SHORT STORY: THE WORKMAN

APRIL 18TH, 2022

Illustration by: Maria Golajewska. 

The light slowly dawns on the dry plains out west. In the midst of the vast expanse, a few simple buildings have sprung up to accommodate the men working hard at building a new railroad.

In the southernmost quarters, a workman gently stirs.

His sleep-filled eyes scan the dark wooden floor of the room he shares with eleven other men; weak sunlight escapes the heavy curtains, catching the dust swirling in a narrow beam. He rubs his eyelids then casts his gaze over the blanketed mounds, rising and falling all out of rhythm with one another, until his eyes settle on a chair. 

He spies two pairs of socks draped over the back, one the cleaner and one the dirtier. He only recognises one pair as his own. 

You can guess which one he chooses, as any man could, for even if he worked three days in his pair and another fellow only one in his, the smell of his own is more familiar to him, and because of that familiarity it somehow offends his senses the lesser. 

Besides, in this world a man cannot choose one day to live in the socks of another. No, he must bear the burden that his own represent. 

Well, the workman puts on those old socks and quietly pads over to the bungalow’s small washroom. He opens a tub of ointment and then rubs it into his sore muscles and aching joints. He gets the rest of himself dressed and heads out for a stroll and a cigarette, so as to claim some part of the regimented day for himself. Soon the rest of the men will rise and the clamour of a hundred tins and pans clanging at breakfast will drown out any quiet contemplation that could be had. 

Some hours later in the morning and the heat is slowing the eight-dozen shovellers and track layers to a snail’s pace. It’s still a couple of hours until noon and the heat is not letting up one bit. Well, another hour passes and the grumbles turn to real outbursts. 

A few men faint and have to be laid down under the shade of a large tarp. A group wilting on their feet have to be coerced by a foreman into picking their shovels back up. Then a few more faint and now a whole dozen who were laying track, all bunkmates, throw their tools down and saunter off to the shade. 

The foremen go around cajoling and blarneying for a while but soon not even a third of the men are left working. By noon it’s just our man with those godforsaken socks driving away at the baked red earth. 

Foreman comes over holding a handkerchief over his nose and says, I admire the grit but it’s alright to stop now. Whole crew have gone for a rest. They’ll be back from the late afternoon til sundown but you can rest as long as you want, come back an hour or so after them if ya like.

Well, the workman says, Sir, I think I’d prefer to put in those hours right now and clock off earlier’n anyone else by a few hours too, have the whole bunkhouse to myself for a bit. 

Foreman doesn’t believe he’ll last another ten minutes, let alone a few more hours. But even through his hanky the smell of those godawful socks is making his eyes water, so he decides not to stay and argue.

Sure enough though, a couple of hours pass and the workman’s still shovelling away. The boss walks up to him absolutely astonished, says how on earth do you work through this damn heat?

Well sir, he says, I’m just a sore digger like ever’one else here, but you see, the secret is my socks smell so damn sharp just breathing in is like suckin’ on a lime. I’m wide awake and I’m on my last hour of the day, so ain’t no stopping now.