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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1654041
Rated: E · Monologue · Melodrama · #1654041
A monologue of a 46 -year-old factory-worker
I have too much time to think. It is not a gift, rather a curse. I am working now. The time passes strangely. I am here since 6 o'clock in the morning. I have already planned my whole life in advance. I was thinking about the women I had loved and who had loved me. I recalled the last episode of my favourite Tv-show again. And when I take a look at the huge clock on the factory wall some deep desperation sit upon me. It is 8:30. Only. Planning my whole life is one and a half hour. It is desperate. I thought it is at least 10 o'clock. The breakfast break time.

This idea makes me even depressed . What kind of life is this? Was this my dream? I am not able to recall when the things went wrong. I am thinking while I am making small, ugly Shakespeare decorations from foam. They are christmas tree decorations. Poor Shakespeare , if he would know... And who will buy these ones at all? Shakespeare on the christmastree??? You should have no taste at all. What is next? A bleeding Jesus crucified?

When I was a kid I wished to be older. Being on my own. Nobody, no parents , to command me. How naive the children are. Now I am 46, and I am on my own. My wife left me 8 years ago for a 25-year-old Eastern-European plumber and her last sentence was " I have never enjoyed the sex with you"

By now I know she only wanted to stab the knife in me, she didn't mean it, but the scars she caused on my soul will never heal perfectly. So now I am alone and I wish to be a child again.

Quick peek to the clock. It is 8:35. I don't understand this. What are they doing with the clock? Slowing it down to force us to make more ugly little Shakespeare? Or Einstein was really right? Time is relative. How interesting that my weekends pass quickly. I do not even notice and I am packing my food to Monday. I have a box to carry my lunch with me. Nice one with a spiderman on top. Sometimes when I look at it I almost hear Miss Murphy's voice " Lionel, go back to the line. Good boys don't run on the corridor." How right she was! But she forgot to tell us that good boys would become loosers. Just look at me. I wonder where she is now? Maybe, no, probably she died some years ago. She wasn't very young at that time.

I think I have to be depressed because then I am more productive. It is only 8:40 and I have already made 200 Shakespeares. They are lining in the boxes next to me. I smile lightly. Sometimes I have nightmares. Thousands of foam decorations are chasing me in the streets of London. The worst period was when we got a purchase order to make the Parliaments. I had nightmares every night .The huge building wanted to swallow me. It was frightening. Particularly when I think of my situation. It is not a dream , it is the reality. Our elected politicians just swallow us as an oyster. I would have never thought that I would be an oyster. This idea makes me smile again when I picture myself with Barry together sliding down on Gordon's throat. Hilarious. I almost laugh out loud. But I am not allowed to smile or laugh. Barry is watching. He is new at the factory. The son of the boss and my newly promoted supervisor. No comment. Finally it is 9:00 and 300 .

I'm doing well today. The miracle of the capitalism when they pay you by the pieces you made. 5 penny per every single Shakespeare. I don't have any idea who invented this but he was a smart guy I am pretty sure.

But if I am thinking positive, I have to think positive then why else I read tons of books about self-improvement, I can say my work is literary. Literary. I am laughing again and Barry is becoming more alert. He doesn't understand how I can smile at work. If he knew that his meetings in the morning makes my day every damn day. I suppose he has got no idea who the hell is Shakespeare. Nowadays kids don't learn anything in schools. It is just a place to gather them while the parents obey to the society and go to make money for the rulers.

I used to like Shakespeare's plays. I read almost all of them. But I have never gone to any theathre. I prefer imagine the story myself and in a theatre you get a ready-made package. It is the director's vision and there is no space for your own imagination. I have vivid imagination. My wife always told me that I didn't live in this world. Sometimes I wish I could exist without thinking. Others can do it very well. Am I that bad? Can't I manage to do only one little thing? Not to think.

Barry is still watching. Damn idiot. I should urgently go to the toilet, but I can't when he is watching. We are not allowed to go. Only at the breaktime because we , mean human machines, can not endanger the successful execution of the order with some useless needs. Wise Barry's own word. Who the fuck cares if I make 10 less Shakespeare? I laugh histerically. The urge to go is more and more inevitable. The morning coffee always makes its impact. I decide. I'm going and do not care about the consequences. Finally he disappears. I can go now. What a relieve!

Back to my station I am thinking. How can I let people to make this with me? I am scared to loose my job and I don't fight. back. I let them humiliate me for 5 penny? I am cheap. This idea makes me depressed again. But how can I make a revolution alone? They will not pay more and Barry is still the son of the boss. And anyway what if they pay 6 or 7 penny? Does it make any difference? No. I am still a fucking slave and I was the one who sold out my soul. I need to do something . I need to change my life. Not too much left to waste it. Is this what I want to do for more 15 years? Of course not. I could be a writer for example. Yes. Yes. This is the solution. I will quit. 7 minutes till break. I am going to tell Barry where to stick his pencil. He uses it to count all the Shakespeares we make. Well I am proud of myself. Finally I was able to take responsibility over my life. If I look at the guy working next to me I know I am different. Determined. 46 is not old. I knew that something is different today. Maybe it is in the air. Susan Boyle could make it, so I can do it too. 2 minutes. I can make 4 Shakespeares. It is 20 penny.

Breaktime. I am heading to Barry's office. Usually he stays there when we have our breakfast. I knock at the door while my stomach is grumbling. I should have eaten first. I open the door and see him sitting at the desk. He is playing GTA. What the fuck? Is he playing??? How can life be that unfair? Suddenly he looks at me with a questioning face. He looks like wishing me to hell. My entree disturbed him to complete one of the missions where he needs to kill some hostile gang members.

"What do you want?" He asks with no respect in his voice. I feel small now. Small and insignificant. I answer to him. I tell him that after the break I will need more foam because I run out of it.

He is staring at me incredulously and with a disgust in his voice reply." Go to the ware-room I am not a fucking storeman. Do I look like a storeman??? " I silently whisper no and plod along.

There is no thought in my mind now. This is what I wanted? An empty mind, a useless wasted brain.
© Copyright 2010 Susannah Norrrington (snorrington at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1654041