Ham On Rye - Charles Bukowski [77]
I found my card. Henry Chinaski, employee #687 54. Then I walked up to the timeclock but I didn’t know what to do.
Ferris walked over and stood behind me, staring at the timeclock.
“You’re now six minutes late. When you are ten minutes late we dock you an hour.”
“I guess it’s better to be an hour late.”
“Don’t be funny. If I want a comedian I listen to Jack Benny. If you’re an hour late you’re docked your whole god-damned job.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to use a timeclock. I mean, how do I punch in?”
Ferris grabbed the card out of my hand. He pointed at it.
“See this slot?”
“Yeah.”
“What?”
“I mean, ‘yes.’”
“O.K., that slot is for the first day of the week. Today.”
“Ah.”
“You slip the timecard into here like this…”
He slipped it in, then pulled it out.
“Then when your timecard is in there you hit this lever.”
Ferris hit the lever but the timecard wasn’t in there.
“I understand. Let’s begin.”
“No, wait.”
He held the timecard in front of me.
“Now, when you punch out for lunch, you hit this slot.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Then when you punch back in, you hit the next slot. Lunch is thirty minutes.”
“Thirty minutes, I’ve got it.”
“Now, when you punch out, you hit the last slot. That’s four punches a day. Then you go home, or to your room or wherever, sleep, come back and hit it four more times each working day until you get fired, quit, die or retire.”
“I’ve got it.”
“And I want you to know that you’ve delayed my indoctrination speech to our new employees, of which you, at the moment, are one. I am in charge here. My word is law and your wishes mean nothing. If I dislike anything about you—the way you tie your shoes, comb your hair or fart, you’re back on the streets, get it?”
“Yes, sir!”
A young girl came flouncing in, running on her high heels, long brown hair flowing behind her. She was dressed in a tight red dress. Her lips were large and expressive with excessive lipstick. She theatrically pulled her card out of the rack, punched in, and breathing with minor excitement, she put her card back in the rack.
She glanced over at Ferris.
“Hi, Eddie!”
“Hi, Diana!”
Diana was obviously a salesgirl. Ferris walked over to her. They stood talking. I couldn’t hear the conversation but I could hear them laughing. Then they broke off. Diana walked over and waited for the elevator to take her to her work. Ferris walked back toward me holding my timecard.
“I’ll punch in now, Mr. Ferris,” I told him.
“I’ll do it for you. I want to start you out right.”
Ferris inserted my timecard into the clock and stood there. He waited. I heard the clock tick, then he hit it. He put my card in the rack.
“How late was I, Mr. Ferris?”
“Ten minutes. Now follow me.”
I followed along behind him.
I saw the group waiting.
Four men and three women. They were all old. They seemed to have salivary problems. Little clumps of spittle had formed at the corners of their mouths; the spittle had dried and turned white and then been coated by new wet spittle. Some of them were too thin, others too fat. Some were near-sighted; others trembled. One old fellow in a brightly colored shirt had a hump on his back. They all smiled and coughed, puffing at cigarettes.
Then I got it. The message.
Mears-Starbuck was looking for stayers. The company didn’t care for employee turnover (although these new recruits obviously weren’t going anywhere but to the grave—until then they’d remain grateful and loyal employees). And I had been chosen to work alongside of them. The lady in the employment office had evaluated me as belonging with this pathetic group of losers.
What would the guys in high school think if they saw me? Me, one of the toughest guys in the graduating class.
I walked over and stood with my group. Ferris sat on a table facing us. A shaft of light fell upon him from an overhead transom. He inhaled his cigarette and smiled at us.
“Welcome to Mears-Starbuck…”
Then he seemed to fall into a reverie. Perhaps he was thinking about when he had first joined the department store thirty-five years ago. He blew