“There’s Something Wrong”
At one of my jobs there was a guy who worked mainly nights
several times a week. His name was Oliver and he had a hard time of it. I would see
him arrive at work walking down the highway sometimes just after I got there,
as he either did not drive, or couldn’t afford an automobile even if he could
drive.
Oliver was—to me—a completely pitiful fellow. He just was not
put together right. That’s the only way I can describe him. And I’m speaking as
a person who is himself not put together in perfect symmetry. I have crooked
teeth, am blind in one eye, tend to go to fat; and am not, frankly,
good-looking. So I’m not picking on Oliver when I say this.
He was very thin--his arms and legs were like elongated
sticks. Oliver’s torso, also, seemed strangely stretched, as if formed in a
kind of rectangle with no deviation from shoulders to hips, which made the
addition of those fragile-looking limbs that much weirder. His face was
somewhat effeminate and chinless and he wore a bit of downy beard almost as a
challenge to this unfortunate situation concerning gender. There just seemed to be something intrinsically wrong with him.
Even his demeanor was somewhat annoying with a high-pitched
voice and a speech impediment that tended to make the ‘sh' sound whenever he
tried to form an ‘s’, which would also sometimes trail off into a whistle at
the oddest moments. It didn’t help that he occasionally tried to discuss things
which were not pertinent to the job at hand and he would now and then try to engage
co-workers in conversations about subjects only of interest to Oliver.
His job was as a kind of janitor at the place where I worked
and he did a commendable job mainly, except when some real muscle power was required and he always needed help in such situations. Fifteen or twenty pounds seemed
to be the limit he could move without help. He was the picture of physical
frailty. Of course I wondered if he had gotten the job in some kind of aid
program, but I didn’t care about that. He worked and seemed happy to do so.
What did bug me about Oliver were some of the co-workers. It
is the common wisdom that bullies vanish when high school is over and
people move on into the adult world of jobs and marriage and parenthood (or
life as a single person making a living for those of you among the politically
correct). But this is not true. The tendency for cruelty in some continues—as
near as I can tell—forever. I’m sure that there are notorious bullies in
old-folks homes tottering about on their walkers and terrorizing their fellow
inmates.
Oliver suffered from bullying. Often I wondered if he was
even aware of it the way that I was. He would speak to someone in authority and
get a cynical reply. Or he could ask for some help from those whose jobs it was
to respond and they would make fun of him and answer with classic snark. For
his part, Oliver seemed accustomed to it, or he had learned to let it roll off
his back with a smile. I never once saw him get upset or angry or tearful. It is quite possible he didn't even notice it as cruelty.
I, on the other hand, did get angry. Many were the times
when I wanted to scream at the assholes and get in their faces and maybe bash
some teeth out. Finally, one day I did respond to a fellow in lower management
who complained about misfit Oliver.
“I see the way people talk to Oliver,” I told him. “If
Oliver ever complains, or if anyone challenges the company on his behalf, I
will tell them what I have seen and heard. This place will get the shit sued
out of it.”
Almost immediately I noticed that no one bothered Oliver
anymore. No one said anything snide to him. No one made fun of him, or even
smirked at him when his back was turned. But rather than feel a sense of
victory or accomplishment I instead began to worry about him. Maybe I’d done
him a disservice. It wouldn’t take any effort at all for someone in higher
management to decide to get rid of him. There is no difficulty at all in the
USA for a corporation to shed a part-time worker who is already dirt-poor.
Especially if the company feels any kind of economic threat from them
whatsoever. Perhaps I’d doomed his employment by speaking up. Maybe this was
the lull before termination.
Maybe two weeks later I noticed that Oliver had been absent
for a few days. He had not appeared in late afternoon to do the cleaning into
the evening hours before walking along the highway back to wherever he lived. I
asked another laborer and they didn’t know where he was.
Finally, one afternoon I saw him reenter the building,
pushing a trash bin with broom and mop. “Hey, Oliver,” I said.
“Hey, Bob!”
I asked him where he’d been. And he proceeded to tell me
that he’d had a bad case of the flu and had been in bed for most of a week.
“Well, you look OK now,” I told him.
“My mama always said I was really strong,” he replied. And
he raised those poor stick-like arms and made a muscle pose.
And for the first time I thought not of Oliver, but of his
mother, which had never occurred to me. What is a poor woman going to do if she
has a kid like Oliver? A child who is imperfect physically, and not quite there
mentally or socially. No money. No one who really cares or who can help. What
she does, I suddenly imagined, is tell that child that he is strong. That
mother informs him that he is smart and special and can do whatever he needs to
do. She does that because that’s really all she can provide before she is gone
and her imperfect baby has to find his own way in a society full of assholes
and bullies.
“That’s great, Oliver.” And I had to make a dash for the
bathroom to hide.
Later, I heard Oliver talking to someone. “I think there’s
something wrong with Bob. He was crying.”
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| Not put together just right. |
