Mechanism
I ask him what the lever does, but he just laughs at me. Showing me his sharpened teeth.
I saw this ad on Gumtree. £18,000 pcm for light manual labour in an old converted warehouse in the nice part of the city. Flexible hours.
When I turn up at the place it looks like any other building that used to be for storing things and is now a place where people make phone calls, reply to emails, fill in spreadsheets. I’m not sure what I was expecting exactly, but the name of the company made me think it must be some kind of printing or laminating business. I thought I’d be moving boxes in the cellar, putting things in vans. Not exactly the kind of work I’d done before but I needed something to tide me over until my PhD funding started to come through. I figured I’d work there for a few months, pick up a few pay cheques, and then vanish as soon as I could. Maybe even keep working there part time during the PhD if the hours were decent.
And there was something I liked about the idea of honest labour. Picking things up. Putting them down. Using my body, rather than my brain. Having tired muscles and a sense of fulfilment when I went home to my flat. Not something I’m used to. I’m used to sitting on my arse and typing and feeling vaguely impotent and emasculated. My brother’s in the army. I think I have a kind of complex about it.
Anyway I spend a bit of time on the street making sure I have the right address. There’s this nice renovated studio next door and some kind of gym on the other side, but this one’s got weeds growing through the steps leading up to it. The door looks like it needs repainting. There’s a brass plate with a button set into it, which looks like it’s from a decade before I was born.
After a while I press the button, just to prove to myself that this must be the wrong place.
But then the door begins to crackle, and I realise I’m being buzzed through. I push it open out of sheer embarassment. Let it slam shut behind me.
And then I’m in an empty warehouse, cobwebbed, abandoned. Old mattress in the corner with weird stains on it. Plants growing in through a broken window. My eyes dart back and forth to take it all in, but my feet feel like they’re glued to the floor.
The guy appears, eventually. He climbs down a rickety wooden ladder, from a trapdoor in the ceiling. He’s bald and gaunt and tall, and wearing some kind of tailcoat. I get the feeling for a moment that he might be a tailor. Maybe they store old hats here, or something like that. But as he gets closer he starts grinning, with his head held slightly sideways, and I feel the hairs stand up on my neck. Back against the door. His skin is grey. His ears are too long. His eyes are too dark and vast.
“Welcome, welcome,” he says. He extends his hand for me to shake it, and I can’t remember ever wanting to do something less. His fingers are too long. He has a kind of ruffed sleeve thing going on, under his coat. Victorian. Or older.
“Oh, how foolish of me,” he says. “We can’t do that any more, can we? All of this coronavirus nonsense. World’s gone mad. Now, follow me over here and we’ll go through the orientation.”
And I do follow him, because I’m slightly scared of what will happen if I don’t. But then I realise what he said. Orientation. I thought this was just the interview, but he’s talking as though I’ve already got the job. That changes something, makes me smile, melts the lump of ice that had formed somewhere halfway down my spine. I see a spider the size of a mouse scuttling accross the floor, but suddenly that seems charming. Not a reason to leave. Maybe he’s just a bit eccentric. Nothing wrong with that.
On the far wall of the warehouse there’s a kind of crank-handle lever sticking out of the wall. It’s made of black wrought iron, with a wooden grip. Like a windlass or a ratchet, that you crank round and round. Maybe for opening a big garage door? But there aren’t any doors like that in here. Not that I can see.
The man with the long fingers stops next to it and smiles at me again. Showing me his sharpened teeth.
“I just need you to turn this handle,” he says.
I look at him sceptically. He doesn’t stop smiling. It doesn’t seem to occur to him that this might be seen as a strange request. This is when I ask him what it does, and he laughs at me.
“Never mind that,” he says. “Above your pay grade. All you need to do is turn it.”
I stand there for a moment, with questions dying in my throat. He blinks and smiles. Eventually there’s nothing left to do but reach out towards the handle.
“Erm,” I say. “Which way do I....clockwise, or anticlockwise?”
The man with the long fingers looks surprised. Uncertain. That only lasts for a moment, before the smile returns. “Whichever you prefer!”
I nod, and force myself to laugh. Then I wrap my left hand around the grip.
I don’t get electrocuted or teleported anywhere. The handle moves slightly, even with the slightest force. When I’m sure it’s safe, I take a good grip and start cranking it clockwise. Slowly and experimentally, at first. I get the feeling that it connects with something, on the other side of the wall. There are gears are turning, teeth meshing. Weights and counterweights moving. I can hear vague sounds, feel vague motions. There is a great mechanism of some kind.
The man with the long fingers is grinning even more widely. “There you are! Nothing to it. Keep doing that until, say, five o’ clock? How does that sound?”
“Erm,” I say. “Do I get a lunch break?”
“What? Oh! Yes, yes, I should think so. We all need to eat occassionally, don’t we? How long do you want?”
“H...how about an hour? From...half twelve?”
“Sounds very reasonable. Now I’ll be just upstairs, but I can’t imagine you’ll need me for anything! You’re already doing a wonderful job. I think you’ll fit right in, here. You keep going. See yourself out, when you’re done, won’t you? No need to lock up!”
That was the last time I saw him. He climbed back upstaurs and pulled the laddercup behind him. Closing the hatch. It’s stayed shut ever since.
So I kept cranking the handle, until about five o’ clock. I took an hour for lunch, in the middle. Went to a fancy sandwich bar. I thought about writing a Tweet, but part of me wanted to keep it secret. What if somebody else applied, took the job from me? I put the phone back in my pocket. Enjoyed my sandwich. Went back to work. Walked home with tired arms.
I spent that night staring at the ceiling of my flat and thinking very hard. I wrote a draft email to the guy, to tell him that the job wasn’t for me. I nearly sent it. But then I checked my bank account, and saw that my first month’s wages had already been paid.
It’s been a few weeks now, and I’m so glad I didn’t quit.
I think the best thing about it is that I don’t have to talk to anyone, all day. I can let my mind wander. I never worry that I’m doing it wrong, or that I might get caught shirking. I’m even getting a pretty good arm workout from it. When one arm gets tired I just turn around and face the other way and use the other arm for a while. My biceps look great. I’ve started wearing polo shirts more often. When I go for my lunch break and sit outside a cafe and eat my overpriced sandwich I find myself smiling, feeling the sun on my face. Brushing the cobwebs off my jeans.
It’s actually the most fulfilled I’ve felt in years.