Video: Itchycoo Park – The Small Faces
they are gods
First day on the job and the supervisor told me this - ‘As far as you or I are concerned, they are Gods. Whatever they want, they get, ok?’ I nodded like some sub-normal freak.
The supervisor was clearly insane. It could’ve been the job, could’ve been her age, could’ve been that she was just nuts. Whatever it was, it was there. I’d been hired to work the evening shift as catering assistant in a small private hospital. The shift started at 4.45pm and ended at 9.30pm. Plenty of time to work on my novel during the daytimes, I thought happily when I applied.
But I didn’t do any writing. I rose late each day, just after noon, usually hung over. Then I’d stare at a battered portable typewriter sat on an equally battered school desk. The typewriter had an accusing aspect to it and was difficult to use. Mind you, back then computers were expensive and I couldn’t afford one. I bought the typewriter from a hock shop. It was blue and had a blue plastic carry case.
I was drinking every night. Some nights I’d play around with the word and the typewriter, and in the morning I’d read what I’d written. It was mostly nonsense, the odd interesting sentence that led nowhere, random words and letters repeated over and over, or scraps of song lyrics. I figured it was writers’ block.
The hospital was five minutes walk from my cockroach-infested apartment. On the way I passed a model agency. Sometimes the models would be hanging around outside, both men and women. The men looked like homos or cardboard cut-outs, but the woman, ah, what long legs and pretty faces, and nice tits. However, they never even noticed me, not even a casual glance in my direction. I figured it was the uniform. Black and white stripes, like some prison get-up, accompanied by the look of the hunted.
I arrived for work each evening just as other members of staff were leaving or had already left. The majority of patients were plastic surgery jobs: facelifts, nose, tits, nip and tuck. The immediate after-affects of the operations were horrific. The women - they were mostly wealthy middle-aged women - looked like they’d been in terrible car accidents.
I worked alone. At night the hospital was a sleepy, tranquil place. An empty kitchen filled with stainless steel and echoes of daytime industry. I served dinner, tea, and coffee. Most patients were heavily sedated. They rarely ate the food or drink. I was under strict orders to return any unopened bottles of wine or beer to the kitchen fridge. I made certain each bottle was opened. Usually I saved the bottles to take home with me, or I swigged from one or two as I pushed my huge silver trolley along the desolate wards. It helped to pass the time.
One evening there was a huge hail storm. The hail was the size of golf balls. I stopped working and watched the storm with interest. Some expensive cars were in the car park, out in the open. The hail began to destroy them. I watched as the owners suddenly appeared, the brain surgeons, neurosurgeons, plastic surgeons, whatever surgeons, coats over their heads, making desperate attempts to save their vehicles from further damage. And these were The Gods.
I had to make special sandwiches for The Gods. I had to cut the bread into quarters and remove the crusts. Each quarter had a different filling. I loved those dainty sandwiches. I’d roll my trolley up to the surgeon’s canteen and peer inside. Most nights it was empty. The canteen was more like a lounge - leather chairs, TV, magazines, etc. I’d grab a bottle of vino from my trolley and a couple of rounds of exquisite sandwiches. Then I’d plot up in one of the comfortable armchairs and peruse a lifestyle magazine or two. Sometimes I dozed off.
The days and weeks passed, sleepy mornings and idle afternoons. I began to put on weight. The free food was to blame. I didn’t do any writing. The typewriter was soon covered in a thick film of dust. Sometimes I went for a walk to a nearby marina and listened to boat masts chiming in the wind.
Three months into the job and I was suddenly hauled into the manager’s office. I’d noticed some of the other staff giving me funny looks, but dismissed it as paranoia. It wasn’t. They had video evidence of me eating and drinking in the God’s lounge. They showed me the incriminating evidence. In one scene there I was stretched out on a chair, feet up, drinking wine and eating the crustless sandwiches. I even drank the wine with my little finger waving in the air.
The manager reacted like I’d just raped her youngest daughter. Her face was contorted in anger, her eyes filled with hate. The hospital was well within its rights to press charges, she said. I told her I didn’t think that was necessary. The woman said I had let her and myself down. I didn’t say anything, but felt sorry for the woman. She was trapped. I was fired on the spot.
A few weeks later I walked into a trap of my own. I landed a similar job, but in a much larger hospital, early shift, 6.00am to 2.30pm. The supervisor was equally as crazy, but also a little sadistic, and she spoke of other Gods. There was no free food or drink, or delicious sandwiches, or comfortable armchairs, or empty wards; just a grueling eight-hour slog. I didn’t do any writing, I didn’t even pretend to.
A few months later I sold the typewriter with the blue plastic carry case to the Radioman for forty bucks. I spent the money on gut rot wine, which ruined my stomach and stained my teeth. I stayed in the new job for three years.
|
|
Contact me