A Failed State

In the quiet rainy street, on an early summer’s morning, Jack could see the door of the office where he had laboured, for the benefit of the collective, a few meters away. The door was held open by the hand of another worker; his palm pressed firmly against the glass as he kept it ajar. Today, the queue was several people long, which also happened to be the norm most days of the week; so, he slowed his pace down, as there was no need to rush with the line moving slowly. He took a few breaths of fresh air, for it had just been filtered by the morning heavy rain. Then he fixed the pack strap that was sliding off his shoulder and shuffled through the door. Above the heads of the workers in front of him, and under the flickering fluorescent lights, was the counter where they all signed in.

The queue moved forward a few more people, as the jobs for the day were delegated. They had a seat until their names were called again. On the opposite side, against the wall, the backwater of serfs sat. They were solemn and quiet, having been wrung from the mirth of days long past, like an old wet rag, whilst endless new waves of black sheep lapped in through these doors, at intervals. Fires, floods, job losses — and, especially, failed polices that had been advanced by the inept government — funnelled these serfs all into this one dungy nest. The city he’d built, over the many decades, was slowly facing bouts of torture, and economic casualties were on the rise, yet another year in a row! Still, the sounds coming from the passing railway never changed. The steady rumbling and the occasional screeching from the rail, rattled the tile floors and tinted glass windows within, much like a 1950s diner.

Some of these serfs, many of them, in fact, were faces of the soon-to-be forgotten. Shuffling their feet, before the crack of dawn, they filed through the door, carrying a stone or two from the concrete slabs that they’d erected the day before, in their pockets, like patricians. Once or twice, to succeed through the selection process, they had scribbled down their names at the front counter with the enthusiasm of a writer. But, now, they’ve all but resigned to their fate, signing in like scribes, life-beaten.

The bleeding hearts and the stooges had intentionally flooded the market — a means to an end — to eliminate, or replace dissidents: those with a voice who had stood for something, or opposed tyranny, and who wouldn’t blindly ‘obey’, their unjust and disastrous policies; and had, rather, become a bit of an inconvenience for the state. In any case, the pressure rained down, naturally, from above. It was an ugly business. Attempts were made to try and turn their latest victims into criminals, before being discarded. One client, yesterday, had bellowed over to him up on some rooftop: “How do you like it, eh? Did you wanna work ‘morrow too? What about Sunday? Yeah? That’s good, that’s good — we could use you to-morrow. Hey, do you have a criminal record, though, son? I’ll only hire you if you have a criminal record. You laugh now, but I’m serious! That one fella over there, Stevo, he’s a killer, don't you know? I’ve known him for years. So, unless you’re a criminal… youse ain’t gonna work for me.”

He never went back to that job again. They didn’t need him back. They stated a reason: the prospect of rain was in the forecast. As he now arrived at the front counter to sign in, just like the others, he roused from this morning's trance. A couple of fellas began a conversation with the boss, and the television in the far corner of the office was promptly switched on.

These workers, who were seated and waiting, were often on their phones. They weren’t writing, but they texted or played games to pass the time. They shifted in their chairs, and they shut their eyes and rested, as they waited for their name to be called. From the far corner, against the back wall where he now took a seat, the television was difficult to hear, anyway.

He watched the arms on the clock behind the counter move. He waited a couple of hours. A man began pacing the floor between the front counter and the back wall. For some time, he continued this, glancing up and then down at his feet again, until eventually, he paused before the trash can near the door, where people had been tossing their empty bottles and coffee cups. He slumped his head to his chest, then he glanced inside the trash, and collected a few bottles, before returning to his seat.

Ajax, after braving battle and winning his rightful place and seat, would now stand to wait and watch dishonour and madness be bestowed upon fellow citizens and colleagues.

Jack refused to work, a few days before today, at an unsafe site. A concrete ceiling was sagging in the lower parkade of the building. Visible cracks had branched out from the centre fissure, in several directions, and temporary posts that had been erected down the length... for additional support. The level above it was meant to withstand a heck of a lot more weight with vehicular traffic. That day, he was instructed to clear the contents out of the area near the fissure, so that workers could continue work along the inner walls. Knowing that the foundation of this building itself was at risk of collapse, and could not possibly last into the future, he resolved that he wanted nothing to do with it.

The danger was neglected, as suspected, and the ceiling caved in, the following day. A man was buried and forgotten in the trash.