MY LESSON

 My last brushstroke gave the facade of a paint store a new look.  The yellow colour was screaming throughout the town but it was the managers choice, not mine.  In addition, I had to install a sign above the entrance.

    Again I climbed up the step ladder, afraid to look down.  First, there was this blinding colour and secondly, I was worried the previous mishap could repeat.  Because, although I had taped off the work area with a sign which shouted in red lettering WET PAINT, a little, careless boy sneaked under the warning tape.  He rolled and twirled his body along the freshly painted moulding of the display window.  It resulted in a ten centimetres wide, yellow strip, back and font of his white, aged sweatshirt.   

    “Watch out, son!” I shouted, when I saw him, but it was already too late.  His mom came ten seconds later around the corner, unhappier than I was.

    “Look, man, what have you done to him.  My poor baby!” the woman screamed beneath me and shook my ladder.    “Listen, there must be something we can do!” she insisted loudly.

    I barely caught myself from plunging down and descended a bit annoyed.

    “Yes, lady, here is a jug of Varsol and rugs.  Go ahead, use them - it’s on the house.”

    The store manager appeared and looked as displeased as the rest of us.

    So, back to my original intention - I still had to mount this sign, with the wording  ‘Enjoy Our Permanent Paint’, among other things.  I had already lost a lot of time with my involuntary clean up job.

    As I stood on my ladder, trying to fit the half–metre by three metres Plexiglas sign into a metal frame, I remembered that I had left my wallet in the open toolbox, which stood against the building.  I could see it from my vantage point.  However, anyone else could probably see it even better from the sidewalk.  No sooner had I become aware than I noticed a young man in ragged pants and shirt, pacing up and down the sidewalk.  Seemingly, he had no place to go.  Repeatedly, he passed by my toolbox. He must have glanced at least once at the content.  Perhaps I should have stepped down to close it.  Did I take a chance?  On the other hand, just because he was dressed poorly didn’t give me the right to make a judgement.

   The conclusion I had reached put me at ease and I inserted one screw after another to get this job finally done.  To amuse myself, I still thought about the boy who earlier rolled upright against the freshly painted yellow moulding, when a metallic sound that did not belong to the traffic made me look down.  To my amazement the young ragged man stood, bent over my toolbox.  The same individual I had just before apologized to in my mind.  Was it again my imagination?  Maybe there was a good reason.  He might have needed a screwdriver in a hurry.  Sure, said my other voice, he needs what you think, just like you need to tumble of this ladder!

     “Can I help you?” I asked, suppressing suspicion, but by the looks of it, the young man had apparently helped himself already.

    “Hey there, wait a minute!” I yelled upset and descended in a hurry.  I was certain he knew I had seen him as he probably removed my wallet.  He must have heard my voice as well, because in no time he was around the corner.  I jumped down, after him like a goat.  It took me only twenty metres to catch up to him.  I was really steaming.  Wrestling him down was easy.  I felt strong as a conqueror. It should have made me really feel good, however when I felt nothing but rags and bones, it gave me the creeps.  I was just about to deliver a punch yet realized he was not going to defend himself.  He looked at me as if to say, go ahead punish my disadvantage.  Kneeling beside him, holding his head down, I remembered a TV program showing third world people who starve and are in constant distress.

    “Sure, give it to him - let him have it!” some voice cried behind me.

    I lowered my other arm.  “ O.K., man, where is my wallet?” That was my only interest.

    “No wallet, you don’t understand,” a hesitant voice replied.

   “Listen to this guy - we don’t understand,” someone said sarcastically in the expending group, surrounding the action.

   “I saw the whole thing.  Did you say, a wallet?” another voice asked.  “He is a thief!”

   “Oh hell, never mind, what is this?  I’m full of paint!” screamed someone else, which sounded familiar.  It also seemed the cue for the Store manager to appear again on the scene.

    “Jesus Christ, not again!” he howled, and then spotted me over my victim.

    “And what are you doing down here?!  When are you going to finish my bloody storefront?  Stop horsing around.”

    “No, no, you don’t understand.  He’s teaching the bum a lesson.” shouted a voice.

    “Yes, Sir, we must punish him like all stealers should be.  Has no shame, robbing in broad daylight?”

    “A wallet from the painter’s toolbox.”

    “Yeah, Yeah,” the manager replied disinterested.  Turning to me,  “I hope, this is the last I hear before you are finally done or else you might not have any use for your wallet anyhow.”

    Again, some shouts, “someone call the police!”

    “We have to get rid of these good for nothing!”

    “What about the paint on my jacket?”

    “Let him have it!” a voice insisted addressing me.  I had just about enough.  “Shut up everyone and get lost!” I shouted, stood up, held out my hand and help my thief to his feet.  He was reluctant to comply.

    “Listen,” I said, “give me my wallet and I’ll forget whatever happened.”

    “I didn’t take your wallet.”

    “What did you take?”

    “Nothing.”

    “But . . . ”

    “Come and see.” While we walked back to my toolbox, the crowd following us still repeated the demands, insisting that he was full of it.

    I looked at my toolbox, and in deed, there was my wallet.    

   “So, what did you do in my toolbox?” Then I saw a piece of leather that had a drawing of a raven on it.  I took it in my hand and looked at the young man who was, as I now realised, related to an Indian tribe.

    “My grandfather gave me this picture for save keep.  I thought, you make signs and would appreciate the raven.  I might lose it anyhow.”

***

 MANIPULATORS

are in constant motion –    

discontent with matters

the way they have become;

they must alter current stuff.

Their aim is not, to change

the chaos into order,

repair the broken –

mend the torn or beautify

the average or ugly:

Their goal is to render words,

change, remodel sentences

and tailor facts to their gain,

rearrange whatever is tidy -

twist the straight, unravel

the authentic and

composed – and plot

without a story.

Their trademark is to reinvent

a situation, an opinion –

not in the light of progress but

for self-esteem, to restore and

rule and charge their world

of make-believe.

              ***

will change what passes through

their blunt, judgmental mind that suffers

blindness to reality, alike a colour,

perceived to one’s eye as red, when

in fact it is green or something else that

we do not know, because we cannot  see

into the other minds, nor have a reference

to their sensation, just as the liars have

no reference to what they call

The Truth.

The other loss is, their driving ego fails

to notice its own injury to save them at

the edge of lies –

instead, they will remodel every dispute

and theme, in question or not, to assure

their vanity and self-righteous power may

remain in tact,

since nothing else is worse to  Liars than

defeat of their own truth,

to make them think that for once an error

or wrong judgement had degraded them.

End result is, aside of the blindness

to their ‘reality’, scheming, utmost needs,

they will ignore the evidence and call

the facts as they are seen in mirrors

that warp and curve.

                                      ***

a wall, dividing you and me -
dividing us since I remember.
Once I assumed that you were I,
until it proved that suspicion looked,
secretly, through mirrors loopholes,
striking me as a game
one grows tired of.

Sing to the walls, invisible,
raised between mankind -
dividing him since ancient time;
sing to the hoisted flags,
hidden arms,
ready –
waiting for the dark hour.

Cornered by terror,
eradicating last hope of communication,
suspicious loopholes with one-eyed ghosts
become engaged.

Red sky and six feet of earth
surround the buried
while survivors try desperately
by carving symbols and
names into the wall,
to immortalise the fate
of fatal mistakes which
no one ever will
remember.

Sing to the wall a Requiem.

FORECAST

Time is running out, Man,
Noah said,
when he built his Ark.
It is an assumption that life
hung on a thread then -
but time kept running.

Time is running out, Man,
Saint John said
in the book of Revelation.
For millenniums other prophets
proclaimed
the images of Armageddon,
have warned of earthquakes,
floods,
disease,
falling of stars,
fire and brimstone
on last judgement’s day.

Heralds of the desert still call
for penance, and yet
time keeps running.
It seems, the threat is merely
a game, a fairy tale
in a holy script.

But while I recent doomsdays forecast,
Life’s resources diminish day by day -
oil-slicks cover Oceans and coasts;
lakes and rivers consume industries’ waste
as smokestack catapult the acid rain,
millions of exhaust pipes enshroud the sun,
pock holes in the atmosphere that upturn
temperatures, raise water levels to floods,
irretrievably strangling this planet
into submission.

At the prime of Man’s achievements, where
nature reveals itself through calculation,
books of science open - and
suddenly old prophecies return
like ghosts of haunted places -
prophecies that always sounded like
fairy tales.

Time is running out, Man . . .
now say computers’ calculations.
Still, I reply: “I’ll believe when I see it.”
Indications are so unexpected - none of
the holy signs as trumpets, lightning, thunder;
they are not pompous, dramatic - no,
these signs are calm, unassuming, scientific:
Pollution creeps in like a thief in the night,
weakening, decomposing the substance
of growth, while capital and wealth
triumphs on and on - hailing
the monument of fortune.

Time is running out, Man . . .
one reads, faintly written like
a watermark, in the book of science:
“Life of mankind fifty more years to go . . .?”
unless the nuclear,
our garbage in space
or natures way of an asteroid will
strike first . . . ?
Or -
may time keep running?

                     -***-                          1980

CRUEL IS THE LESSON OF

         THE PLAY

The Stage is set
four metres off the floor:
Windowpanes in frames of steel -
seven vertical as A,B,C,D,E,F,G, -
and nine horizontal in a row, which
sums up to sixty and three squares.

A sheet of plastic, transparent, is
taped on window panes, except at
lower left, on pane One A, the tape
gave way, which forms a gap,
an access to a narrow space
between the glass and plastic sheet,
and two metres down a door that is
an entrance to factory’s premise -
and also exit, out to
an endless SPACE.

This is the stage where play begins
with RED ROBIN emerging in low flight,
soars upward through the rafters,
back and forth, around, in the attempt
to exit at the window panes into blue sky.

Looking on, I’ve given up to count
the futile returns, to break the separation
from space to SPACE.
RED ROBIN aims repeatedly for the sky
but crushes anew into the hazy wall.

It’s all the same -
what seemed an exit at first
becomes deception.
I nod my head and say: when will birds
ever learn about those window panes,
and open the door below, but my signal is
in vain. RED ROBIN discounts my did, so

as if this were another trap.
Then, startled by the many rejections
to penetrate this translucent wall,
it stumbles on to the gap at pane One A,
squeezing through the narrow space
between the glass and plastic sheet, on
to One B, Two B, Three C, across, up
to Nine G - then slowly slides down
to Eight B - hard pressed against
the glass, resting, hesitating.
Again I shake my head:
there’s no way out, I say -
if only you would know but
you are just a bird.

RED ROBIN flaps once more its wings,
squeezes upward - reaches Nine G - then lodged
and cornered - kicks, flutters in despair, with dust
and feathers flying until the tape on window pane
Nine G gives way - presenting the escape.

All right, I say, relieved.
If I could fly, I’d show you the way,
but then
if I could fly, I wouldn’t know.

RED ROBIN continues to circle, then aiming
again, peak first, at the transparent wall
(with no lesson learned), slides down to find
again the gap at One A where itself winds up
the narrow space onto the top, in search of
an exit as before, while I know,
it leads to nowhere.

Every so often, I take time out to observe
RED ROBIN passing through the maze.
I try to measure its intelligence.
Most combinations have been explored, so as
to choose the moves in chess. However,
despite the pattern - how innovative the play
progresses on the sixty and three panes -
all hope must shatter on square Nine G
and new faith dwindles more and more
every time at One A.

This is the play - and how I sympathize!
Somehow I must fulfill my own task, which
is nothing more but drowsy repetition.
I sense that I myself return continually
to my own Square One. And I keep thinking -
could this, up there be I? Perhaps it is
and someone at another level, outside my
dimension, is watching me -
nodding its head - all-knowing while I,
stubbornly, insist to brake a transparent wall;
while I choose again and again the way alike
into a vacuum leading, then exit in vain without
a choice, repeatedly only to find myself
at old beginnings?

It’s getting late.
RED ROBIN’S flights are slowing, so do
all efforts to penetrate the glassy wall, only
advances through the narrow space, from
window pane to window pane - still fluttering,
squeezing upward, somehow reaching pane
Nine G, exhausted at the end
but dim beginning of the cycle.

GIVE UP, I say - do not pursue
your unknown fate,
when RED ROBIN, finally drained of strength
glides slowly down, along the wall to meet
a gentle breeze, warm sunlight through
the open door that sends it renewed
with energy into the infinite SPACE.

And here, I nod my head and say:
So it must be -
cruel is the lesson of the play,
which you, inside, do not know,
but when you do and see -
it breaks your heart
to witness such
blind agony.

***

  ALMOST INVISIBLE

Short Story

The low-pitched buzzer hums at 3:00 p.m., someone yells “Break-time!”

I turn my head and look for my co-worker, Brian. He is late but supposed to relief me at this large, four-colour printing press.  He believes it is OK to be late, since I let it usually pass, perhaps more so today, because I’ll be laid off.  For some coworkers, I’m already gone, for others I was never here, nor seen.

“George, go on your last, little break, before the big one, come on!” a voice shouts behind me through the clicking noise of machines.  Finally, here is Brian.

“Thanks, man.  Right on time,” is my reply.  I don’t know why I have to lie.  On the other hand, it could be taken for sarcasm.  Either perception is fine with me.

Slowly I walk to the far end of the printing plant where the noise eases off.  I try to relax for fifteen minutes.  In addition, I don’t have to answer testy questions, listen to plant’s politics or play mind games with other employees in the lunchroom. Often, since working here for eight years, I have found retreat in this remote area.

Looking back, before they hired me, I completed a two-year printing course.  It was a mid-life change of occupation that wasn’t any easier, not without less competition than being a salesperson, which I hated. For a long time I believed in the short Quotation that said: ‘A Salesman is a man, way out there in the blue, riding a smile and shoe shine.’ I finally realized that I could never fake it.  Nevertheless, after I made the change, I proved to management, and myself at least so I thought, that my competence was equal to others, whose position is by now regrettably superior to mine.

Seven years ago, I applied the first time for a printer’s position.  I was confident about handling the work, although management rarely entrusted me with this responsibility.   On the other hand, no one ever complained about my production, when I had to replace someone temporarily, as far as I know.  But a promotion passed me by; it went instead to a young man, who was hired to help me out.  In no time, they put him on a training program.  He is lucky, I said to myself.  I thought, management must have been aware of the fact, that, since the foreman indirectly asked me to help - to teach the man - consequently I could do anything he was about to learn from me.  However, I was wrong, not knowing that the fortunate candidate was the son of the foreman’s friend.  No one made any mention about this promotion in the lunchroom.  It was not really anyone’s concern but mine.

Since then, I come periodically to this considerably quiet end of this printing plant.  Of course, I don’t have to look exactly for secluded places.   Plenty of instances have shown that I’m even unnoticed in a crowd. On the first day of my employment here, I said, “Good morning” to a co-worker who passed by without a reply.  The same thing happened on three other occasions.  Something about me must have been unobservable. I stopped addressing him.  However, by now, some years later, the same person might consider me as a strange fellow who dislikes him for no reason. I had learned - to forgive my neighbour multiple times, yet I couldn’t bring myself around to break the ice.  We work in different departments and pass each other only occasionally.  The situation is not about forgiving, to like or dislike.  What makes matters worse is, he may be a gentleman.  Yet, our encounter is comparable to passing other things that play absolutely no role in one’s life or vice versa - comparable to the point of having vanished.

At yearly company picnics, some employees took camera snapshots.  They displayed all photos in the lunchroom.  Quite frequently, I wasn’t even in one of them, although I’ve never missed this event.

Four years ago, they trained a co-worker, junior to me, as a printer.  Dennis, the head printer who was about to go into retirement liked him.  When he was asked, who would replace him, Dennis pointed at me, saying, “George will probably take my place.”

Self-confidently, I applied for the position.  However, when they held the retirement party, they had given the trainee the promotion. I made an appointment with the manager.     

“May I ask you, why my last application has been overlooked?”

“Oh yes, that.  Listen, George, don’t get me wrong, no doubt, you are a good worker but the management felt you haven’t got enough initiative.  Understandable, you’re past middle age.  We need people, extremely willing.  Furthermore, we’ve never seen you do precise and responsible operations.  And I hate to say this but I have watched you mop up spilled ink or throw away hundreds of printed sheets that were out of register.”

Of course, that was typical: They could miss me with cameras at parties; I could remain invisible when biding a ‘good morning’ to a co-worker or not listened to in a group discussion or I could have someone’s back turned toward me when I would sit down, as if I wasn’t there. Getting my pay cheque one day later because I couldn’t be found; also, replaced a printer on sick-leave, then set up a perfect register on the four-colour printing press and have a flawless run for a day that goes unnoticed. Surely, but when I mope up ink, once in eight years, ink that someone else had spilled and left because they couldn’t care less, and when I threw out sheets, messed up even by the foreman, hallelujah!  I suddenly was visible, on record - seen by the almighty management!

A year later, they posted another promotion on the board.  Co-workers kept saying, George, don’t give up now - keep applying or they’ll have an excuse.  I overheard someone remark, ‘oh, him?  No chance.  He doesn’t have a friend at this place.  Were they talking about me?  I would find out soon enough.  History kept repeating itself.  Management didn’t even give me a formal reply.  One day, an apprentice began to give me orders - that was it.  Yes, they finally must have been talking about me.

Two years ago, a printer got sick and died within two months.  They asked me to replace him in the last five weeks with no ado on my part.  Nevertheless, when the position became vacant, the foreman introduced me to Patricia, newly employed.  Taking me aside, he said, “George, I know what you’re thinking, but you should know, they had put great pressure on me to give her this job.  Please, leave me out of it!”

Patricia came from a small factory that went broke.  No question, she knew her stuff, and so did I.  So, what was the point?

A few months later, they had told me, she said to someone, ‘George may not be very sociable.  He walks around with a chip on his shoulder.  Perhaps he resents my skill because I’m a woman.’

One day, I stopped the manager between paper skids: “May I have a word with you, Mr. Gray?”

“Certainly, what is on your mind, George?”

“Look, Sir, you must be aware that I keep applying for a promotion but I’m not getting anywhere.”

“Yes, I know but unfortunately it is not in my power.” A perfectly innocent smile flashed over his face.  “You know that we have to comply with the board’s decision - a democratic process.  We work with a point system as fair as we can.  Concerning our last hiring of Patricia, if that is what you’re inferring - I doubt you quarrel with her performance.”

“No, Sir, not at all.  I only thought that my own ability and years of service to the company would rate some consideration as well.”

“They do, George, please.  However, we were in a tight spot this time.”

“How is that?”

“Well, the Department of Human Resources has accused the company of discriminating against women.  We had to show a good example.”

“You mean, on my account.”          “George, we had no choice.” Again, this redeeming smile surfaced.

“I see.  Mr. Gray, let’s forget for a minute my promotion.  Would you consider a 5 percent raise then?”

“Did you say - more money?”

“Yes, I did, matter of fact.”

“I hear that you have paid off your house . . . “

I nodded, “so to speak.”

“Your wife is working and two children just about grown up, making some kind of a living.”          

“Not quite - one is still at University.”

“That’s good, George.  You see we give raises usually to people who have young families or are bachelors who have to pay high rent.  Everything is so expensive. O.K., we will see.” 

That was the last of it and I have never seen anything, particularly not more money.

Looking at my watch I realize, break-time is nearly over.  What is the sense of reminiscing?  Last year, at least, I made my point.  My pride is still in tact.  One of the printers received a better offer somewhere else, which opened a position.  This time I decided not to apply.  Nobody approached or encouraged me.  Just as well.  They hired Mr. Gray’s nephew who claimed ten years experience in the business but constantly keeps asking for advice.  It turned out, he never really worked on a four-colour printing press.  Any problem I solve for him, he claims the idea as his own, already earned a few handshakes.

   “George, here you are,” a voice calls behind me.  I turn around.  It is the manager, Mr Gray.  “So, how are you?”

“Should I say, fine?”

   “Listen, George, I’m sorry that we have to lay you off.  Believe me, it wasn’t my idea. Of course, some people in management noticed that you showed no interest in a last year’s promotion.  That may have hurt you.  We need people with competitive spirit and pride in their work.”

   And I’m thinking, what do you know, they have noticed me, after all; they noticed me when I stopped to take notice of them. Anyhow, it proved, I wasn’t totally invisible.

   “But besides that,” Mr. Gray continued, “the major factor is, as you know, too many plants are closing.  The country doubtless is in a recession.  Our company feels the pinch.  Top performance from our employees is essential.  That’s the only way we can match our competitors and increase our production . . .  “

   It may appear as if I’m listening but I stare by Mr. Gray’s face, thinking about my old, stinking job as a salesman.  What he doesn’t know is, had I returned to my old, cunning tricks when I sold thrash, which I despised at the end, very likely I could have become management.  I might also be someone that everyone can see and possibly dislikes.  On the contrary, someone else would now be on his way, out the door.  However, I have promised to myself never again to endorse the line  . . . ’in the blue, riding a smile and shoe shine.’ Without, now I can sleep nights.

   “Well, good luck,” I hear Mr. Gray conclude his explanation.  “You don’t have to stay until the end of shift.  Leave anytime.” Again, I notice this, to my eye, exuberant smile, slightly embarrassed.

   “A good point,” I reply, only half listening, set myself in motion and reach almost invisibly the change room.

***

images that amuse
when seen from outside
appearing like some comic-strips

but within the blazes burn
as senseless hell

eyes go astray
and what is called soul
becomes tormented

brains evaporate
by the glow of torturous tools
and charity plunges
into the pit
destination
cancer

at all corners
of the earth
devils
light
fires

***