Stonedogs

by Craig Marriner

  Steve: ‘We ain’t got no reefer, bro.’

  Oinker, indignant: ‘I’m not your “bro”, Blackbeard … and don’t insult my intelligence. At the very least I’ve got Dreads here on possession charges, and you two on suspicion. So if you dip-shits don’t show me some convincing ID and then start naming names, the four of us are taking a little ride downtown.’

  Barry shapes to speak but I cut him off — when dealing with obstinate oinkers, the dude tends to get conciliated-out pretty quickly. ‘Look, sir, it was just a cigarette. We’re up here visiting John’s mum in the Middlemore Hospice, and …’

  Oinker, finger ominous: ‘Bullshit me once more — any of you — and you’ll be in serious shit. It’s already bad enough, but if you lot jerk me around I’ll come down on ya’s like a fuckin’ cement mixer.’

  I switch to ‘I know I’ve wronged, God, but I’m just a misguided kid and look how remorseful I am’ mode. ‘Ok, Ok, it was a joint, but it was all we had! I promise. I can see how pointless lying to you is, so I’m straight up here!’

  Oinker, imperious: ‘Even if that was all you had, you’ve still broken the law and you’re going to be punished accordingly.’ Weighted pause. ‘Unless you tell me …’

  Steve, reasoning: ‘C’mon, sir, if we weren’t out ’ere ’avin’ a quiet smoke, we could’ve been pissed by now like so many ova youngsters out an’ about, mouthing orf, starting shit, firing up.’

  Oinker: ‘Until you break a law, sunshine, you can get as pissed as you like and you’ll have no trouble from me. Dope, on the other hand, is unlawful. Can you comprehend that?’

  Me: ‘But as a civilisation, sir, where would we be if no one had ever resisted laws that grew outdated?’

  He appears uncertain how to receive this.

  And then Barry starts up in a tone that deceives me, has me letting him go on. ‘You’re damn right, though, officer. After all, booze is essential to the economy of this nation, right? Without it so many citizens’d be out of work.’ He ticks the points off on his fingers. ‘I mean, because of booze you’ve got dentists fixing busted teeth; panel-beaters repairing pranged cars; counsellors working on traumatised kids; undertakers burying gut and liver disease victims … But what the hell type of spending did weed ever generate for the economy? A few armchairs? A coupla thousand bags of Kettlefries? Big fucking deal, right?’

  Shit.

  Oinker, almost crowing: ‘Nice one, my son. You’ve just pushed my patience as far as it goes.’

  Me, pleading, no plays left but gambles: ‘To prove we were smoking you’ll have to fish around in that drain, and I promise you we have nothing else on us! Let us turn our pockets out for you and you’ll see we’re not worth your time.’

  Oinker, smirking: ‘No need. We’re heading downtown, sonny. I’ll send a rookie back here to collect the evidence. Meanwhile, at the station-house, I’ll be legally detaining and strip-searching you shifty pricks. Let’s go; back the way you came.’

  Nobody moves.

  I’m set to make a break for it, but I need to warn the others when the gun’s gonna go.

  Oinker, smirk hardening: ‘I said, let’s go.’

  No effect.

  With a theatrical sigh, Oinker’s right hand reaches to his belt, takes out his big shiny truncheon. ‘Don’t make me use this, lads. Turn around and walk back the way you came … or else.’

  By now I’m frantic: almost ready to bolt by myself, let the others take their chances.

  Perhaps pegging him as our trio’s backbone, Oinker singles out Steve, pokes his ribs with the baton none too gently. ‘Move out now, Blackbeard, or I’ll jab you ten times harder than your old man ever did.’

  Steve, level: ‘Go on, then.’

  Oinker’s jaw compresses …

  … but then he hesitates, perhaps pondering for the first time just how much shit he could be in if we’ve the balls to ignore his pretty uniform …

  … ignore the muscle of a whole-fucking-state arrayed at his back.

  Stepping forward, thrusting.

  I don’t even see Steve move. One instant he’s standing there, tensing around the body-blow. The next his left fist’s at full extension and the oinker’s reeling as if electrocuted, hat flying clear.

  The meaty smock — so much more disturbing (enlivening) than the Hollywood version — seems to arrive late.

  Dashing past Steve’s shoulder, snatching at the cue he lives for, Barry swings a big hay-maker.

  Oinker’s done this before, though; has enough presence to keep his feet and eyes on the job. He ducks the wild punch, bracing himself, positioning the baton to crack Barry backhanded …

  But Steve’s too fast for him again: skips in and traps the stick in both hands. Ripping it free. Gripping the handle. Up and down, quick as a piston …

  … across the raised forearm with a crack like a splitting-axe on dry pine.

  The copper squeals like a stuck sow, collapsing to his knees, all fight fleeing before this rush of pure agony.

  By his thinning hair, Steve wrenches Oinker’s face toward his. Bending, snarling into it: ‘My old man never ’ad t’ hit me, yu fuckin’ redneck cunt! ’

  Gifted a stationary target, Barry can’t resist or miss: measures the guy’s cheek, steps into the blow, full weight and strength behind a thick knee …

  I look away, but the sound — rock on gravel — effects me like victory: I swallow mad whooping.

  Beside the broken oinker, Steve drops the baton almost delicately and we flee the scene with steady purpose.

  The ’Dan’s near the building’s corner; we’re across no-man’s-land in three heartbeats. Mick and Lefty are ready to go.

  Thank fuck.

  Only then do the tangibles pierce my false calm.

  From the back seat, conversationally: ‘Ya got a record, Steve?’

  ‘Na.’

  On impulse I go anyway, out the door, back toward the dark.

  Fingerprints, man. All over the fucking stick.

  But caution reveals voices; a sneaky peak, shadows shifting near the crime scene — McJob’s slaves, roused by the oinking — and, stripped of choice, I’m soon back in the womb.

  Its silent fellowship warms me near to tears.

  ‘Don’t ever get one.’

  With a lull between incoming loads, Barry flicks his fork-lift in a rakish turn, coming to rest alongside me.

  Barry, stretching gingerly: ‘This shit’s doing my head in, man. These seats are fucking Dark Ages material. My back’s gonna be filthy on me tonight.’

  Me, resting against a high pallet: ‘My feet’ll be broadcasting a message all too similar.’

  ‘Ya wanna swap jobs for a while? My feet’d love to shoulder a session.’

  ‘As would my arse and back. Unfortunately, The Church of Cost-effectiveness views worker quests for balance as heretical.’

  In the rafters I notice a swivelling telescreen pause in its arc, crosshairs centring on me. In a flashing tomb hidden nearby, I picture a smoking insecurity guard, pen in hand, beseeching betterment — Employee 25567, McPike, G. Paused from work beyond sanctioned break times at 11:53am. Resumed work at …

  The fat fucker needn’t have bothered: my dereliction is under the observation of a fat fucker vastly more baleful. Tonsured, bespectacled, middle-aged, in his magisterial drawl, Section Manager Andrew O’Conner had yesterday warned us to, ‘Keep appearances right up tomorrow, lads. I’m going to be escorting a couple of staff from head office around site.’

  In contrast to O’Conner, the said Inner Overseers are young and suave, smug and overbred.

  Achievers, the Juggernaut names them. Go-getters.

  Trading privileged information in monotones, the trio loiter not three metres from me, near the door of our Overseer’s office, the man himself performing great feats of multi-tasking — attending his betters, while attempting to chide Barry and me back to work with the sheer force of his glare.

  Barry, resting his feet on the dashboard of his machine,
hands behind head: ‘Why can’t they let us all swap jobs a couple of times a day, or even a week, just to break the fucking monotony? I mean, you’ve got a fork-lift ticket, I can use a calculator and write, anyone can stick shit in boxes, it wouldn’t take much to skill me up on the reach-truck, the office bums’d love to stretch their legs a bit, the reach-truck lads’d love a chance to get outside now and then on the counter-balance …’

  As futile as it is, I’m seized by the urge to discard my cover for once; to swing some overt blows. Me, voice raised to carry: ‘Are you forgetting your indoctrination, Barry? I explained why it is that every shit-kicker in this place is allowed to perform but one task. It’s an offering to our Lord Profit Maximisation. American Capitalists pioneered the technique in the steel industry. The production process is split into distinct, atomised functions and kept rigidly segregated. This serves to de-skill the workers, maximising their expendability, minimising their bargaining power, depriving them of pride in their work and pride in themselves, leaving them more amenable to exploitation. It also helps them quantify the exact worth of each ‘unit’, and gives them a divide and rule tool: the fastest worker is rewarded, the least is punished. And if one ‘ambitious’ little brown-nosing fuck can maintain an exceptional output, “what the bloody hell are the rest of you slackers playing at?”’

  Barry, in time: ‘Yeah, well, I reckon that makes them a pack of wankers.’

  We both effect ignorance as the pestilent stares boring through us increase threefold. O’Conner is heard babbling to his overlords, trying to steer them from this blemish in the tapestry.

  Me, loud and melancholy: ‘It’s hard not to pity them, though — them and their god, Biggerbetterfastermore.’

  My confederate nods neutrally.

  ‘The poor sods shed tears, you see, on an hourly basis. Pining for the heydays. Those heady times of the ’30s and ’40s when a workforce could be had for the cost of thin broth, a coven of guards, and the full metal jacket.’

  From sidelong, I watch O’Conner twitching like a man set to piss himself. His superiors ignore his blurted chat-starters, dropping sleet from their stratosphere, stabbing me with both eyes.

  Barry, a sarky compromise: ‘Ah, well. They may strip us of names, but they can never touch our Workingman’s Pride.’

  Me, hearty: ‘That’s right. At least some things are sacred.’ Pronouncing: ‘Workingman’s Pride: up at dawn to give my days to simple tasks — tasks as natural as nuclear waste; tasks I’ve come to despise; tasks I could perform on twenty per cent brain function; tasks whose compounded repetition leaves me in chronic pain. Got fuck all to show for it. Might — if I’m careful — have a little to show for it when I get my life back at age sixty … and fucking well proud of it!’

  Suddenly for O’Conner, the naked revelation to the brass that his aura alone isn’t enough to keep the sheep in line becomes a lesser iniquity. Barking: ‘What are the chances of getting some work out of you two today?’

  Barry appears to weigh this. Articulates: ‘Slim to non-existent.’

  Me: ‘Fear not, oh, great and corpulent one. My associate and I will redouble our efforts and redress these heinous misdemeanours … immediately after lunch. Let’s go, Baz, before all the tables are taken.’

  Even we, ordinarily, would not have dared go so far. But this day is no ordinary one: this is DT Day.

  And so, at around half-past twelve, the first of the workers are herded to their appointments. Some go grudgingly, the resentment ingrained in their features more stark. Others depart willingly, affably, pleased for the break from routine.

  It’s these latter who’ve swallowed the dogma from the word go. Before long they’ll find himself turning fifty and reminiscing on the best 60,000 hours of their lives spent at tasks an orangutan could have trained for.

  Maybe their brainwashing will falter sooner — it happens occasionally — but the Juggernaut’s shackles are too firmly fixed. They have mortgages, you see, on houses they now hate. Shared with women they haven’t fucked in years. Fused to her by junior components whose antics send blood pressures soaring.

  They’ve found a way round it, though.

  They gulp a dozen Lion Red every night.

  Patrolling his fief, O’Conner informs Barry and me: ‘I’d better not see you two taking any toilet breaks this afternoon.’ With blood-thirsty relish: ‘I’ve got you down for urine sampling at 4:48.’

  Of course, it’s not really a drugs test they’re imposing upon us. Not as such.

  Because most drugs — alcohol included — upon entering one’s system are identified as poison and immediately purged, the body embracing dehydration in its efforts to flush the stuff, hence the phenomenon of the ‘hangover’.

  When one’s system encounters cannabis, however, the chemicals identified are judged benign, allowed to linger for months.

  Word and date of the impending tests spread round the warehouse some weeks ago, giving fun-lovin’ criminals plenty of warning to lay off the hard stuff a few days in advance. For many, though, abstaining from weed for the months it takes the chemicals to abandon one’s body completely was a pretty major issue.

  An issue not just in the deprivation of an unwind many have come to cherish, but in the very act of the Company impinging upon our autonomy through an additional sixteen hours a day.

  For which we won’t be paid a cent.

  Why the executive decision to declare pot off-limits in the lives of unde-rstimulated workers? Good question. Is it simply another layer in the process of breaking us to their will? Is it a matter of the capitalist old-boy network closing ranks, defending the investments of their booze and ’bacco cousins? Are we seeing a technological step-up in their war against an acknowledged enemy of compliance? All of the above?

  Of course, they say it’s to maximse warehouse safety. But the tests include everyone (everyone not on a salary, that is): not just those operating machinery, but those who stand at tables and fix stickers to product all day. And the new safety policy makes no provision for those who arrive at work on half-function due to blinding hangover.

  No, we of the Brotherhood number among the few who will face the truth of the matter. Unlike our contemporaries, we suffer no delusion. We see the tests for what the are: the newest layer in the banishment of intractable elements from the capitalists’ vital labour pool.

  Over the next two hours, then, Barry and I offer ourselves as a sacrifice to the Perfect Herd’s evolution.

  Because we draw the line at having faceless boards of millionaires tweak our strings beyond the workplace. But neither can we afford to be blackballed as ‘drug addicts’. (And to simply resign will disqualify us from dole eligibility.)

  So, by 3pm, from his forklift, Barry’s contrived to drop two pallets of product.

  Ever seen a full pallet of breakable stock fall from a height of two metres? Sheer beauty to treasonous eyes.

  Not so to the Overseer’s. All he sees is fifty grand of his budget down the fucking gurgler. Or, at least, a fifty-grand claim from his department added to company insurance premiums.

  When fork-lifting, though, these things occasionally happen — though seldom twice in minutes — and O’Conner lets Barry off with a stern, ‘See that it doesn’t happen again.’

  O’Conner then disappears for a meeting, returning an hour later to find the floor awash in smashed product from two more of a grinning Barry’s ‘mishaps’.

  It’s about now that people further down the chain begin to realise the computer is issuing faulty stock locations. Nine hundred items of X stock are supposed to be located in Aisle C, Row 67A. The said location houses something completely different, and X stock is eventually found by eye some distance away, though much too late to be of use to the clients awaiting it.

  Similar discrepancies begin to show all through the system, and, livid, the Overseers soon trace the faults to the Goods In office team, who trace the ‘errors’ to Employee 22567, McPike, G.

  Out on the shop
-floor with his calculator and pen, having made, it seems, a complete hash of every pallet logged since lunchtime. Hashed them, I proudly add, in a manner manufactured to slip safety valves.

  Ahhhh, the metallic tang of sabotage.

  Though our estimate is by no means conservative, by the time Barry and I are escorted from site we calculate the damage inflicted in this first overt skirmish as somewhere near the $1.3 million mark.

  Out in the carpark, in plain view of management, the Brotherhood

  Stressing from the news we broke pulling from the consumption centre (‘Take care not to draw attention to us, Mickey, yeah? Oh, na, it’s just that we kinda left an oinker for dead out the back of McDick’s just now.’) Mick has relinquished driving duties in search of liquid solace. We’ve thus gone to our back-up plan for this rare exigency: if there’s driving to be done later, Barry’ll take the wheel.

  Barry — being Barry — has no intention of remaining sober. We’re all aware of this, and in a few beers’ time we’ll also be comfortable with it.

  The club we happen upon is a way from the crime scene and we’ve been able to find a crowded side-street down which to park. Short of leaving town, we’ve done all we can; there’s no point worrying any more.

  Stoned from our inauspicious session — a sealed, but present, Pandora’s box magnifying the dope’s inherent paranoia — walking into an unscouted ARC is the last thing I need or want. I might have sat in The ’Dan until straight, had it not felt so much like a neon sign.

  But fortune smoothes the insertion. The ‘doormen’ — biker-looking white dudes — barely glance at us walking past; a smiling bird (‘Hi, guys, all set for a big one?’) collects our five buck cover charge and stamps a guitar on one hand. Through big swing doors. The Skinny Genius is chanting away at an early-evening level to leave conversation entirely possible. Blissfully weak, reddish light. The crowd is good but not yet claustrophobic. My type of crowd, too — a tidyish, grungy set, plenty of hair and denim. Wooden panels and floor, the odd column stretching high. One end of the place is raised in a low balcony, accessed by stairways at each end; appears to be a bandstand/dance-floor deal. Opposite, a bar runs the length of the room, and a couple of pool tables sit in a sunken dais off to the left. The few chairs and tables are occupied, but sitting’s the last thing on my mind.