I had agreed to four hours overtime on Saturday morning, we had a shit-load of glass to put through the toughener and sort into orders for the drivers on Monday. I found myself working with the new bloke who had started earlier in the week. First time I clapped eyes on him I thought, “Jesus, it’s Rod Hull.” Spitting image. Everybody’s face tells a tale, a glimpse into their life, this geezers screamed that he didn’t need sat-nav to find the offey. The fucker was still bladdered, reeking from Friday’s ale, waffling shite; doing my head in.
Now I’d said nothing to nobody about my first impression of our new colleague when two of the lads from the window assembly section wandered over. “That twats not gonna break his back working,” said Little Mick, nodding toward Rod, who was slumped against the toughener, a crumpled rolly dangling precariously from his lips. Cockney John glanced in his direction, shook his head and asked, “Wonder who the fuck looks after Emu while he’s here?”
As the morning progressed I carried Rod and ended up doing all the donkeywork. He was deep into repeatedly regaling the lengthy and fascinating tale of how he had lost his tobacco the night before. “If I see any bastard with it later they’ll be getting these,” he snarled, waving his puny fists in my face. I was seriously beginning to get the hump with Rod. Fucking waste of space.
The drive into work on the Monday morning was a major pain in the arse. Torrential rain hammering and obscuring the windscreen, the roads awash with thousands on their way to a blind spastic chimps driving convention. The botched up exhaust on my Punto sounded like a Messerschmitt; a coke-addled Orange Lodge drummer at the controls. I was late, narky, and – for fucks sake – found myself on the glass wash with good old Rod. One word, just one fucking word about his lost burn and he was going down. Staying down.
“Remember my baccy that went west?” He enquired. Instinctively, my right hand clenched into a fist. He turned to face me. “I found it this morning next to my shoes, under the bed. Must have fallen out when I was getting my head down.” Now, as riveting as his tobacco tale had proved, the wash was backed-up and my patience stretched to the limit. The thought of enduring one more second listening to this tit overtook everything: Knock him out. Walk out the loading bay. Start looking for a new job. I took a step toward Rod as he began to speak, “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t arsed about the baccy, it was losing the tin that upset me, it was my Dad’s…..all I’ve got left of his now.”
A momentary silence between us followed, punctuated only by the motor throb from a congested glass wash. Asking Rod if he took sugar, I went to fetch two cups of tea from the vending machine.