to a side room adorning a sign that
said ‘Cutting Room’. So this was to be my end. Sliced open and butchered in the
dark. I hoped my final image as the knives tore through my flesh would be the
setting sun on the Perth coast. Should I fight or succumb? I’d find out soon
enough. She opened the door and I disappeared to my fate.
Three
men were inside and Butch Sue was bigger than all of them put together. She
went over to a pencil limbed lad sporting bushy eyebrows and a huge carving
knife. They consulted, he turned and approached. His chain mail apron slapped
against his gum boots as he strode forward. A sheen of poultry juice across his
chest caught the light. This is what it must have felt like to be a victim on
the battle fields of the ancient crusades, hewn to pieces by a chain mailed
Knight. Butch Sue stood and watched, of course she would, keen to see the bloodshed
and eager to see that the job was done.
“Alright,
shag? I’m Timmy. Timmo for short, Timothy for long. I’ll show you how to slice
a turkey.”
Damn
you Sue and your mind games.
Timmy
was everything a young man should be: confident, fearless and stinking like a
badger in a boiler suit. He gave me a chain mail glove and showed me round to a
stainless steel boxed machine.
“Stand
there, shag,” he said deciding my name was redundant. To the side of my
position was a table with a crate of turkey breasts on top. “The machine runs
all the time, but when you lifts the lid, it stops. Put a breast in and shut
the lid. That starts the machine and it slices the breast. When she comes out
the other end, repeat. I’m going for a crap, if you have any problems, see
Gar.” Gar was either of the two other men left in the room as Timmy vacated.
Neither looked over. The heave of machinery was louder than I was used to. The
noise rendered the ear plugs useless. Shania was nowhere to be heard.
It
was now or never, the moment of truth. I had gone from being the slaughtered to
the slaughterer. I opened the lid and placed a breast in. In one arm movement I
had sliced my first turkey breast and boy did it feel good. Real good.
Timmy
must have eaten an entire raw turkey because he was gone for an hour.
“Got
the hang of it?” he asked on his return. I opened the lid, placed a breast
inside and sliced it. “Ah, you’ll get there. Took me a week to master it.” I’ve
no doubt. “Why they call you Tom then?”
“Because
it’s my name.”
“I
see.” He stood there for an age looking at the wall, my boots, the edges of the
machine, his future, perhaps, and then he was gone again.
Two
more hours went by, slower than they ever had. Lee appeared every so often to
take my art down to where I had originally packed it. He greeted me with a nod
and left me with a touch of the peak of his hat, which over the two hours built
up a steady residue of turkey snot. He didn’t seem to mind. Each time he
appeared he came a little closer. And closer. Like a timid squirrel learning
that the outstretched arm was to be trusted. It must have been a new world of
hope that a person he had constant contact with wasn’t asking him questions and
then going on to call him a ‘fucking spastic’ when he tried to answer. I never
saw him voluntarily approach anyone to speak, he was always beckoned for
differing reasons. He knew his job and stuck to it and because there was no
change in his routine and those above spoke in demands, he never had to find
himself in a discussion. No one ever consulted him. But the boy wanted to
talk...
Breakfast
‘The
Tweenies’ theme music is allegedly played (on loop) to prisoners of war in
order to break them and gain secrets, though I think I had found a new weapon
in torture. After two hours of this I was ready to tell all. I was so comatose
that Timmy had to tell me it was break time. Perhaps when I returned I could
climb into the machine and end it all. Options, options.
For
all Graham’s utter bullshit about being liable for nature and his new fangled
stories about health and safety irregularity, he was something of a saviour.
His top notch breakfasts could possibly be responsible for stemming the suicide
rate. It may have been a total disaster to get into a conversation with him,
but I’d have gone to bed with his hash browns.
Ben
and Arnan were in residence. Their machine had broken down and were on leave
until further notice. They were fascinated by my morning’s experience.
“Luke?”
I asked as a matter of course.
“He
reckon’s he has found this amazing hiding place and to be fair it must be good
because we haven’t seen him for a week.”
“He
clocks in, reappears after eight hours and clocks out.”
“How
was your weekend?”
Ben
grinned. “Snogged Jess in Mazzers. Got her tits out as well in the bus station.
You should have come out.”
“I
had to stay in and work on my packing skills.”
“You
keep that dedication up my boy and you’ll be set for life.” We laughed and then
fell into silence, each contemplating a life at T.F.L. Three tables away Joy
and Karl were playing out their problems with poor old Tinker wedged in
between. Note to self: if ever dining alone pick a seat at the end of the
table. Karl mimed the loading of a gun and subsequent brain blowing. Joy
mouthed ‘Wish you would’ and Tinker sunk lower into his paper.
Snip
Unfortunately
the cutting room hadn’t been sucked into a vortex. Timmy was banishing a knife
in Lee’s direction, though he must have been regaling a story because
unflustered Lee leaned against his trolley and nodded along. Lee spared a nod
for me. He was warming. Timmy parried and thrust his boning knife with aplomb.
A few left hand jabs confirmed that he was playing out a Saturday night High
Town scrap. Lee remained unmoved only occasionally to glance over to monitor
the progress of the crates of sliced turkey that stacked up. Relief was evident
when I added the final crate to the trolley. He pointed at the full quota,
Timmy paused and Lee marched over. He nodded, exited and Timmy approached.
“He’s
a lucky fucker,” Timmy began, but failed to continue.
“Oh
yeah, why is that?”
“He
cut the top of his finger off back in February. He gets all the fuckin’ luck.”
Hmmmm.
“And why is that lucky?”
“You
got a lot to learn around here mate.” That I had. “Got five grand didn’t he?
And paid time off. I’d give my right arm to lose a finger.”
“Would
you? What’s stopping you then?” I advised nodding towards the knife that always
remained point forward and in constant movement.
“Nah
ya dull fucker, it has to be an accident, you can’t just wap a fucker off. Not
covered that way. Oh aye I could slice a couple of fingers off, not the useful
ones mind, I ain’t shy of doing that. Gar!” Timmy swivelled and beckoned Gar
who looked utterly thrilled to have been spoken to. Gar, or Gareth as his hat
proclaimed, turned out to be the shorter of the other two ambiguous men in the
room. “I was just telling shag, ‘ere, that Scatman is a lucky fucker.” Gar
nodded vigorously. “Down by the loading bay there’s a hydraulic door what goes
across up and down like, it’s automatic like, anyway he’s going under it when
Jeff Dean, who works on the kiev’s walks through. Deano stops him for a chat right
under the door. Scatman's hand is on top of the crates on his trolley as they are chatting and of course the
sensor can’t pick him up when he’s stood there and after twenty seconds it
comes down.”
“Across?”
“You
got him! Snip. The fuckers off. He was unlucky not to lose the hand.” Timmy
mimed, Gar nodded, I considered climbing into the machine. “Half a foot back
along and he’d have been set up for life. Mind you I says to him afterwards
that he’d be out of a job if he lost his hand......” the wide smile and eyes
told me there was a joke behind those teeth...... “because he’s a professional
wanker!” Gar laughed and tossed his head to a gag he must have heard
countlessly over the last few months.
Timmy
talked on and on while Gar stared straight at me. He recalled the story he had
just bestowed on Lee and as I suspected it surrounded an inebriated fight in
Hereford High Town on the weekend.
Apparently, some ‘twat’ who ‘had had
it coming’ subsequently ‘had it’. He (Timmy) had heard that ‘this twat’ had
been ‘gobbin’ off about him (Timmy). And he (Timmy) wasn’t having it. So ‘this
twat’ (remaining unnamed) ‘had to have it’. ‘It’ involved him (Timmy) hitting
him (the twat) when he (the twat) wasn’t looking. Then he (Timmy) laid into
‘the gobby twat’ while he (the twat) languished (not Timmy’s word) on the
paving stones of our fair city’s promenade. The plot thickened when Timmy
revealed that he (the twat) was his darts partner and in the process of he (the
twat) getting ‘it’ Timmy had broken a finger on his (the twat’s) throwing hand.
And so he began a new story about the headache he now had about an upcoming
darts match....
My
turkey breast supply had long run out while Timmy talked on and on, Gar
remained rooted, eyes fixed on me. Lee appeared, noted the absence of turkey
steaks and disappeared. Timmy prattled on totally oblivious until the plastic
strips fanned apart and Butch Sue appeared puce to the hairline, as if she had spent her morning
masturbating furiously in the office with a chicken drumstick. Butch Sue lived
for moments like this.
Gar
spotted her and dropped his head, but Timmy never drew breath. Butch Sue
surveyed the scene selecting her favoured put down, then approached.
“Uh, Timothy, what is going on
here? Meat pack F are crying out for turkey.”
“Sorry
Sue, Gar is distractin’ us.
“Gareth
what is that knife for?”
“Boning
turkey’s Sue.”
“Uh,
Gareth!”
“Sorry
Mrs Jaques,” Sue raised her eyebrows, “Sorry Ms Jaques.”
“Does
this look like a bus stop to you Gareth?”
Gar
slowly looked around, paused, prepared to answer, took another quick look then
confirmed, “nope.”
“Well
does it?”
“Nope.”
“I
believe I’ve said my piece. I want to see breasts.” She paused long enough to
look me up and down as to tar me with the same brush, then exited satisfied
with the only thing she’d do that week; but she wasn’t finished and returned.
“Timmy?
Do you want to go back to MacDonald’s?”
“No,
Sue.”
“Then
you’d better pull your socks up.” Triumphant, witty and self important Butch
Sue re-exited stage right.
Timmy
looked to Gar. “D’you ‘ear what she said?”
“She
wants to see tits.”
“That’s
priceless.” Timmy saw fit to finish his story before he added, “anyway best get
a move on before I ‘ave to save your arse again. Get crackin’. I’m going to
thump Scatman for snitchin’ on you.”
“Cheers
Timmy.” Gar said and Timmy disappeared.
