Common Joes
An ode to the "ordinaries"
His wife and kids, a son and a daughter, their eyes glued to the TV. Unprompted, the little brother took his sister’s hand and ran to their bunk bed next to the kitchenette, drawing the curtains. Upon this, their mother, still watching the evening news, stood from the sofa and went to the door, clearing out the shoes and slippers on the way. She then stuck close to the walls, making herself as thin and small as possible, and waited. Minutes later, you could hear him jangling the keys and opening the door, and you could hear the dripping rain, the squidgy boots, the rattling tools, and the loud bike as he tried to squeeze through. The neighbours had long turned out their lights, but his were still on, inside and out.
As usual, the shower, the scrubbing, the cursing, and no sooner than fifteen minutes since he returned, he was on his bed, snoring like sawblades on wood. He rose at around six the next morning, fully-dressed in his overalls, bike readied. Another day, another job. He didn’t smoke, could have been a picture of health even, but the job’s left his chest and neck a shade of yellow you would see from people who would smoke a pack before breakfast. And if it weren’t for his overalls, you could see the scales on his legs, not magical ones. Spending days on end in the sewers will do that to you.
He’s a plumber for a state company. Even though most of the work is outside under the raging sun, his trusty mining cap, the type with a big flashlight on it, never seems to be off. It is always pitch black in the sewers, so much so that even with the flashlight, the back of his hands were more scars than skin, results of a missed hammer or axe or chisel, whatever he was using at the time to get rid of gunk or a tree root. Removing these obstruction required man’s hand, for machine can only suck out so much from the pothole.
Before every job, he would rub a bar of soap all over himself, inside and outside of his clothes, then on top of that a type of cologne. He said it was easier to cleanup afterwards when he’s home. And if he smelled good, his wife’s nose wouldn’t have to scrunch up in bed. Women like hygienic men, he said.
Work was hard, but he was hard-working. Coupled that with the neighbours asking him to help with their own plumping issues, after giving the money to his wife for essentials, and after drinking of course, he was able to save up a hefty sum, just for the off chance any of them got sick. He put all of it in his wallet.
But living in the middle of the city, it was impossible to avoid. Drinking had become “culture,” much to the dismay of everyone. Pouring one out for your co-workers after a hard day of work, another for your boss who was treating you, then came the rice wine. You couldn’t leave without the rice wine, what’s the point of drinking in the first place?
The colorful conversations of the plumbers can be summed up as followed:
- …if you really want to remove gunk from the middle of the pipes, grab your nearest tires, file them down a bit to fit, cut them in half, put wires in between, lowered them, then pull, slowly. The machine will do the rest after.
Applause and cheer. A standing ovation.
-… you gotta be careful down there. We are the only profession that could proudly proclaim to have “died in shits.”
Laughter filled the room.
Emptied beer cans, emptied wine bottles, the group went home, barely able to put one leg down after another. Miraculously, he rode home safe. Alcohol filled, he thought it was bed to put his money in the pair of Chelsea boots he received from his boss, the very pair he only wear once a year for very special occasions. And as normal, he climbed to bed.
His wife got laid off after her maternity leave, and had been out of work since. In this economy, even store clerks required degrees. At home, she sighed, letting out breaths that got longer by the day. Her hair was unkempt, her fair skin was now pale, her eyes now seem to be focusing on one spot for too long. Carrying out heavy thoughts, she was losing weights rapidly.
His son and daughter were holding each other close behind the curtains. It was the usual scene, his wife stuck close to the walls like a squid, while he himself smelled of alcohol. When he didn’t drink, they were the world to him. When he did, you could hear the grind of his teeth from two blocks away. The curses and swears came like unclogged drain.
-…ucker where the fuck is my money? It’s one thing you don’t fucking work, lounging around my fucking house all day, now you’re stealing?
He finally touched a nerve, and the sound of her broken heart was deafening, drowning out even his rageful screams. She was well within reach, of the axe, the hammer, the chisels, the very tools he carefully sharpen everyday after work. Heat was radiating from the broken heart. Like an overheated engine. Heat was at her feet, she could feel it. Now it ran through her hands, to her cheeks, to her head. Then she saw his yellowed skin, his scale legs. His wife fell to the ground, like a rag doll.
Of course, the alcohol drove him even angrier at the sight.
- You want to fucking faint now? When we’re all out of money you fucking bitch?
And just before he could kick her, his kids burst out of the curtains, holding their mom, crying, calling for help. The orchestra of screams and cries, unpracticed at first, was drown out by the night. Eventually, the boy and his sister found their rhythm, and their piece was heard, by Mr Tam, then Mrs Minh, then the whole neighbourhood was on the other side of the door. One of the men busted the door down, and the women quickly moved to rub some ointment on his wife’s temples. He ran away.
He doesn’t drink anymore. After work, and after sharpening his tools, you would see him already at home, showered, in front of the TV. Today, he sat with his son on his lap, reading the wedding invitation from his colleague. He then proceeds to go over the corner of his house, where he kept the leather loafers. His wife will be home soon. He smiles.