Link Aidos

Before his devastating battle and eventual death from prostate cancer, Charlie Madever had been a close friend of the family. Heíd played with my brothers and me when we were younger. As weíd grown up heíd been a sound source of inspiration, he was a keen on the movies, and I fondly remember him introducing the latest science fiction film on his state of the art videocassette recorder. With lights dimmed and refreshments at hand, the evenings spent with Mr. Madever always left a mark.
It was a stretch getting this job, but as the previous owner, Charlie still held a certain amount of mana with the new operators. At the conclusion of my final year at school, not long after my seventeenth birthday, he and my parents had coerced me into working at Super Saver, 12-9pm Tuesday to Saturday.
The only time I have ever committed theft as an employee was at the end of my first summer at that supermarket. On my penultimate evening, I grabbed a handful of sweets and jammed them in my pockets. In the privacy of the staff room I had stealthily shown my pocketís contents to Michael Collins. The following day had been marred by a short visit to the managerís office. I had side stepped the issue by attacking Michael Collinsí credibility. Michael Collins was a troublemaker and further cross-examination was out of the question seeing he had just been fired. His accusations rendered no fruit, though this still initiated a string of sleepless nights.
The following year I was given the early shift. Although my previous supervisor had subsequently moved on to greener pastures, I still felt a certain amount of distrust surrounded me. So diligently I worked my way back into favor. It was during this second year that Mr. Madever passed away. Ron, the manager and his son Robert drove me to the funeral directly from work, it was one of the more saddening days of my privileged existence, I distinctly recall the lonely feeling, of being surrounded by inconsolable drunk people at the wake. I was certain, had Charlie been there, that heíd have avoided the drunken misery and instead come into the garden to indulge us young ones. Supermarket types from all over the country came for his funeral. Initially I figured it was all about the free booze, but to be fair Charlie Madever was a widely respected man in his field. He had worked as an errand boy for his fatherís dairy before expanding to own his first supermarket and legend has it that he had at one time or another worked in every supermarket position. I on the other hand have more than enough difficulty just waking up in the morning so fortunately in this, my third year, I have again been bequeathed the evening shift with its late nights and sleep-ins. I am well pleased.
My position is store-man. My tools are an orange craft knife and a blue biro pen. With the knife I cut open packages filled with smaller packages and place these on the shelves. With the blade I cut pieces of cardboard off packages to write lists on with the pen. I list that which is lacking. The reinforcement stock is either above the shelves or out back through the plastic doors. Above the aisles towers a cardboard box cityscape. I transport new boxes from out back using one of the non-motorized forklifts known as a jiffy. I pile on just enough cartons to allow foot space and then glide out to the cerealsí aisle lowering and raising the pneumatic hoisting mechanism as I go. The job is often done in pairs and intermittently I attach my knife to another workers to snap off the blunt blade tip.
When my cargo is deployed I ride back with the empties to the crusher. The crusher is a sea green iron piece of machinery about the size of a telephone booth. Each night, once it is full, a cumbersome block of densely packed papyrus material is rolled out into the yard.
Both the crusher and the disposal of refuse are the responsibility of store-man Ted. Old Ted wears brown walk shorts and usually has a few eggs in his hand. He is a frail skinny wee man with bony knees and a shock of salt and pepper hair sparking off his head. His reconditioned spectacles hang off the edge of his nose requiring him to crane his head just so as he speaks and in conversation his topics are often lewd, at best ripe with innuendo. Itís rumored among the store-men that he is fond of young boys so the two youngest store-men; Tane and Gareth only come in on the weekend.
Once dragged from the crusher, the cube is as heavy as wood. Ted always asks one of the younger store-men to assist him rolling it on to one of the jiffies. If none are available then itís all the way out back to the rubbish tip. The general consensus is; ì watch for the handsî. Ted preys on the ass and thigh region and although covering them is a sound defense, it is generally agreed that retaliation should be avoided.
The slug gun is out back between the powders and the grains. Kept for shooting stray birds, the weapon finds more action piercing the highest bags of sugar letting a gentle sugarfall trickle onto the golden syrup or canned fruit, ricocheting off about the tinned baby powder and boxed jam jars. I find this a pleasant point to meditate upon. You just pull yourself up on that pallet pile and listen to that Andrew Lloyd Webber like you mean it. Donít get me wrong, Iím a good worker, itís just that the weekends are slow. Saturday morning sees a bit of traffic; hungover husbands on a reconciliation trip, or mothers preparing for a birthday party, by the afternoon and from there on in itís a ghost train. You sweep and you pack shelves, then maybe you reorganize them before sweeping around out back. If you feel like some exercise you can do the milk. But when you do milk, your hands graze against the plastic crates in the chiller. The slabs of butter present further difficulty with their reluctance to clean incision. Even an indelicate performance may forgo the possibility of rendering any spread at all onto the dairy shelves. If the chiller has broken down and the day is hot, those neat blocks are silly putty upon impact with the concrete floor. Fortunately Aidos usually does the milk, so we all rest soundly.
Aidos is a great ox of a man, a lumbering hulk of warm fuzzies ready to lend a hand in any situation. While he is as lovable and dependable as the trusty Boxer, it would be difficult to maintain that Aidos is as beautiful or truly useful a creature. Still roofed by a thin wisp of hair his skull has never housed any magnificent thoughts, his face has never been handsome, his eyes have never said I know. The only fixture his features can perform competently is that gentle chaste confusion of a simple man.
Aiden (as he was christened) is easily identifiable by the glistening puddle of perspiration clinging to his forehead. The wispy bum fluff covering his scalp could be indication that a large proportion of his income his invested in hair transplants. While no one else in the supermarket has so much as a bead of sweat, he is literally soaked. Every break he drinks a 330ml bottle of chocolate milk. He doesnít sit with the other storemen discussing mags and car stereos; he sits alone in silence perhaps reflecting on how he could work harder. Occasionally the menís conversation will stray from cars and women, and to disrupt this awkwardness one of them may direct a question at Aidos. No matter what the query or inference, the exchange always ends with Aidos muttering
ìThatíll be the day.î Chuckling self-consciously, finishing his milk and making a hasty exit. Even before the other storemen have finished their break Aidosís armpits are once again soaked with that familiar brine. Yet strangely enough Aidosís perspiration is never accompanied by any odour. There is no characteristic stench lingering about him. He is a gleaming mirage beyond the desert of soup cans and freshly baked pastries. He is a myth, an elusive legend roaming the aisles and to be fair Aidos is very well liked.
Now not much is ever spoken or written about supermarket politics. Perhaps it is not an issue that concerns anyone a great deal. Indeed it hasnít the glamour or prestige of international or even local government. But in every supermarket around the world there is a hierarchy and furthermore on every excursion you make to these hallowed temples of consumerism you are party to and perhaps even act as a catalyst between the various agencies. As you shop you are altering these allocations of power and in turn aiding in the restructuring and redistribution of new freedoms and responsibilities.
I am not describing that financial division, which is evident between, say a manager and a trolley boy. Nor is it so much that distinction and competitiveness which one may think they perceive between different departments (for example the butchery and the bakery). There is very little contact between these areas and any recognised order therein is basically externally unalterable. These departments are enigmas even to the rest of us supermarket employees, and as a storeman I often get the sense that if the shop were to go ass over tit and turn bankrupt, these subcultures could still flourish by some inexplicable means.
So to clarify, I will first draw your attention to the bread and butter of this community, that is the storemen (who run errands and place the produce on the shelves) and the check out operators (who total your purchase and take your money). Whether you pay attention or not, each time you visit your supermarket you will hear announcements over the P.A. system. The voice might say something like:
ìCan Justin please report to checkout 6.î At the time this seems very natural and it is reassuring to know that if there is any problem with your transaction you will also be eligible for similar assistance. The factor you donít consider, (and I donít mean you specifically); is that being called to the checkout is an event of significance for the concerned worker. Not only is it a break from the mundane routine with the prospect of an interim occupation, it is an audible confirmation of a storemanís status in the aforementioned pecking order. So when I first began this job and once that virginal disorientation had faded, obtaining entry into this privileged echelon became my number one priority.
As with anything in this world I find the best way to get ahead is to pick a role model to emulate. So I bided my time, I kept my head down and I worked hard all the while observing the flow of things. Finally and with assurance I concluded that all roads led to Aidos. Compared to the other storemen, Aidos got at least five times as many call-ups. The most interesting aspect of this was that in every other respect, Aidosís position in the store hierarchy was comparatively lowly: He had no special responsibilities. He was not highly regarded by the management. But he was the most called upon, and for someone like me (who unlike Charlie Madever has no real ambitions in this business other than to remain occupied and carefree), this was a most compelling attribute. So I watched him.
I watched him from the moment he arrived in the morning, with his damp forehead and bicycle clips. I watched him packing the shelves, and refilling the dairy chiller. I scrutinized his activities during breaks and I paid careful attention to the protocol he used when called to a checkout. I observed him in the afternoon helping Ted with the eggs, and I watched him in the evening when he would go and ask the duty manager for permission to sweep the floor. I watched him sweep that floor.
Every day at a quarter to nine he would go and stand at the main door and exchange words with the security guard. Once the store was locked and the money had been driven away, he would say ëcheerioí to those left before pedaling off down the avenue.
I observed him doing this many times. But unlike any other individual I have watched, unlike any other person I have set my sights on, Aidos gave me nothing. Like an empty coffee jar he teased me. A rich aroma, but no beans. Some people have a trick or a chop. A little spell they cast upon others to better achieve their aims. But with Aidos there is none of that. He is blank. When you ask him how he is, he carefully contemplates his answer. Even when you say hello, he checks himself. This is Aidos, but this is not what I wanted. I wanted an easy answer. I needed something tangible.
It was a cool bright summer morning during my third tenure. I was working morning fill through the public holidays for time and a half. The crisp air shone, laced with the fragrance of bagged fruit and damp cardboard. Inside the store was much cooler, the veggies were fresh and the first run of baked buns was being tossed into a Perspex display container. As the heavy roller door rode up its oily chain the first cracks of daylight poured into the store room. A sharp beam scanned up the shelves and their contents. It raced along the floor and climbed up the back wall over the dates and saltanas. It worked its way over a rattling bin of cashew nuts being carried out to the bulk foodís section. I was filling the crusher, passing Tane empty cartons from the morning fill when the sunbeam shot through us. Dazzled, I turned my eyes to the blinding wake of the opening door. A sparrow flew out the cavernous entrance, and across the way in the car park I noticed a bright red Mini.
Now it wasn't so much the car itself as the driver, which stole my attention. Squeezed into the front seat, like a thoroughbred in a horse-float, Aidos was maneuvering the vehicle into a tight spot between the bike stand and the orange dumpster. Knees up around his ears and elbows contorted within the remaining space, he gently edged the vehicle back with a methodical tact, which only furthered my conviction that he had surely missed his true calling in life. I couldnít be sure exactly as to what Aidosís true calling could be, but it struck me that he seemed rather too conscientious to be whiling away his days slicing open cartons and arranging perishables. As he pried himself from the mini, Robert, the managerís son roused me from my distraction. He needed someone in aisle one to finish packing the breakfast cereals.
This day was like any other, neither here nor there, I went backwards and forwards, sweeping or mopping, loading and unpacking. After lunch I enjoyed an hour outside substituting for a misplaced IHC trolley boy. The asphalt shone and pulsed across the car park, my work boots were baking underfoot, I could have enjoyed a whole afternoon out there, but again I was recalled back to the cold cement floor amongst the chilly aisles, shaded and busy.
In the evening I made a list on a scrap of card before climbing up to the balmy loft to slide the toilet paper rolls down the shoot to Tane. I often felt sleepy up there, intoxicated by the lazy trapped heat, and more than once Iíd made a nest for myself when the store traffic had dwindled. But now in the evening, with the weekend almost upon me, my spirit felt recharged despite my fatigued body. We industriously labored on, wheeling the jiffy out into the store. With half an hour to go, we finished packing the surplus toilet rolls onto the shelves. With fifteen minutes left, weíd swept up out at back and emptied the crusher. With just five minutes till closing we lingered or wandered aimlessly about, adjusting a stack or turning a jam jar to greet the following dayís shoppers. Then finally, like a fading pensioner sighing her last breath, it was over.
Normally, after hanging up my storemanís jacket, Iíd farewell my comrades before setting off for home on foot. But as I was leaving I noticed Aidos minus the customary bicycle clips and once again I recalled his arrival that morning in the unexplained motor vehicle. Not wanting to spend the weekend dwelling on this, I approached Aidos as he traversed the car park to inquire about his new means of transportation. It turned out that the car belonged to Mrs. Madever and sheíd leant it to him for the day to run some errand for her. Now Iíd never revealed my association with the Madeverís to my work mates. Being an insecure middle class kid Iíd thought it best not to mention my connections, even to Aidos. So I casually hinted that I live in that direction and Aidos responded by offering me a lift home. Aidos had the key on a florescent yellow spring key ring attached to one of his beltloops. He had to stoop to make the connection, then he crammed himself into the vehicle before reaching over and unlocking the passenger door for me. Following the yielding ignition of a well-tuned machine we set off in an easy silence down the avenue.
The tree leaves twinkled in the evening light; intermittently weíd be struck by the dazzling sun flares sneaking between the shadows of the main street shops. Entranced by this permeating strobe, I noticed myself hugging the passenger door. I felt acutely mindful of avoiding any involuntary man touch. I began contemplating Aidosís otherwise indiscernible sexuality, intrepidly fixated on those salty, fleshy, bulky, strong workmenís arms. As usual for this time, the streets were bereft of pedestrians except for the odd posse of teenagers hunting for a bone to pick.
As our automobile entered the suburbs, Aidos, clearly enjoying driving a vehicle with an engine; picked up the pace a little. Nearing my street, I readied myself to point out the turn off, but Aidos knew his way, and as we briskly cornered I was so mesmerized by a dÈj‡ vu, that the directions never touched my lips. Passing my house I caught sight of my dad mowing our front lawn so I crouched low until we came to standstill up Mrs. Madeverís freshly paved driveway. Aidos was quick out of the vehicle, and I followed suit, he bid me a farewell as he strode up the drive obviously assuming that I would find my own way home, while he diligently effected his errand. Now looking back I probably should have just gone straight home, taken off my work uniform and made myself a snack or something. I probably should have, but I didnít. Riding in Mrs. Madeverís vehicle had left me nostalgic, I thought Iíd take a peak inside and give her a nice surprise after sheíd finished dealing with Ai-dos.
Inside that familiar odor of boutique soaps and potpourri greeted me. The house was as pristine as ever; the furniture willed me not to deposit my grubby hide upon its gleaming leather skin. Instead I made a rather tentative tour, keeping well away from any of the immaculate surfaces, reacquainting myself with many long missed ornaments, treading lightly to maintain that element of surprise. Without really thinking I found myself making my way up to the master bedroom where I recalled Charlieís favored albeit dingy Lazy-boy which could certainly be a perfect ambush post. In my recollection there was a nice little fourteen-inch up there to keep me occupied, and common sense indicated that it would be preferable to somehow dispense with the element of complete shock (primarily to avoid any unwelcome cardiac activity). So I sat down on the armchair, pulled the footrest lever and reclined, picking the remote off the armrest and aiming at the Tele for some Saturday night sport.

It had been a long week and I guess I must have been fairly beat. I really didnít feel like getting up, but once Greatbatch got his century I thought Iíd have a peak out the window just to check if Aidos was still keeping Mrs. Madever out back.
I didnít even notice the bed until I was right beside it, peering past the curtains I couldnít see Mrs. Madever or Aidos in the yard, but as I turned back, there, just a heart attack away, was a full grown man comfortably resting under the duvet. The shock and embarrassment that seized me at that moment is indescribable. Imagine sneaking into a widowís house to give her a friendly fright as a face from the past, only to discover a new gentleman in her bed. Well that would have been enough of a shock for anyone, except stone the crows, on second glance, that bed was ridden by none other than Charlie bloody Madever. Four years dead Madever alive and well, freshly awakened from a mid-evening siesta with a look of shock mirroring my own. I was spare.
I turned to run but there at the door was Elaine Madever, also bearing a corresponding stupefied expression. I pushed past her, and sped down the stairs, collapsing on one of the plush leather sofas. I wasnít crying, I wasnít upset, I wasnít angry, I wasnít anything describable, I was just completely blown away. The man I loved and trusted, then mourned and missed was alive and by the looks of it as healthy as a well feed cattle.
After an indeterminate length of time Mrs. Madever appeared and coaxed me to the kitchen, offering me a cup of tea and a couple of her not so tasty but eminently welcome saltana cookies. At this point I still wasnít really cognizant of the situation. My mouth continued to injudiciously issue forth a continuous stream of nonsense. My hand clasped that tea cup, as a necessity to avoid falling from my seat, but realistically, to this day I still have no clear recollection of what I was saying or asking or pleading to the poor woman. I canít remember if I was yelling or even audible. All I vividly recollect is that numbing sense of complete isolation due to this abrupt realization that this man, whom Iíd idolized and and then grieved had been alive and no more than thirty feet from me the whole time, heart beating, chest thumping.
As I try to piece the events together now, the first thing I can recall Mrs. Madever saying, once my tirade had subsided, was something about ëinsuranceí. What issued from my mouth at that point must have been some of the blackest swill ever to have wrenched and clawed its way from any humanís mind or gullet. Mrs. Madever's face turned from a resigned bemusement through a gray ominousity, into the most steely iron clad graveness I have ever observed in another living being. The sun sucked itís life out the room and a permeating silence took office and reigned for an eternity, only intermittently dethroned by the sound of Charlie Madever going about his business upstairs.

But at last her expression changed, she glanced out the window then she cogently spoke.
ìItís just that he couldnít bare to lose the supermarket. Can you imagine how that would have been for him?î

She loosened her grip on her cup of tea, ìwhen given the choice, he chose this. He weighed up the risks and he accepts responsibility. He told me to tell you that he is sorry.î
I nodded. ìHe also told me to tell you that you might run into him one day.î

By the time I finally got away, the cloud cover had lifted. I bid Mrs. Madever a farewell and set off for a long walk through Springfield Park. Past the long shadows towards the setting sun.

2005-08-16 23:51:00

First Entry  Previous Entry  Latest Entry   Promenade