Bitter Fish Page 3
Chapter 3: Back to work.
48 hours ago I was sitting in a roadside hut in Africa that smelled of sewage, drinking beer and eating mystery meat. 48 hours ago I left a primitive civilization to return to the center of the United States, the other side of the world, basically another world. I wonder what the guide would think of paved roads, air conditioned cars and street signs. That would probably be enough to give him culture shock, never mind skyscrapers, the Gateway Arch, supermarkets and all of our other modern wonders. St Louis had never seemed so beautiful to me as the plane banked over downtown and we made our final approach.
At three A.M. the airport was slow. I sort of doubted Erik would be waiting for me, but there he was. I found him standing by the baggage claim carousel, a tired look on his face. He gave me a big hug and asked about the flight, Africa, commented that I had lost weight. I told him to watch for my sea bag as I had to visit the toilet every fifteen minutes, and was currently over clocked, it being at least a half an hour since the stewardess had made everyone sit down and buckle in.
My things collected we walked to his car. “You prayed for me in Africa didn’t you?” I ask as soon as we were out of ear shot of everyone. This is a strange question for me to ask. Erik, like myself, was raised Catholic and abandoned that religion the moment he could, I bet he hasn’t set foot in a church for a mass in 25 years. I know he and I share a similar view that organized religions are mostly money making businesses.
“What?” Erik stops and looks at me. “How did you know?”
I don’t know how I knew. “I got really sick over there, had all these hallucinations, that one just sort of came back to me when I saw you.”
He is silent for a while then responds, “Yes, I did. I didn’t tell anyone, I know you think it is silly, but I was worried about you and where you were going.”
I thank him and we head to work were I had left my car. I had taken every day of vacation that I could to spend the month in Africa so I was due back at work in a few hours. My job as a computer programmer suddenly seemed like a mystery. I didn’t think I would be able to remember what I did, or how to do it.
I do know that Monday through Friday I basically do enough work to not get fired. I used to be a motivated employee. I used to give my best effort every day. My employer rewarded me for this by telling me how great I was and promising a raise or a promotion soon. Dangle that carrot in front of a horse long enough and the horse will give up. So now I have my own theory, I will work at the level they pay me.
I think the entire IT department has taken this attitude, even up through the lower level management. Work is as work does and we all plug away at our jobs. None of us like our jobs though. I remember I used to love writing code, couldn’t wait to get to work, now I am just another burned out programmer. It was a slow process, the burning out. At first everything is new and exciting, but soon one project looks a lot like the last project. You never do anything new or interesting, just modify existing components to fit some existing piece of another puzzle.
The first day back at work goes pretty easily, mostly just going through the hundreds of emails and phone calls I missed. Then I had to talk to random people that come by to see how it went in Africa, see how I am doing. Everyone asks to see pictures, to which I told them that I just got off the plane a few hours ago, haven’t had them developed yet. Everyone comments that I lost weight, a lot of weight. I tell them how there wasn’t much food, what we could find to eat was often not very good. Dysentery had gotten all of us that went, but all in all, I loved my trip.
“Ready for the Stratford?” Robert asks. I am glad to see him poke his head over the cube, finally somebody who could care less about Africa and just wants to drink some beer and have some fun. The Stratford Bar and Grill is a filthy vile hole full of belligerent drunks and rough women where happy hour never ends. I suppose there is a down side to it as well, but the beer is cheap, so we keep going there.
“What time?” I reply.
“I am ready now, can’t take this place anymore,” he says. I am sure he means it. It’s close enough to quitting time so Robert and I head over.
Walking in to the Stratford I see the same gray faces that were here last time I visited. They sit in a row at the end of the bar, nursing their beer through the day. Not so much to save money as to not get too drunk before last call. It’s a strange mix of retirees, some younger, some older all with a vacant look. Its hard to tell it is the same exact people as last time, but they are the archetypical drunk that any barfly has come to know and is replaceable with any other.
“Get any strange over there?” Robert asks as we order beer. “Not only no, but HELL NO! Half the country has aids, other half is waiting to get it. No way in hell I was going to risk it, even double bagging it,” I reply. “Besides, I can’t even speak the language how do you go about trying to hook up with that sort of language barrier.”
“Wave money and point, works in those brothels down in Mexico.”
I just laugh, Robert has been in and out of more cheap whore houses than many a sailor.
“There were a lot of whores in the Ouagadougou, one of them even spoke English. Sort of sad, she was a refugee from Liberia. I am sure she didn’t want to sell her body, but with no other options, well you do what you got to do. “
“Was she hot?” Robert asks suddenly interested
“For an African I suppose, they like their women bigger and curvier over there, it’s a symbol of wealth to be fat”
“Well anyway, you think any whore likes what they do? Hell, we are all prostitutes, we all sell something. Some sell their muscles doing manual labor, some sell their minds, some sell their skills; but everyone has to sell something. Trick is find something you like to do and sell it. That is why we all have jobs.”