#13 – PMA | The Weekly Kook Series

Estimated reading time: 10 minutes

I don’t tell people what I really do.

Dog bone packer doesn’t have the same ring to it as Goods Auditor. Part-time, thank you very much. Not like Eddie or Sheila. They volunteer one day a week and don’t even get paid. Not me though. I’m part of the team. The posters help. Especially when it gets tough. My favourite is the one on the wall in front of where I work. It has three letters – PMA. 

Positive. Mental Attitude. Simple. The other one in the corner isn’t too bad either.

‘The Journey of a Thousand Miles Begins with a Single Step.’

I like that. It looks like Mount Everest in the picture. Kinda reminds me of the programme we watched in the recruitment centre. There were others like me. Worse off though. Some of them had no notion what was happening when the recruiter wheeled out the TV. The opening sequences were of some fella you might see on the Paralympics, climbing a mountain. He had blades for legs. For a long time, I sat there wondering whether his legs get sharpened to a point the longer he climbs.

“How you getting on Davie?”

The dog bone in my hand drops to the floor.

“Shouldn’t be sneaking up on you like that,” he says, reaching down and handing me the bone. “Everything OK?”

“F-fine Mark.” I smile and nod.

“Good man,” he says and glances at the cardboard box on the table and then at the wall clock. “Change the radio station if you want. Can’t stand Country myself.”

I hadn’t noticed which station it was on, but when I do and turn to say it’s OK, he’s already gone. 

I slot the bone into the box with the rest of the family and plastic wrap the bones so tight that air can’t get in. Gary taught me about that on my first day. He’s the boss. I mean the real boss. But I found out he doesn’t work here much. I think he’s retired so he lets his son Mark do most of the stuff now. Mark’s OK I guess but I feel awkward around him. Something in his voice makes me nervous. I guess he’s not too bad ‘cos he lets me work in the back so I won’t be disturbed. It’s nice and quiet here. On the factory floor there are forklifts driving pallets of food around. It’s probably really dangerous. I guess it would be kinda cool to see them drive around, doing wheelies and stuff but I like it where I am. Sometimes it’s a bit lonely, but Mark makes sure I’m doing OK. Lately he’s been checking in every hour which is really nice.

Did I tell you about my setup? Everything I need is nearby. These plastic sleeves on the left – I slip the bones inside – pull them up to free a bit of space before I tear off the little sticker so it folds back on itself. Just like that. I don’t always hold it up and stare at it. When you’ve been doing this job for four whole weeks, you get a feel for these things. Four rows. Five bones. All stacked on top of each other. Sellotape gun comes next. At least, that’s what I used to do until I cut my finger on the metal teeth in the first week. That kinda freaked out Mark. Now, I move the open boxes and stack them carefully at the pallet at my feet

On my first day, Gary – the big boss – showed me how to pack. He’s really fast. I might not be as quick but I make sure every box is 100% perfect. At the end of each day, Mark comes, counts the boxes and tapes them shut. It doesn’t take very long and he always has a funny expression when he does it, like he’s making tough sums in his head. Sometimes, he lifts the boxes out onto the table and sorts through the bones. Sometimes I worry I’ve miscounted, but that feeling doesn’t last long because I know I wrap every bone perfectly and have counted them at least twice. The more times he checks for mistakes, the more I try my best to make them look good.

But it’s hard work. I have to concentrate really hard. Sometimes my mind wanders off. I lose count easily and sometimes have to spill out all the bones, repack and count them. This morning it was a song on the radio. Billy Joel singing about an ‘Uptown Girl’. I’m not sure what kind of girl that is. I might ask Bobby when I get back. 

Bobby’s like an uncle. We’re not related but he treats me like I was family. I think I’m his favourite in the home. He won’t admit that of course, but he doesn’t have to. When I focus hard, I can pick things up really fast, much faster than the others. He says I’ve got a head like a sponge. Or is it a brain like a sponge? I can’t remember.

“Story Davie?”

They step through the plastic drapes of the entrance. The first is smiling, and the one behind is giggling and using the body in front like a shield.

“Four boxes?” he whistles. “What time did you get in? Ten minutes ago?”

I look at the clock which says it’s nearly time to go home. When I turn back, the one hiding is pulling on his friend. He’s sniggering and has a face so red it looks like he’s choking. I feel stupid that they know my name and I don’t know theirs.

“I…there’s…”

The one in front repeats what I say, and gets more laughter from his friend. My cheeks start getting burny red and I step away from them, reaching behind for the support of the table edge. The effort of standing all day suddenly affects me and I feel dizzy. When I smile back weakly, they are more encouraged. They’ve made a little wall and are closing in. Behind me the radio continues to play, the noise beginning to hurt my head.

“Looking a bit peaky there mate. Must be all that work you’ve done.”

“Hard at it,” the other one says.

I find myself backed into the corner. They stop suddenly with a shout from the far end of the warehouse. They give a thumbs up sign and I watch them walk towards Mark who is half way down the corridor. They chat, the chatty one pointing at me and shaking his head which makes Mark smile, a hand reaching up to hide it.

I turn back around, trying my best to focus on the music, though I can still hear a few words from them. The same names I heard from some pupils at a school I volunteered at for two days. The teacher was out of the room at the time.

My legs feel unsteady and I’m feeling lightheaded. I close my eyes and practice some of the exercises Bobby taught me. Deep and easy breaths, counting to ten. Before I reach seven, I feel a hand on my shoulder.

“Sorry Davie. You were gone there. Got a minute?”

Mark points with his head toward the entrance. We walk through – him first, holding up the plastic curtain for me as I pass through and onwards to his office.

It’s small. Only two chairs and he lifts a bag of dog meal off one of the seats and points me to sit. Nothing has changed in it from my interview four weeks earlier. The memory of sitting in the same chair, dressed in a suit and presenting my C.V. makes me feel better. Although, back then it was Mark’s dad. I try to hold onto the joy of that moment, especially when he broke the news that I was hired, but it’s slipping now, opposite Mark.

He flicks up the screen of a skinny laptop. For a few moments, we sit in silence as he clicks on his mouse and types at a speed where his fingers barely graze the keyboard.

“How are you finding things Davie?”

He moves the laptop to one side, so that there is no longer a barrier between us and stares at me, waiting for an answer. My eyes sweep the table, finally resting on his hands which are interlocked, thumbs motoring over one another. It reminds me of my granny. As a child, I would stare at her hands for hours when she would knit. She pops into my mind every now and again. I wish I had more memories of her. Or my parents.

Mark stops rolling his thumbs, splits his hand apart and sets them out on the table like playing cards. I glance up and notice he hasn’t taken his eyes off me. I swallow hard and try to circle back to the happier memory in the office.

“Davie?”

When I look up again from the table, Mark is leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head, like those cop shows where the suspect is also told to get on their knees. We aren’t really allowed to watch those shows in the home, but if we did our chores, Bobby would let us. Sometimes, that meant I had to do Sheila’s too, but that was OK. She forgot things easily.

There was a rapping on the table. Mark’s knuckles. I gave an embarrassed smile and apologised. A funny little smile appeared on his face like that side of his mouth was being tweaked by a string.

“Listen. It’s pretty obvious that you’re finding it tough here.”

I nodded. It was a tough job. Not like working on a building site probably, but it was still hard going. Mentally more than anything else.

“I had a chat with Bobby today, and we think you’d be better off working in an office instead of a factory floor.”

He was back at the laptop screen, pressing buttons. Mark didn’t see my smile. An office job. That meant a suit. I might even have to buy my own instead of borrowing Bobby’s. There would be board rooms. Pretty, well-dressed women flirting at a coffee machine. Important powerpoint presentations. I gulped. I hope I don’t need to do a presentation. I parked the idea, taking a mental note to talk it over with Bobby later.

“I want to thank you for working with us,” Mark said and rose to his feet. “You’ve been a great member of the team and I want to wish you all the best in your next job. Wherever that may be.”

The fact that Mark wasn’t smiling when I stood and shook his hand wasn’t important. He didn’t even look into my face as he said it. Had he done so, he would have seen a wide grin. I had enough enthusiasm for the two of us, and I was going to show my new employers.

Positive Mental Attitude.

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This story was written for the ambitious creative project, ‘The Weekly Kook’, where I release a brand new short story every week for a year, totalling…yep, you guessed it – 52 stories.

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