NEAR-DEAF EXPERIENCE #2

this happened in sydney
a long long time ago
when i was 21 years young
that morning
i was up at 4:30 as usual
breakfast alone in the pre-dawn darkness of 'the jolly swagman'
bleary-eyed
out onto the streets of 'the cross'
drugged-up hookers wobbling against lamp-posts
sharing the pavements with the street-cleaning brigade
down to central station
to be picked up by crazy roscoe and his lorry
by that time
i'd grown accustomed to roscoe's insults
a constant stream of offensive filth barked in a thick sicilian accent
funny what you can put up with
when the occasion demands
like being in the army i guess
today however is different from before
when we get to the carlton brewery
we don't load up with the usual crates of beer
to be delivered to pubs and bottle-shops
the length and breadth of fair sydney
from coogee to mudgee
this time crazy roscoe backs the lorry up to a huge conveyor belt
and tells me to stay on the back
while he jumps up and starts greedily grabbing big metal barrels
and rolling them at me
like ten-pin bowling balls aimed at a skinny skittle
these aluminium cylinder babies are like missiles
with razor-sharp edges on the handles
that cut your hands to ribbons unless you wear tough gloves
i'm not
roscoe is yellin at me to start moving these seventy kilo mothers
i manouevere about three of em into position
and i'm already knackered
the wretched handles are tearing chunks out of my fingers and nails
taking a momentary break from the conveyor belt
roscoe shows me he how to lift a barrel
and stack it horizontally on top of two others
i can barely get the thing off the ground
the whole time
roscoe continues his abusive tirade
to which there is no answer
but to let it wash over you
like traffic noise
or the buzzing of a fridge
somehow
dodging barrel bullets
like a latterday houdini
using every last ounce of strength in my muscles
i manage to get em all pretty well stacked
there's hardly any more space left on the lorry
as i manouevre the last barrel
i step aside to make room
and plunge over the side
landing on my back on the tarmac
for a moment time stands still
then i'm contemplating a seventy-kilo barrel
spiralling in slow-motion through the air towards me
it might have helped to let go of the barrel as i fell
i hear a scream from dear old roscoe
he's paying me cash-in-hand
and undoubtedly not insured
for the demise of an employee
just then the barrel decides to land
crashing to terra firma between my speadeagled legs
the next day roscoe tells me not to turn up for work anymore