BISCUITS WITH DRAGAN(killer jobs)

I’m hanging about outside Stockwell tube station at 5.30 on a chilly Monday morning. Last night I set the alarm clock half-an hour fast, so that I wouldn’t miss the pick up. Besides me, there are a small group of men standing by the railings. Most of them appear to be at least a decade older than me, and looked to be from an assortment of various country: Turkey, Armenia, Poland, Romania, Croatia, Bosnia etc.

The van arrives. I get in. I don’t speak to any of the men and few of the men speak to each other. I fall asleep the second the van starts moving, but I wake up once or twice because I can hear someone snoring. Suddenly I start to choke and when I open my eyes I realise that one of the men is holding my nose. Some of the men start laughing. The man let’s go, and I sit up and turn to the window. 

The van stops moving. I have no idea where we are.  The men pile out of the van. I follow them. I rub my eyes and yawn.

We are somewhere on the outskirts of Morden, and although it is still early, it is bright and the sun is already shinning, though there is still something of a chill in the air. A large white big-bellied man with long black greasy hair, wearing a grubby black Fred Perry T-shirt, walks up to the van, bangs on the side and tells everyone inside to get out. He takes us across to one of the buildings on the other side of the Industrial Estate and points at a dull red door. On his wrist I see a tattoo of a bulldog in light blue faded ink.

By the way I’m your foreman, says the man drawing on the cigarette between his yellow fag-stained fingers. And just so you know the score. It’s my way or the bloody high way. Anyone who doesn’t like what I’m saying can piss off right now.

The foreman stands there with a cocky look on his face. Nobody says a word.

            OK, says the foreman dismissively. Wait in there.

We all pile into a room, which is bare except for several rows of chairs and a large old wooden desk with a single chair up front.

A few minutes later the foreman returns to the room. He hands out a sheet of paper and asks us to write down our names, telephone numbers and various occupations. I’m not sure what he means by occupation so I raise my hand. The other men in the room all turn to look at me.

            Well let’s see shall we. Can you drive a forklift? asks the foreman.

            No, I say shyly.

            What about carpentry?

            No, I say again.

            Then I suppose you’re fuck all use to me, are you? he grunts, winking at the others.

Some of the men begin to laugh.

           Just put down general labourer, says the foreman, looking smug. By the way, is there any one here who can drive a forklift? he asks, searching the room with his eyes.

Three men sitting on various chairs in front of me raise their hands.

            Come with me, says the foreman. The rest of you wait here till I get back. And keep your feet off the bloody chairs. This ain’t a fuckin’ dose house.

The second he leaves the room everyone starts dozing. I slip down on my chair and rest my legs on the one in front of me just like the man beside me. Everything seems peaceful until I hear the foreman yelling at the top of his voice for me, to get my horrible grubby feet off the fuckin’ furniture. 

Then the foreman consults a clipboard and points at the two men sitting behind me. They get to their feet and silently follow him out of the room. Then he comes back and takes away four more. By now there are only two of us left in the room.

             You two come with me, he barks. Don’t worry Bishop Tu tu, I’ve got just the job for you.

 Myself and that other man follow the foreman outside. The foreman smells mouldy cigarettes and two day-old dried sweat. I try not to walk too close to him and constantly have to keep turning my head so as not to take in his awful smell. We come to a stop and a few feet ahead of us is a tall dark-skin white man with long black hair, standing alone, smoking a roll-up.

            OK. You two fellers are working together, says the foreman.

The man looks up, and nods his head at me.      

            So what are we doing? I ask the foreman.

The foreman takes out a pack of his cigarettes. He removes a cigarette and lights up. Then without saying a word, he starts to walks away.  The tall white man and myself don’t move until he calls us over.

The three of us are standing behind a massive articulated lorry. The foreman begins opening the lorry’s huge back doors. He stands back. Inside the lorry is pack from top to bottom with cardboard boxes. 

Stack them on those pallets over there and I’ll get one of the guys to drive them away. And if I catch either of you two nicking anything I’ll bloody kick your arses myself. Now get to work and no skiving. I’ll be back shortly.

            What do we do if we finish before you return? I call out to the foreman’s back.

The foreman turns around, looks me up and down and grins. He takes another drag on his cigarette, coughs and waddles away, followed by the other man I came out with.

 We start taking the boxes from the lorry and piling them onto the pallets. The man I’m working with removes a Swiss Army knife from his pocket and cuts opens one of the boxes to see what’s inside.

            Bloody rubbish, he says. All boxes filled with rubbish.

He kicks the box across the lot and spits at the ground.

            What did you think was in them? I ask.

            I dunno. Maybe booze, he says grinning.

One of his front teeth is missing and while he smiles his eyes seem to twinkle. He kicks out at another box in mock disgust.

            Have you done this before? I ask after a few seconds.

            Yeah, he says rubbing his chin. Don’t worry. It’s easy…Dragan, he says holding out his hand.

            Yemi, I say moving forward.

            Jemi?

           No, Yemi, I repeat squinting into the sun.

            Yemi. Student. College boy, yes?

            No.

           How old? .

           Twenty-one.

           Really…And you don’t go to college?

           Not anymore. I used to. I left.

           Me, I study at university …back home, he says pointing at the sky.

           We get down to business. I’m taking the boxes off as fast as I can.

            Back in a moment, says Dragan.

He hurries away with two of the boxes under his arm.

One of the forklift drivers arrives and takes the first pallet away. I start filling up another pallet. The foreman arrives.

            Where’s the other chap? he asks, looking at me suspiciously.

           I’m not sure, I say. I think he said he was going to the toilet.

            OK, carry on.

           Pardon.

           As you were…Get back to work…Emshi. Emshi, he says rushing towards me, clapping his hands.

An hour passes and Dragan still hasn’t returned. Finally he shows up an hour and a half later holding two cans of cider wrapped in a brown paper bag and a sandwich. He sits down on one of the pallets, rolls himself a fag and smokes it slowly, checking the tip every few seconds.

            Hey matey. Slow down for Christ’s sake, he says waving his cigarette in my direction.

Dragan informs me that he’s originally from Croatia.

          I live here three years, he says, looking up at the sky again. My family is in Croatia. I haven’t seen my family or my sisters since I arrive here. You from here?

           Yes, I say.

           Why are you working here?

            I needed a job to pay the rent. The landlord threatened to throw me out and I don’t have any money.

            Nice fuckin’ job, he says in a comical mix of Croatian and cockney.

He takes a drag from his roll-up and breaks into a friendly grin.

Its about 35 degree outside and the only real shade is to be found up on the lorry where Dragan is standing. After some time we agree to swap places. But inside the lorry it’s unbelievably hot and dusty, and the standing in the back makes me sneeze. After a while it almost feels impossible to breath. I begin to feel faint and have to get down from the lorry and stand in the blazing sun, dripping with sweat, panting.

Lunchtime arrives and Dragan leaves to get something to eat. The nearest shop is almost a mile away. I’m starving, but I don’t have any money and I don’t know Dragan well enough to ask for a loan, so lunch is out of the question.

After lunch we get back on the job. Dragan removes his shirt and ties it around his head to keep off the sun. He stands there grinning at me, showing off his latest acquisition; pair of very cheap white plastic-framed sunglasses, he bought from the shops at lunchtime.

I shuffle back, staring into the sun, humping boxes. My T-shirt clings to my skin and my armpits are soaked with sweat. I can feel the beginning of a migraine coming on, and there are gnats, mosquitoes and flies everywhere. I’m constantly being bitten on the arms and neck.

We’ve been doing the same thing since I got here. Packing boxes. Lugging them from A to B like mules. As usual Dragan keeps disappearing. One time I see him in the distance walking along smoking a roll-up, talking to someone on his mobile phone. And the next time I see him, he’s half running, half walking towards the lorry, carrying something mysterious under his arm.

I’m standing inside the lorry with a can of cider in my hand, a gift from Dragan. I guzzle down the warm sweet liquid and the second I place the empty can on the pallet I see the foreman in the distance, glaring at me.

 The foreman comes marching over.

            There’s no drinking on this lot, he says.

            It’s hot, I say.

            No drinking means no drinking.

            I’m sorry. It won’t do it again.

            Too bloody right you won’t, says the foreman. I ain’t paying you two fellers stand about getting piss. If you wanna do that you can bugger of right now and do it in your own time. That goes for you too. NO DRINKING ON JOB.

            Yes, says Dragan, raising his hand and saluting the foreman.

The moment the foreman leaves, Dragan takes out a new can of cider from behind the boxes, rips open the top, toasts the air and takes a long drink. As his head goes back, I notice that his hands are shaking quite badly.

There are still thousands of boxes to be stacked on the pallets. Dragan slides me the boxes and I carry them off, jump down and place them on the pallet. I look at the boxes. There seems to be no end to them. I wonder how many boxes its possible to squeeze into an articulated lorry.

I have dried blood and tinny cuts all over my palms and my fingers are so numb I can hardly move them anymore. Then just when I feel ready to throw in the towel, I get an image of my landlord calling up again and demanding last month’s rent, so I keep on going.

I’m forced to make up stories and barter with myself to keep the work as least vaguely interesting: Once you’ve moved sixty of those damned boxes you can go and hide in the toilets for ten minutes. About an hour later I even decide to try for a record.  I attempt to move as many boxes as I can in less than sixty seconds. Behind me, I can hear Dragan whistling to himself inside the articulated lorry. After a while I bang my fist on the side of the lorry and ask him if we can swap places again.

           Tea break, shouts the foreman coming towards us.

I stagger down from the articulated lorry, drop to the ground and lie on my back sweating.

            Finished yet? asks the foreman, grinning at me sarcastically.

He rubs his hands together and winks at Dragan. Then he laughs so hard his face reddens and the rolls of fat on his enormous belly begin to dance. As he straightens up I see him wipe some stray saliva off his chin. He leans forward with his thumb pressed against one of his nostrils and blows to expel the rest. I stare at him but don’t bother speaking. What with the heat and fatigue I can just about manage to breathe. I push myself up onto my knees and crawl across to a few feet and sit down on top of an empty milk crate, holding my head in my hands.

The foreman is back. He walks over and pats me on the back.

          You ain’t tired are you son? he asks. I though you coloured chaps were supposed to be tough guys.

I slowly get to my feet.

          That’s my man, he says squeezing my shoulder. When you’ve finished here I’ve got a lovely job for you. Just the thing.

          No problem, I say, smiling tiredly, and sitting back down on the crate.

          What’s wrong? asks Dragan. You don’t like Yemi? Why you pick on him all the time? You have something against his colour?

Dragan is swaying from side to side and it’s not hard to tell from the colour of his cheeks and the shinny glint in his eyes, that he’s been drinking again.

          Don’t talk such rubbish. I’ve never heard such utter rubbish in all my life. You don’t know what you’re talking about. I treat every one exactly the same way. He knows it’s nothing personal. Don’t you kid? He knows I’m only joking. You don’t understand the way we do things over here. And anyway, what’s it got to do with you?

           That’s my friend. I don’t like people talking bad to my friend, says Dragan, taking off his sunglasses and squinting at the foreman.

Suddenly the foreman almost seems frightened.

           Now come on, he says. I know it’s bloody hot, but that’s no reason to get the hump with me son.

Dragan puts his sunglasses back on and climbs up into the articulated lorry and disappears from view. The foreman mutters something and starts to walk away.

          Next time I kill you, shouts Dragan from inside the lorry.

The foreman stops, turns and looks at me. 

          Is he alright? he asks.

          Yeah, I say.

The foreman scratches his head.

          I’d keep an eye on him if I were you, says the foreman. You never know with some of these…

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

            Anyway keep going, he says.

He starts to quickly walk away. The moment he disappears inside, I burst out laughing. Dragan sticks his head out of the lorry, puts his finger to his lips and grins at me.

            Tired? asks Dragan.

            I’m all right. I’m more hungry than anything else, I say.

And as if on cue my stomach groans loudly.

            Why didn’t you speak before? asks Dragan, grinning.

 He takes out his knife, slits open the top of one of the boxes, takes out a packet of biscuits and hands it to me.

            Quick, he says. Don’t let stupid man see you, Ok?

I rip open the packet and start stuffing sponge finger biscuits into my mouth. Dragan sits down next to me and takes out his tobacco. Suddenly he begins to sing out loud in Croatian. The song sounds very mournful. I stop eating the biscuits and stare at him. His eyes look strangely empty and I even think I detect a tear. I don’t say anything. I just sit there forgetting all about the foreman and the job and listen. Dragan suddenly stops and looks across at me. He smiles. His eyes look moist. He continues to roll his cigarette.

           Go on, I say.

           No more singing.

          Come on. You’ve got a really good voice.

           It’s a sad song. My mother used to sing it to me.

           Where’s your mother now?

            My mother is dead.  My mother and my older brother were killed in an attack. The war is terrible. Many innocent people died for nothing.

He lifts his chin, and wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.

           I used to sing it to my wife, he says after a while.

           You’re married? I ask.

          Yes my wife is back in Croatia. One day I hope to bring her here…OK enough of this sadness. Let’s get to work before the boss has another, how you say it? Fit. You ready Yemi?

          Yeah, I say jumping to my feet. Let’s kick some arse.

I’m more determined than ever to finish out the rest of the day just to prove that I can handle anything the foreman throws at me.  I feel rejuvenate. The rest, together with Dragan’s singing, have had a positive effect on me, and I’m determined that I won’t be beaten.  I tell myself that I’ll shove those boxes up the foreman’s arse if he gets in my way.

 It’s 4.40.

            OK pack up we’re going, says the foreman mopping his brow with a handkerchief.

He waddles away and Dragan starts whopping loudly. I don’t have to be told twice. I stumble inside to wash my face and hands. When I return to the car park, to my horror the van and the other workers have gone.

 I consider trying one of the other buildings and seeing if I get a lift off someone still hanging around. Then all of sudden the van comes screeching round the corner and I can see some of the men inside it grinning, and making stupid faces at me. I start running. The van stops and the side door flies open. I attempt to get in, but the moment I do, the van lurches forward and I fall flat on my face. The van stops a little way ahead of me. One of the men leans out and waves. Grimacing I limp towards the open door.

The men grin, cheer and pat me on the shoulders and back, as I climb on board. One of them pinches me arse and when I jump all the men roar with laughter. I sway from side to side and eventually stumbled towards the only free seat in the corner.

            Hey boy, you like the men or the women? asks a big barrel-chested ugly looking man, smelling strongly of garlic, seated a few seats away from me.

I give the man a funny look, but I don’t say anything.

           Hey pussy, he says wiggling his fingers in my direction. You like to fuck the men, eh? Don’t lie. It’s Ok. But not me Ok. I don’t fuck boys, yeah?

           Listen, even if I was gay, what makes you think I’d fancy you? I say angrily.

Some of the men laugh; others cheer and nudge the man egging him on. I grin back at the men because suddenly it seems that I’m the hero.

           Bas-tard, says the man, spitting phlegm. Now I kill you.

He starts to edge out of his seat and comes towards me. One of the other men tells him to take it easy and tries to grab his arm, but the man slaps his hand away and clenches his fists.

The man stands above me swaying from side to side with his fist cocked just above my head. I try to lean away from him, but there’s nowhere go and my heart starts thumping, because although he’s not particularly tall, there is something crazy and desperate in his eyes, like perhaps he’s a refugee from a war torn country and killing me wouldn’t be such a big deal. Then all of a sudden the man grabs my throat and breathes garlic into my face. Suddenly the van jerks to a halt and the man slips backwards and always goes over.

            Oi you, big man, sit your arse the fuck down and leave the wee kid alone, says the driver; a big Scottish fellow, with short cropped hair, and big muscles, wearing a black polo shirt.

            You lucky, says the man.

He turns to go and I stick out my tongue and the man beside me holds out his hand for me to slap.

I lean my head against the window and close my eyes and then a few moments later I sneak a glance at the ugly guy, but by now he’s looking the other way, staring at the traffic, deep in thought. I close my eyes and it seems that two minutes later we have arrived back at Stockwell station. There’s a loud screeching noise as the van door slides opens. We spill out onto the pavement and the driver warns us not to be late tomorrow. I cross the road and begin limping down the street towards the bus stop, wondering if I have anything left in the cupboards to eat at home. The moment I get in I turn on the TV. Rickie Lake is on and there are three men, two black and one white man, sitting on the stage, being booed at by the largely female studio audience. I collapse onto the sofa and close my eyes and hear Rickie say, Go Figure. Then two minutes later I’m out for the count, dreaming about a gigantic articulated lorry, packed to the brim with several millions boxes of sponge finger biscuits.

pic, unload by bennylin0724