Working Class Dogs

Sammy started to climb. The frame was only a metre tall but to him, it felt like a mile. He took his position by holding onto two plastic rocks and planting one of his feet on the other. At last, he left the red mulch beneath him. Across the back of his Transformers t-shirt, the sun licked his back. Its touch was hot and every time Sammy’s fingers grazed the metal sheet holding the green plastic rocks his fingers pulled back as fast as the chickens in the coop when he wanted to pick them up. Eventually, he wrapped his fingers around the yellow bar to pull himself into the shaded tower. From here he watched over the playground, legs dangling over the edge of his fortress. Oi! Sammy! Or should I say dummy?! Sammy twisted his head to find George on the wobbly bridge a couple of metres away from him. A gaggle of kids below watched on. This is my tower. You can screw off. Sammy tried to pull his legs out from between two bars before George came any closer but his shoe was stuck. Did you hear me? I said screw off! Sammy’s shoe slipped off and tumbled to the mulch. He tried to pull himself up using the bars but George grabbed his head by a tuft of hair and pushed him forward. Take his shoe and throw it over into Old Jeremy’s yard! One of the kids below ran to the shoe and lined up to throw it over the playground’s fence. Sammy couldn’t speak with his face smooshed against the bars but he watched as the kid threw his shoe over. All he could think of was how disappointed his Mum would be with him. She had just bought him those shoes with the lightning strike on the sides and made him promise to be her little superhero. Sammy had let her down. 

Cold white light flickers. Shadows from my trembling hands dance across the cracked concrete floor. I try to fight back tears but salty beads tumble over the lips of my eyelids, pooling at the corner of my mouth. My knees collapse and I slump against the rough wall behind me. The coarse concrete catches my blazer, pinning it in place as my body slides down. A sob escapes. I instinctively bring the side of my hand up to wipe away the clear snot pouring from my nose but my attempt proves worthless. I can’t breathe. My body convulses, gasping, each breath like a broken record-catching. I close my eyelids and focus on the sounds around me. The hum of the light crackling. The click-clack of a typewriter. The clinks of glasses. The low-octave laughs booming. 

The drawing was perfect. The writing was superb. A comic strip truly worthy of the Grade Three art class prize. The rest of the class’s drawings were just ill-conceived and rushed but Sammy had created something wonderful. After submitting his piece last lesson, the results came in today, early morning after recess. Class, listen in, please. This is it. This is the start of Sammy’s art career. After time spent carefully reviewing each piece of beautiful art, we have decided that Ned has won! … No. This. Can’t. Be. Ned’s painting of a dog will be displayed at the school’s reception. Ned is either shit at drawing or his dog must actually look like a shit with legs.  Sammy couldn’t believe it. That chump Ned had won an art competition because he had somehow managed to restrain himself from punching a kid long enough to draw that crap. 

I clench my hands as I stand up. Inhaling to fill my lungs, to clear my head. Crack. Thick blood drips from my fingers, painting the wall with smears of crimson red, every thunk a new fragment to the grey canvas. 

“We’re all waiting for you 57 and time’s a-wastin’. Are you ready yet?” a voice calls out from around the corner. 

“One moment, I’m just trying on the new suit,” I reply. 

A thought is all it takes for people like us. One thought, and within an instant, I have what I want. My hands are smooth and soft again. My tuxedo is wrapped around my body in all the right ways. A gold watch now encircles my wrist. The pale pink skin has started to fade away across my body and I sigh with relief as the shadows lighten. Tap, Tap, Tap. I walk out from the dead-end corridor and it closes behind me, forming a square concrete room once again. 

Sammy’s sandwich was dry. The bread had combined in his mouth with the peanut butter to create some sort of super glue. Maybe he could research this. He could create a new environmentally friendly cement with this. His tongue tensed and tried to pull the glue off the roof of his mouth but it didn’t budge. Hey Sammy, wanna play? Frederick and his friends hung back from Sammy’s corner of the playing field, holding a soccer ball. We need a striker or Rick will have to go goalie. Sammy tried to respond but the glue had clogged his mouth and all that came out was a spluttering cough. Gweughf. Rrrerwph. Frederick came closer to help but Sammy just held a hand up. Umm, maybe we’ll just ask Hazza then. They walked away and Sammy spat the rest of his sandwich on the grass. He sighed and leaned back against the fence. 

In the middle of the cold, damp room lies a brightly illuminated square of polished marble stone floating above the floor. Atop the square, my acquaintances chuckle over a large circular table on their red leather stools. Cards are held tightly in hidden hands and beautifully carved glasses hold alcoholic beverages. A swan-shaped chandelier formed from tear-drop glass sparkles reflecting light down in soft waves until it reaches the edges of the square. The line between the two sides is as sharp as a knife, each side of the blade separating darkness and light. 

“Took your time didn’t you?” one of my faceless acquaintances asks me. The space where their face should be is dark. The longer I look the harder it is to see, drawing my eyes into a light trance. I break away. 

“Just getting ready for the big match.” I manage to tilt the corners of my lips upwards but I remember it doesn’t matter to them. Another waves me up to join them on the square. 

Sammy rushed through the revolving door. His satchel bobbed up and down with his stride. The wired earbuds jostled against his chest as he pushed the cool plastic into each ear. Dididididi daaaaa titato. The bass booms in his ear. Sammy’s Mum had told him something once and it had stuck with him for a while now. Look up every once in a while and you’ll see the sunshine but if you don’t look down you won’t see the drunk guys piss you’re about to step in. Sammy kept his head down a lot, but every once in a while, he would look up. More often than not he would see a tattooed trio resting against the wall, or a lady pushing her shopping trolley full of discarded rubbish, or he would see the Man. The Man was someone who seemed to always be on a call no matter where Sammy saw them. Always dressed up in a suit and always on their way to someplace special. 

As I near, a set of stairs folds out from the floor. I pause. A long-haired German Shepherd taps away furiously at a typewriter in the corner. I wait for the dog to look up or turn away but it carries on typing, its glasses strapped above its snout from a chain made of coloured coins that holds the dog against the wall. 

The further I walk up the stairs the louder the laughing sounds. A gentle tune wafts through the air and I follow the melody to my spot at the round table. I stare at the three individuals with suits and watches but no faces. Sound projects from their heads yet nothing moves. One deals me cards from the deck. 

“Ready?” 

I nod. 

Hours pass and I listen to their conversations. The way they hold their glasses and the way they present themselves. Each of them asks questions to the others as if they own the place.

“Feeling alright 28? Can I get you another drink?”

“How's the stool 112? Comfy enough?”

“Please, allow me, my treat”

Get your arse in here Samuel! Sammy knew what was about to happen and he wasn’t looking forward to it. He pushed himself up off his chair to stand up, his head above the cubicles in the grey room. The noise from the hundreds of typewriters clacking, voices chatting and printers whirring was loud but his boss’s voice cut through it all as sharply as the Japanese-grade knife from FineDining cuts through a watermelon in that ad that hasn’t stopped running for the past decade. Sammy made his way to the glass office at the back of the room and knocked on the door. I already said get in here, you don’t need to knock Son. Sammy hated it when he called him that. He opened the door and Sammy took a seat. The numbers you filed… Did you read over them? Sammy had in fact not read over the numbers. You could have cost this business a lot of dough, Son. The board made a decision to invest in GDR50 with your numbers. Our department DOESN’T EVEN LOOK AT DOMESTIC INDUSTRY COMPANIES! Fortunately, even though the numbers weren’t right the board profited off you. Unfortunately, I still have to fire you. Sammy watched him carefully. Would he laugh and say that it was just a prank? Probably not. Sammy walked to his desk and packed up his things. A pen and his coat. Outside the wind was wild and the rain spat on him with ice-cold bullets. A wet poster pasted to the floor flapped ferociously and Sammy bent down to pick it up. Win it all at Casino Mieux! Looking for a change? Join our exclusive community to receive the respect you deserve! 

Every once in a while I watch one of them throw a poker chip at the dog. This was the only time the dog ever looked up. More often than not, the coins roll out of reach for the dog and it whines with pleading eyes and tries to pull the chain forward to grab the coin but, after a few seconds, it realises it won’t reach and continues working. If the coin does reach the dog, it chooses to put it in one of three buckets. I’ve learnt that the three buckets all have different purposes. Every time the dog puts a coin in bucket one, its glasses shine brilliantly and I watch as a spectacular pattern swirls before the dog returns to work. Bucket two adds a coin’s length to its chain and sometimes the dog can reach other coins. Bucket three was for a few biscuits that dropped from a tube and that was the bucket the dog chose the most.

“You’ve been watching that mutt for a long time 57,” asks 112. The cards stop moving and they all point their hats in my direction. I feel as trapped and cornered as the dog now as silence descends. 

“Well, it’s an awfully interesting thing,” I replied and wiped my sweating palms against my thighs. “What does it even write?”

They all laugh and chuckle except this time it’s cold and vicious. 

“Who cares what it does? It sits there writing in hopes we’ll give it a coin for its work.”

“So you don’t even know what it does?”

“Good point. Shoot it 57. We don’t need it.”

I stare at the blank faces and this time I embrace the dull trance. I don’t know what to do. I wanted this position here at the Table to prove to everyone who ever looked down on me that I was better than them. That for every time they walked past me without saying hello, or every time I had tried to talk to them and they ignored me that they were wrong. They will regret each of these days. These people don’t get judged on what they’ve done. Why would they if you can’t even see past the fancy clothes and lifestyles and cars and money? 

They slide the handgun across the table. 

Sammy didn’t know what to do or if this was even the right place. The flyer said this was the right address but the door looked run down and chipped. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. The neighbourhood seemed deserted and this cul-de-sac even more so. What else did he have to lose? He took a courageous step forward and knocked on the door. Flecks of old paint fell like leaves on an autumn day and landed across the top of his worn-down sneakers. Another knock. The door swung open and an elderly woman greeted Sammy. She wore half-moon glasses that rested on the tip of her nose, the temples connected to a pearl necklace around her neck. Welcome. What do I owe the pleasure of your visit? Sammy reached into his jeans pocket to pull out a folded, slightly crumpled poster. I was told that this was the address of Casino Mieux? She took the poster, unfolding it as she went and held it an arm’s length from herself tilting her head upwards to read. Ahh, indeed. A lucky soul you are to have received this. Please come in. Let’s get started. 

Sammy was confused. Not only did this not look anything like a casino but she said he was “lucky” to have received the poster. The poster was discarded and Sammy had only found it by pure chance from his habit of looking down. If things take a turn for worse I can almost certainly overpower her, Sammy thought. He watched her walk into the dark room reading the poster he gave her. Sammy stepped in. Be a dear and close the door for me, will you? As he closed the door he turned to find a cube-like room. The walls were white but not painted. It was as if they were plastic, their smooth sleek surface reflecting the white light strips on the ceiling. In the corner, the woman took a seat behind a rectangular prism desk made from the same material as the wall. The only thing that stood out from the blinding white was himself, the woman and a stack of papers on the desk. Please, take a seat. I’ll be with you in a moment. She gestured across the room. He turned, confused. Did she want him to sit on the floor? Instead, he found a wooden chair, simply there. He sat. Now, Samuel, I underst- Sammy cut her off before she could continue. How did you know my name was Samuel? She smiled. Here at the Casino, we know all our invited guests. We pride ourselves in customer service and even more so in how we treat our employees. Now, I understand that you recently left your job and are looking for something more meaningful in your life? Her pen was poised over the sheets of paper but Sammy stared at her like a deer in headlights. His mind was abuzz. Yes, I am. How do you know all of thi- She cut him off. Here at the Casino, we give our employees a chance to prove themselves to the world. A chance to redeem yourself in the eyes of society. She gestured again. Sammy looked down and saw a small table, a pen and a stack of papers. Just sign and it’s yours. 

*** 

Sammy had signed the last page. A lot of the contract didn’t make sense to him and concentrating on each page was difficult; it felt like it was drawing him into a light trance. It wasn’t as if he was tired but as if the very pages didn’t want to be read. You will complete a three-day probationary period. After that, you will meet your colleagues. There are only three rules for you to be accepted. One: keep the shadows away. Two: exert confidence. Three: Complete the task. Sammy asked if she had employees who failed the test before. We have had employees who failed the test. They still work here but I can assure you that it’s not what you came here to do. To us they’re dogs. We tell them what to do. Remember deary, it’s all in the contract.

All four of us sit at the table laughing over drinks and cards. The sparkling chandelier rains light across our bodies yet the shadows hide. 

The handgun lies next to my glass, its chamber empty. Under the platform is a typewriter and near the typewriter is a limp shape. It’s too dark to see down there. Besides, I won’t look. I know the rules: ignore the shadows.

“Play on,” I say.