He never stayed long in the open sunlight any more, he would stub his cigarette and return quickly to the sanctum of the warehouse. Sunshine no longer had anything to offer him.
While he worked the kid developed a theory about the plant, it became a pet project. One evening at the motel, sprawling among the empty pizza boxes and beer tins, he spoke about it; it was his longest soliloquy so far.
‘The way I see it, the whole plant is a kind of monument, a cautionary symbol of waste and deterioration, emblematic of all the piss-poor aspirations and materialist dreams of the century. The whole place is a work of art, a piece of kinetic sculpture.’
‘Is that so?’ said Mike, his voice thick with doubt and hash. He was lying on the bed blowing heavy smoke rings. ‘Then what am I doing here? I’m not an artist, all I do is work with fibreglass. I’m a repair man.’
‘That’s just it, you’re not a repair man.’ The kid was real excited now, his eyes like two pitch bores in the middle of his skull. ‘This place is not broken, it does not need repair and no matter how it looks it’s not falling apart either. All it’s doing, day after day, is refining itself, coming more clearly into its own identity. And its identity is one of rot and decay and corrosion. That is why we lay down a new floor or lag a few pipes every year. It gives it something new to feed off.’
The kid was aware that the rest of the crew was looking at him in slack-jawed amazement; the boss seemed to be staring at him with special intensity. He could feel the flush on his cheeks from the fervour of his words and he had the horrible feeling that he had made some sort of fool of himself. Then he saw Mike grinning at him, shaking his head as if he had caught him doing something obscene.
‘I think you’re full of shit,’ he said, without losing his grin. ‘Full of shit like a whore’s outhouse.’
The kid sighed with relief.
‘Fuck you too,’ he said, well glad of his escape.
They now had the entire floor lifted down to the foundation and they spent most of their time vacuuming the uneven surfaces, preparing it for the readymix. They spent three days shovelling the concrete, three days of backbreaking labour bent close to the ground with short shovels carrying massive blades. Then they got down on their knees and moved over the floor, section by section, with a four by two on its edge, screeding it to a smooth finish. When they had finished the last section more time was needed for it to dry out completely.
‘We’ll give it two days,’ the boss said. ‘Two days and no more. Till then I’ve got work set up in a few places. Mike, take the kid to the opposite warehouse. Inside you’ll find a series of flues. Their inner surfaces need relining. Show the kid how to work with fibreglass, give him his first taste of it.’
In the warehouse they found the flues, four of them dismantled and mounted on trestles, their inner surfaces black and pitted. There was an assortment of paintbrushes and fibreglass matting among the other tools on the ground.
‘There’s only a good day’s work here,’ Mike concluded.
‘Well, maybe at last I will get to work with some fibreglass. I haven’t seen one bit since I started this job.’
‘We’d better make a start then,’ Mike said. Reaching for one of the grinders he handed it to the kid. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Grab a hold of this.’
The kid was shown how to clean out the inner surface of the flues and how to use the grinder smoothly and lightly in long, curving strokes and how to sweep out the dust and apply styrene. He was shown also how to cut the fibreglass mat with a minimum of overlap and how to lay it seamlessly within the curved surface before coating it with chemical resin and finally how to get a smooth finish by carefully laying down the thin veil of gossamer fibre on the glistening surface. The kid relished this change from the brute labour of the floor. He had proven himself in that sweat and muscle arena, now was the time to pick up a skill. The kid learned fast and the work went well; by mid-afternoon they had nearly half the flues completed.
‘Let’s take a break,’ Mike said. He was wiping his hands on a rag steeped in acetone. ‘We’re well ahead, there’s no hurry. Let’s get some coffee and a cigarette.’
The kid shook his head. ‘I’m going to take a walk around the plant, have a last look at it before I go. We’ve only got a few days left.’ He jammed the hat on his head and walked from the warehouse. Mike watched his stark form disappear through the brightened entrance of the loading bay and for one instant he could have swore the kid exuded all the light about him.
The kid walked beyond the tool crib and canteen, past the lab complex which sidearmed round one shore of the lake and onto the waste ground that ran as far as the perimeter fence. It lay strewn with fragments of brick and timber: saw-grass grew heavy over treacherous lengths of abandoned piping. From the perimeter fence he had a full view of the plant. It was laid out like some childish construct of cubes and cylinders. From its centre the blackened chimney sent up a plume of heavy smoke that curved out over the far perimeter, a beacon to the wider world. At the base of the plant the lake reflected the sky like a tarnished mirror.
The kid felt a sudden pain in his chest. To his amazement he found himself on the verge of tears. He began to talk to himself.
‘I love this place,’ he said. ‘This is my home and I belong here. I know everything it says about decay and ruin and corrosion and they are all truths to me. And now look at me: have I not grown strong by them?’
At the far end of the waste ground he saw the boss walking towards him, picking his way cautiously as if he was walking on marsh land.
‘Having a last look?’ he asked when he finally drew up.
‘Something like that,’ the kid said. ‘A kind of overview before I leave. I’ll miss this place when I leave. I’ve learned things here.’
The boss nodded. ‘When I saw you first at the tool yard I didn’t think you could hack it in this job. But I was wrong. You’re thrived in this place, you’ve got stronger and you even talk more. In all my years of working with different men I have never known anyone to be so affected by such a place.’
‘It’s this place all right,’ the kid replied. ‘I think it’s beautiful. This place is a work of art and I’ve reacted to it as I would to a work of art. I’ve been transformed by it, I’ve been inspired by it.’ The kid seemed to glow in the sunlight, his face and arms luminescing against the scorched colour of the grass – for a moment the boss had a vision of insect larvae. The kid was staring vacantly at the plant, lost in some idyll of ruin and decay, totally unprepared for the vehemence of the boss’s attack.
‘I’ve heard enough of that shit,’ he said suddenly. ‘Enough of that crap. This whole place is a death trap, nothing more and nothing less.’ He swung the kid round by the arm, facing him into the perimeter fence. ‘Two miles down the road from here there is a small village called Wickhurst, no more than a hundred people. Three years ago it buried four infants, all of them with skin blued over from arsenic poisoning. Ground water contamination was traced to this plant. On the far side of this plant a dairy farmer opened a pit on the margins of his land and buried a third of his herd in it, all of them asphyxiated by windborne emissions. Their carcasses couldn’t be used for dog food. So no more shit about this place being some sort of monument: it’s a death trap and that’s all there is to it. No more theorizing or philosophizing. You work for me now so just make sure that you do good work and check once in a while to see that your head has not run away with your ass.’
He threw his cigarette to the ground in a lavish gesture of disgust and strode away heavily through the grass.
The kid needed the isolation of the perimeter fence to get over his shock. The boss’s words and violence seemed to have sprung from some personal wound. The kid could not believe that he harboured any resentment towards him. He found himself trembling, unable to account for the vicious turn of mood. He stayed a long time at the perimeter, leaning against the wire, feeling the lattice pattern imprint itself in his skin. Presently, he pushed himself awa
y and returned to where his work was among the cylinder and cube abstract.
As he worked the rest of that evening he thought over what the boss had said about the deaths and contaminations. He was not surprised to find no revulsion or horror within himself, just a clear forensic curiosity prompting him to seek more information.
‘Do you know about the deaths and contaminations that this plant is supposed to be responsible for?’
Mike nodded. ‘Sure, we all know. This plant has paid out over five million dollars in environmental lawsuits during the last decade, spillages, ground water contamination, emissions, the works. Even now it’s tied up in more court cases than you can count. Why do you ask?’
‘Just now I met John and he gave me a fucking about my attitude towards this place. He thinks that I’m besotted with it and he told me to get a grip on myself. Then he told me about the dead babies and the dead cattle. He wasn’t pleased. How do you feel about working here?’
‘I hate this place, I begrudge every moment that I have to spend here, I wonder what it does to my soul. I imagine it corroding away every minute I spend here like one of those pipes or tanks.’ There was no trace of irony in his voice, just a dark knife edge of bitterness. ‘But it’s work,’ he continued, ‘and that’s why I do it. I’ve worked for John for six years since the mid-eighties, the boom years when we could pick and choose work. But it’s not like that now. Work is real tight and we need this contract. It can get us over three slack months and all the winter months are slack ones. Besides, if we didn’t do it, someone else would.’
‘And John doesn’t like it either?’
‘Not a bit. He took over this contract from another company who abandoned it after those kids were killed. This contract saved his company from going under. John used to employ ten men back in those peak times. Now his crew is down to us.’
‘Have you ever thought of doing other work?’
Mike shrugged. ‘I like this work. Besides, I owe John, he took me on first and I became his foreman. Now he’s over a barrel. He hates this contract but he needs it to keep his company. He’s got kids and alimony as well so he can’t afford to let it go. But I think he worries about his soul also. And he’s worried about you too. What he does not like is your enthusiasm for the place. You’ve been working and singing and talking your head off since you’ve come here like a man possessed. I think it scares him. I think he believes you might have caught some sort of bug here.’
‘Maybe he’s right,’ the kid said. ‘Look what’s happened to me since I’ve started working in this place. I’ve never felt happier or stronger. I’m sure if I checked I’d find that I’ve put on weight. Now I’m told about all these deaths and pollutions but it doesn’t change a thing for me. I don’t feel any different towards the place. I’d be telling a lie if I said I did.’
‘You can’t deny what you feel,’ Mike said drily. He had just tidied away the last of the tools and the flues now glistened like split fruit. ‘Just remember that you are the only one who feels that way. Unlike you, most of us would give a lot to have this contract somewhere else. Remember that when you start eulogizing next time.’
During the final days, as they laid the fibreglass covering, the kid seemed to reach a new peak of well-being. His body now soared with such energy he seemed to have difficulty just standing still and despite Mike’s cautions he could not stop himself singing as he worked, bawling out isolated phrases and choruses over the clamour of the fan, making the others grimace, not entirely in mock pain either.
Pour shame all over us
Harden it into a crust-cement
The boss did not hide his annoyance. ‘Shut the fuck up,’ he yelled. ‘Thank Christ we’re moving out of here in a few days. Maybe then you’ll calm down and quit acting like you’ve got a belly full of amphetamines.’
‘I can’t help it,’ the kid said. ‘I’ve never felt better in my life. Look at this.’ He held out his arms from his body and bunched up his biceps and pectorals like a body-builder posing in a competition. ‘Charles Atlas or what?’
‘Only a sick fuck could thrive in a place like this,’ the boss retorted.
‘Then I must be a sick fuck,’ the kid said. ‘Where do we go after this?’
‘Maine, one week at an Ocean Spray plant. Good clean outdoor work relining concrete containers. You might get some sun on that white ass of yours.’
‘Or I might fry. I’ll be sad to leave here. Home is where the heart is.’
‘It’s news to me that you have one.’
The kid just shrugged.
The fibreglass was laid quickly, the glistening strips advancing over the floor, slick and heavy like an oil spillage, drying finally into a dull sheen. On the third day they laid down the final veil covering, bonding it down with a last coat of resin. Then they stood back at the doorway, taking a last moment to appraise their work. The floor shone with nocturnal radiance, like a pool seen in a dream. From above, the metal containers were reflected in its illusory depths.
‘How long will it last?’ the kid wanted to know.
‘It should last forever,’ the boss said. ‘But nothing lasts forever in this place. Too much heavy chemical will be spilled on it and too many heavy weights will crash down and crack it. Probably next year whole sections of it will have lifted up and ruined, like every other piece of work we’ve done here.’ He turned quickly in disgust. ‘Come on,’ he yelled. ‘Get these tools rounded up and let’s get the hell out of here. I’m sick to death of this place.’
It was only thirty minutes’ work to gather up the tools and place them in the back of the truck. They worked quickly, rejuvenated at the prospect of leaving. As he came out of the warehouse the boss squinted in disbelief when he saw the kid walking to the truck carrying the last pieces, the two jack hammers dangling at the ends of his arms, his whole torso a knotted cartography of muscle. He lowered them gently into the back of the truck and then turned with a wide grin on his face.
‘When I started this job I couldn’t lift one of those hammers. Now I can measure my well-being in pounds and ounces.’
‘So now you’re twice the man.’
‘Not twice the man. Just different, different altogether. Listen, I’ve even developed a singing voice.’ For the last time the kid broke into song.
Forget the glamour
And mumble a jackhammer
Under your breath.
The kid was dancing now too, prancing by the side of the truck in some improvised step, swinging his arms in the failing light to hold his balance. The boss watched him carefully and for a fleeting moment he had a vision of the kid taking flight, his fingertips finding some impossible grip on the air and hoisting him higher into the gloom, up by the warehouse wall and out over the lake like some cancerous angel. It was an epiphany of beauty and ruin and the boss was lost in it for a few moments until Mike rounded the side of the truck, an unlit cigarette jammed in his mouth. He gazed for a long moment at the dancing kid.
‘That kid needs his head seen to,’ he said solemnly.
The boss nodded, moving his head slowly, as if supporting a great weight. ‘His head among other things.’
They stood looking a while longer and all the time the kid continued dancing, his broken image soaring in the curved surfaces of the holding tanks. And he continued dancing, dancing, dancing even after he had stopped singing.
The relevant clause of my grandfather’s will reads thus: ‘I, Christopher Monk, being of sound mind and body, do bequeath to my grandson Peter that which has become my life’s work, “The Machine”.’ That is as simple as it was, how by death and documentation I came to possess ‘The Machine’ and as a consequence my vocation as a mechanic.
I will attempt a description of my grandfather since descriptions of all other things are more problematic. In brief, he was a tall, ancient man with wild hair and white teeth, a man much given to grim laughter and forgetfulness. At least that was how he looked to me in the crucial six months towards the end of
his life when he would fill me with unease by looking down from his great height and, placing his hand on my young skull, intone softly, ‘Peter my boy, one day it will all be yours.’
As a young man Grandfather was the first in the parish to have a motorcar – a 1938 black Humber that roared its way over the unsurfaced roads of West Mayo to dances in Newport, Kilmeena, and further north, Ballina. The car conferred on him such prestige and eligibility that nobody was surprised when he married shortly after he bought it and well within the year had an only son, Christopher Junior, my father. It was then that Grandfather set up the small garage that was to be his livelihood until he signed it over completely to Dad in the early eighties. This garage was born with a flourish that would typify Grandfather’s style for the rest of his life. Undeterred by the absence of trade and his near total lack of technical knowledge, Grandfather erected over the doorway to his workshop a carefully painted sign: CHRISTOPHER MONK AND SON LTD. ENGINEERS.
But by perseverance and trial and error, Grandfather did develop a real feel for the steadily growing number of stalled and defective machines that staggered to his workshop. Initially it was cars suffering from dirty carburettors, blown gaskets and bad steering alignment, but gradually the great, truculent hulks of agricultural machinery made their appearance. These were the machines that he clasped to his heart, these machines that came out with the sun and the crops and that, in such a few short years, signified by their presence and absence the cycles and times of the years: turf cutters in early spring with long arms awry in need of welding jobs, mowing machines in late summer needing teeth, and threshing machines with broken spindles in late autumn. These were the machines that enamoured Grandfather, these yearly machines of birth and renewal that lumbered along the still unsurfaced roads, a proud and kingly species.
Getting it in the Head Page 9