IX

As I approach the factory the foreman’s hard glare greets me like falling nose first onto asphalt.

“You’re late,” he says coldly and he’s right. It’s 17 seconds after the hour. A gross transgression for which there is no acceptable excuse. I search for words and they tumble out in an unelegent mess.

“Sorry…I mean… well… I mean sorry…The morning was just lovely…there was the smell of meatfruits and umm… and I stopped at the onion shop… I thought I had time…It was such a short stop… I didn’t think it would lead to this…I never lose track of time… and then there was the execution…  Well… I suppose it caught me off guard...”

The Forman is a square faced brick with a cleft chin and undercut that parts to one side. Clean shaven. Not a speck of dust on his uniform. He stands perfectly upright as if he has a tent pole shoved straight into his back side. A no nonsense fellow. Always does things by the book. I’ve seen him swat a fly dead just by looking at it with his heavy glare, but as I said the word “execution” his brow wrinkles slightly in a way I’d never seen. It makes him look uncharactoristically melancholic. Almost gentle.

“Ah yes the execution,” he says, “real shame what that boy did.”

I open my mouth to ask what “that boy” did and to say it must be a mistake, but the foreman shakes his head to stop me from incriminating myself.

“I’ll ignore your tartiness this once. We’re shorthanded at the extrusion station. Go before I change my mind.”