The Gold-Paved Ginnel

First story I ever wrote. Taken from abctales.com

'Strange thoughts swarmed me before I woke

Strange voice so soft that when it spoke

I could not be sure that it was there

Or just the whispers of night air'

Tardiness is a crime of the workingman. Weeks of solid, unbroken attendance at your job's location go unnoticed, and are generally without reward. A man can work without a week's leave for the best years of his life, and a fitting remuneration will be not be forthcoming. I have found this to be the accepted vogue wherever I have labored, and despair of this situation is compounded by the compliant attitude of near any colleague that has made my acquaintance. Conformity is always encouraged and expected; an accepted trait that overrides any sense of anarchy that may dwell within a being.

In my experience, there are two basic groups of workers. There are those who leave any feelings of rebellion and emancipation at the door, finding that providing for their own desires and addictions, or the requirements of those dependent on their breadwinning tends to hold a sway more alluring than the biting of the hand that feeds them. Perhaps this is not an utopian existence, but is one that is commendable insofar as that they know that catharsis will be theirs most days, even if it is for the most fleeting of moments, thanks to the appreciative nature of vice and altruism.

The second breed of employee is a strain that I find hard to speak well of on almost any level, and they thrive in any workplace, factory or office, that I have encountered, and I have worked in many. Those I speak are baffling indeed, for in my judgment their apparently self-serving raison d'etre is fundamentally flawed.

The ones to whom I refer, are the followers of a route of career progression I consider to be most foul, even gauche. For example, they may take it upon themselves to toil unscheduled hours ad hoc, providing their employers with gratuitous man-hours. Perhaps they may befriend their co-workers, whilst their ulterior motive is to be able to report back any murmurs of discontent to their overlords, such is the manner of their obsequious ways. This eagerness to please is surely a gesture most futile; a desperate attempt to climb a ladder that is essentially, without rungs. For while they congratulate themselves inside whenever praise is forthcoming from those they try so hard to gratify, I can't think or a more sickening road to self contentment.

It is these attitudes to life that have led to my inner turmoil, as it appears that serving a powerful organisation for the best part of the day, and the best years of your life in exchange for a mere pittance is perceived as normality, and to fly in the face of this unchallenged perversity would be regarded by fellow workers as an act of lunacy; a paradox that only worsens any stability that you may have in life. It is therefore my wish to supposed mad, as this would mean I had spoken out against he whom I have grown to detest, the uber sycophant, the most distastefully accomplished flatterer of fellow men you could ever labour with, Daniel Levante.

Current occupation is dreary and arbitrary, and involves the receiving and subsequent dispatch of packages, for the parcel packaging company Brooker&Morris Ltd. Levante is entrusted with the running of my shift, and takes great personal joy in kidding himself that he is a celebrated, revered leader of men. O how I wish to tell him this isn't so! For loathing, not admiration prevails amongst his subordinates, with many a good reason. Listen to this wretched tale of despicable behaviour; concerning the handyman of the factory, a young man called James.

A heady mixture of hormones and naivety, and a steamy introduction to the world of copulation with the equally dim-witted and sexually charged local loudmouth Vicky Farnsworth had left this desperate factotum with an unplanned mouth to feed, and he found himself struggling to make ends meet. After calling time on his duties one afternoon, James had found himself to be the last person to leave work when he noticed the day's takings had not been stowed away in the safe, as they usually would be. Not wishing to endure another night squabbling with his lover over the paucity of foods within their larder, which had become commonplace since the untimely arrival of their child, James decided to take the money. Telling Vicky of his deed, and finding her willing to forgive this petty crime in exchange for a week's worth of good food and wine they enjoyed a week of drinking fine wine instead of water, and savouring fresh butcher's meat, instead of the cheap, stringy offcuts they had done with.

The impudence of their age and failure to be resourceful with this surprise windfall was to mean that it soon was squandered. Soon, the same old arguments around the table replaced the tasty morsels and beverages upon it, and James started to feel pangs of guilt for the misdemeanour he had committed. Wanting to ease his conscience clean, James decided to confess the sin to Levante. To his surprise, the young father was placated, made to feel at ease with what he had done, and was reassured that Levante himself would deal with him, without involving the higher powers that be within the company. James was rejuvenated by these words, although they came from a man he knew to be considered untrustworthy by so many of his colleagues. Sometimes though, the young choose to walk the path blinded by the promise of unconditional redemption, despite the irrationality of this decision. James fair sprinted down this gold-paved ginnel.

It still haunts me to think of that young man found hanging from the company sign, following his dismissal from Brooker&Morris. It pains me to think of the decline that the lad's life went through once Vicky took his child away, finally tiring of the lack of monies that she craved so. This double betrayal, of his trust and of his love and devotion, proved too much to bare for the young man. Angry thoughts turned to violent urgings, but his well intended reprisal of these emotions only furthered his downfall. Conspirational voices uttered threats and suggestions of his nightmares, and he finally turned to suicide to end the torturous slogans inside his head that he feared carrying out on others. When he went, however, these thoughts left him, but not the living- it's my life that is now unbearable, ruined by the deserved madness that haunts me. 'Tis I, who is the subject of the cruel whispers, screams and echoes of the night. 'Tis I, Levante, by rights, who should be dead.

'The sound grew quicker like my pulse

No chance this hearing could be false

My attention was duly rapt

And on the door my eyes were clapped

I saw the entrance open slow

The fear grew in my stomach so

A shadow grew upon the floor

The quiet voice became a roar'