A favorite author of mine once wrote something along the lines of this: If a certain type of story has a moral to it, do not believe it.
I had my column for this week written a month ago. It was going to be a story about the job I worked in New Zealand for the three months before I left for the United States. To be honest, some of the story I had exaggerated for comedic effect, but it came mostly from truth.
It was a good story -- at least I thought so -- and it was about a man that I worked with when I was cutting steel in a factory on the edge of the city where I lived. That was the job I did because I needed to save money for coming here to U.Va. The job was a terrible job and I hated it much more when I was working than I do now. The air was damp and freezing inside the factory in the early mornings, really freezing, so we would have to light big gas heaters to warm up as much as we could. My job was to cut steel with a well-lubricated saw, and sometimes my job was to sweep up dirt from around the factory. There were other jobs to do, of course, but it was these two that occupied most of my hours.
I swept the inside of the factory when the boss came downstairs and I swept the outside of the factory when he asked me to, which was quite often. I swept the dirt that caught in the gutters when the trucks rolled in. I swept the sand out of the drains behind the dumpsters and I swept the dead leaves off the front steps. I hated the sweeping more than I hated cutting steel. From all this sweeping, my hands became much rougher than they are now, which is not saying much, but I took it as a point of pride, even though it is really a silly thing when you think about it.
The column that I originally wrote was going to just be about Michael, which is not his true name. Michael was the man in charge of the factory floor and he was very strong and very able in his role, but sometimes he would lose his temper -- really lose it, yelling and cursing -- and one time he lost it with me.
You see, I am terrible when it comes to this type of manual labor. I lose my concentration and I drift off into other thoughts. Sometimes, when I was working this job that I hated, I would think about deserted islands and white beaches and lying in warm water with a chilled bottle of beer in my hand. Typical stuff.
I would think about America, which was sometimes scary but mostly exciting, and I would make perfect plans. I would think about the grand jobs that I would have in the future, jobs where I could sit around on leather couches and read important books and dress in good, clean clothes. Most of these jobs did not exist, not really, but I would play the scenarios out anyway.
Michael would work out front, fixing the broken machines that came in through the side door, and when I knew he was busy, I could do most of my useless thinking. Sometimes I would be daydreaming and doing something else -- rolling polyurethane on to shelves, or checking the serial numbers on machines -- and the owner of the factory would come downstairs.
The one day of work that I made into the other column involved me using the wrong set of gloves. That was the day Michael lost his temper. I had picked up a pair of gloves that Michael had put aside for handling chemicals, and I had used them for lifting heavy cuts of wood off the back of a trailer.
When he found out, he started raging, and I thought he would hit me, which I kind of also hoped that he would. Michael called me a lot of words that could not see the pages of this newspaper. He said a lot of things about my family, which might have been funny in another context. At first I got angry with him, really angry, wishing all sorts of hurt upon him -- bad pain -- and then I left it.
Michael never said sorry, but he was better to me after that, and I think he felt worse for it all. Later, he tried to make jokes and I pretended to laugh, which is something, then we went back to the jobs we were doing before.
Postscript: Last week my father sent me an e-mail saying that Michael had died after a local rugby game. A massive heart attack, my dad wrote. I sent my regards to the factory, some really nice words, and then I rewrote this column.
Chris Garland is an exchange student from New Zealand. His column runs biweekly on Thursdays, and he may be reached at cg8cx@virginia.edu.
Read More
It’s okay not to be okay
By Mai Hukuoka | 3 days agoWhether talking to a friend, a loved one or a professional, it is so necessary, and human, to need more than you can provide for yourself.
Taking a break at Tangerines Kitchen
By Charley Thomas | 5 days agoWhat the restaurant somewhat lacks in ambiance, it compensates for in tasty dishes and prompt service.
Virginia Policy Lab — a hub for student-led policy action
By Katherine Haden | December 9, 2024Students propose their own projects and collaborate with other members to research their issues of interest, brainstorm solutions and write policy proposals.
