29.12.2006

CLOSE TO DEATH THE SECOND TIME 4

CLOSE TO DEATH THE SECOND TIME

lV

At Heimir the process was devided between deep-freeze;

fillets and block, saltfish- and stockfish devisions.

The devision of work was quite evident, but as a laborer I never knew what I was supposed to do when I came to work each morning.

Most days I was supposed to assist the valuator, a
middle-aged man called Hreinn (clean) along with a bunch of school-girls in the stock-fish department.

Which was located in an old and ramschackled black-colored lumber-hovel, which must have been nice-looking sometime early this century (20th) when five sheds were built in a block-sequence which began down at an old stone-pier.

The sheds had had very little maintenance.

They seemed to be standing by an old habit.

The roof was leaky and the lodgings were dim, humid and gloomy.

There wasn't much illumination.

But what really was the reason that I didn't think that these housings were proper for food-storage was the gigantic rat infestation.

The dried-up stockfish was dumped on the dirty cemented floor.

Then it was casted in pile ups by the walls.

Subsequently we were supposed to load the fish into a machine that pressed it into a 30 kilo baggage that girls stitched marked sack-clothes around.

My role was to load into the machine, manipulate the pressing and to put the packs on the table infront of the girls with the needles.

Hreinn valued the produce into the right catagories, not mentioning all the time he spent in cutting away the parts that obviously had had a close encounter with the sharp teeth of the pesticites.

The fish that couldn't possibly be altered so that it would be suitable as human food was sold to melting.

The stock-fish that still was eatable in spite of its encounter with the vermin went into the more deficient category which were thought only to be proper for the negroes in Nigeria.

Most of the fish in stock got that valuation.

The best stock was supposed to end its journey on the finer tables of people in the South of Europe.

When I had been working for a couple of months curing fish at Heimir in the moisten, offal and terrible accommodations that this part of the working class has to live with, I really began reconsidering my status.

Did I really want this to be my faith, to end my life as a laborer in a fish-factory, or did I want to alter my faith in some way hoping to get some job more fitting for me as a disabled person?

I had at last realized that I wasn't quite normal in every way.

I had little energy, despite much effort to increase it with various methods, e.g. walking and cycling, but all the training didn't have the effect it was supposed to.

I didn't want anyone to see what a weakling I really was.

In a discreet way I tried to shrink myself from any job that might be beyond my strength.

But I should've known it wouldn't last forever.

A few boys about twenty years of age were employed in Heimir when I was there.

Their jobs were those that required the big energetic muzzles they had, e.g. at the freezers and in the large freezing-chamber.

Like any normal boys they were always contending about their strenght usually amongst themselves.

I myself got to hear their remarks time and again.

Continually they charged me of being some kind of a poor creature;

a sissie, but most of the time I was able to ignore their efforts and my meddleing with them was very limited.

In the coffee-breaks they contended between themselves arm-wrestling and often the action of force became quite vulgar, so that both chairs and tables flew around the room.

Once they decided to tease me a little.

They informed me that to begin with they'd compete in arm-wrestling, until one of them would stand up as the victor, whom I would have the honour of wrestling with.

At first I didn't take them seriously, that they were just fooling around as they were so used to, therefore I agreed to their proposal without giving it another thought.

Didn't really think, that I'd have to honor my promise.

The coffee-pause would run out or more likely they'd forget my reckless act.

But my assumption was freightfully wrong.

When only five minutes remained of the pause I could hear one of them challenging me from behind me, where I was sitting enjoying my game of patience.

-Well Oli! It's your turn. Now show me what you are made of.

I could feel the cool perspiration on my aching body, where I was just about to lay down the king of hearts, finishing the patience.

Slowly I turned my head until I was able to see the enormous and powerful big fellow, who had beaten all the other enormous and powerful big fellows, where he was
sitting fully prepared and relaxed with his muscular right arm on the table.

The elbow touching the middle, but the strong-looking forearm standing straight up.

How could I possibly avoid being humiliated in this self-inflicted position.

With horror I recalled my last arm-wrestle which had taken place while I was still rehabilitating at Grensas;

I was beaten by my kid sister, who's six years younger than me.

Since then I've always managed to avoid participating in this most admirable and manly sport.

-Hurry up, man, we haven't all day. Which are you, a man or a mouse?

I sat down face to face with the victor and positioned myself in the right way;

laid my left arm on the table, according to the rules, then I joined hands with my opponent, whose hand actually was so enormous that mine almost disappeared within the fingers and palm.

How can I avoid humiliating disaster?

This question repeated itself in my head, while I looked in the eyes of this twenty year old overgrown kid.

LOCK!!!!!!!!!!

I could hear somewhere in my perspirated head.

Yes, why didn't I think of that before.

I should put a lock on my arm, I decided as I recalled an old trick, that we a few school-chums in the junior-college at Laugarvatn used when we armwrestled the powerful country boys on country balls.

Quietly and without anyone noticing any change in my position I moved my right arm's el-bow to the right, thus making me almost unbeatable, without fracturing my arm.

-Ready, asked the self-appointed referee who had placed himself at the end of the table.

Both of us knicked our heads.

-BEGIN, he shouted and obviously he was certain which would be the results, just as everyone in the coffee-room, who all had encircled the table to watch my humiliation.

But to everyone's surprise all efforts of the big fellow were in vain.

Whatever he tried using every trick that came to his little mind he was unable to lay down my arm.

Finally as a last effort he stood up and used his gigantic body to make his touch more powerful.

With a grin in my face I watched his astonished face as he gave all of his might in this fight with tiny me.

Of course I avoided straining myself;

just waited patiently for the moment when he would had overstrained himself.

Then I'd seize the opportunity, when he would be exhausted and unprepared, I would lay him down very easily, but before that happened the referee declared the wrestle a draw and thus ended my last arm-wrestle ever, hopefully.

-That damn fool, how he does it is a mystery to me! where the last words I could hear the big fellow saying to his chums at the moment when everyone returned to their jobs.

Training would obviously have given me more power and stamina, but the time for enjoying them was rather limited.

I was forced to take every overtime job that I was offered, because my fianceé and I having been blessed with two children, had recently signed a contract to purchase our first
appartment, thus becoming participants in the rat-race and were drowning in our own debts.

When at the end of every long and strenous workday I came home I was exhausted on body and soul.

Quite often so tired-looking that I was just like a zombie.

CLOSE TO DEATH THE SECOND TIME 4

CLOSE TO DEATH THE SECOND TIME

lV

At Heimir the process was devided between deep-freeze;

fillets and block, saltfish- and stockfish devisions.

The devision of work was quite evident, but as a laborer I never knew what I was supposed to do when I came to work each morning.

Most days I was supposed to assist the valuator, amiddle-aged man called Hreinn (clean) along with a bunch of school-girls in the stock-fish department.

Which was located in an old and ramschackled black-colored lumber-hovel, which must have been nice-looking sometime early this century (20th) when five sheds were built in a block-sequence which began down at an old stone-pier.

The sheds had had very little maintenance.

They seemed to be standing by an old habit.

The roof was leaky and the lodgings were dim, humid and gloomy.

There wasn't much illumination.

But what really was the reason that I didn't think that these housings were proper for food-storage was the gigantic rat infestation.

The dried-up stockfish was dumped on the dirty cemented floor.

Then it was casted in pile ups by the walls.

Subsequently we were supposed to load the fish into a machine that pressed it into a 30 kilo baggage that girls stitched marked sack-clothes around.

My role was to load into the machine, manipulate the pressing and to put the packs on the table infront of the girls with the needles.

Hreinn valued the produce into the right catagories, not mentioning all the time he spent in cutting away the parts that obviously had had a close encounter with the sharp teeth of the pesticites.

The fish that couldn't possibly be altered so that it would be suitable as human food was sold to melting.

The stock-fish that still was eatable in spite of its encounter with the vermin went into the more deficient category which were thought only to be proper for the negroes in Nigeria.

Most of the fish in stock got that valuation.

The best stock was supposed to end its journey on the finer tables of people in the South of Europe.

When I had been working for a couple of months curing fish at Heimir in the moisten, offal and terrible accommodations that this part of the working class has to live with, I really began reconsidering my status.

Did I really want this to be my faith, to end my life as a laborer in a fish-factory, or did I want to alter my faith in some way hoping to get some job more fitting for me as a disabled person?

I had at last realized that I wasn't quite normal in every way.

I had little energy, despite much effort to increase it with various methods, e.g. walking and cycling, but all the training didn't have the effect it was supposed to.

I didn't want anyone to see what a weakling I really was.

In a discreet way I tried to shrink myself from any job that might be beyond my strength.

But I should've known it wouldn't last forever.

A few boys about twenty years of age were employed in Heimir when I was there.

Their jobs were those that required the big energetic muzzles they had, e.g. at the freezers and in the large freezing-chamber.

Like any normal boys they were always contending about their strenght usually amongst themselves.

I myself got to hear their remarks time and again.

Continually they charged me of being some kind of a poor creature;

a sissie, but most of the time I was able to ignore their efforts and my meddleing with them was very limited.

In the coffee-breaks they contended between themselves arm-wrestling and often the action of force became quite vulgar, so that both chairs and tables flew around the room.

Once they decided to tease me a little.

They informed me that to begin with they'd compete in arm-wrestling, until one of them would stand up as the victor, whom I would have the honour of wrestling with.

At first I didn't take them seriously, that they were just fooling around as they were so used to, therefore I agreed to their proposal without giving it another thought.

Didn't really think, that I'd have to honor my promise.

The coffee-pause would run out or more likely they'd forget my reckless act.

But my assumption was freightfully wrong.

When only five minutes remained of the pause I could hear one of them challenging me from behind me, where I was sitting enjoying my game of patience.

-Well Oli! It's your turn. Now show me what you are made of.

I could feel the cool perspiration on my aching body, where I was just about to lay down the king of hearts, finishing the patience.

Slowly I turned my head until I was able to see the enormous and powerful big fellow, who had beaten all the other enormous and powerful big fellows, where he wassitting fully prepared and relaxed with his muscular right arm on the table.

The elbow touching the middle, but the strong-looking forearm standing straight up.

How could I possibly avoid being humiliated in this self-inflicted position.

With horror I recalled my last arm-wrestle which had taken place while I was still rehabilitating at Grensas;

I was beaten by my kid sister, who's six years younger than me.

Since then I've always managed to avoid participating in this most admirable and manly sport.

-Hurry up, man, we haven't all day. Which are you, a man or a mouse?

I sat down face to face with the victor and positioned myself in the right way;

laid my left arm on the table, according to the rules, then I joined hands with my opponent, whose hand actually was so enormous that mine almost disappeared within the fingers and palm.

How can I avoid humiliating disaster?

This question repeated itself in my head, while I looked in the eyes of this twenty year old overgrown kid.

LOCK!!!!!!!!!!

I could hear somewhere in my perspirated head.

Yes, why didn't I think of that before.

I should put a lock on my arm, I decided as I recalled an old trick, that we a few school-chums in the junior-college at Laugarvatn used when we armwrestled the powerful country boys on country balls.

Quietly and without anyone noticing any change in my position I moved my right arm's el-bow to the right, thus making me almost unbeatable, without fracturing my arm.

-Ready, asked the self-appointed referee who had placed himself at the end of the table.

Both of us knicked our heads.

-BEGIN, he shouted and obviously he was certain which would be the results, just as everyone in the coffee-room, who all had encircled the table to watch my humiliation.

But to everyone's surprise all efforts of the big fellow were in vain.

Whatever he tried using every trick that came to his little mind he was unable to lay down my arm.

Finally as a last effort he stood up and used his gigantic body to make his touch more powerful.

With a grin in my face I watched his astonished face as he gave all of his might in this fight with tiny me.

Of course I avoided straining myself;

just waited patiently for the moment when he would had overstrained himself.

Then I'd seize the opportunity, when he would be exhausted and unprepared, I would lay him down very easily, but before that happened the referee declared the wrestle a draw and thus ended my last arm-wrestle ever, hopefully.

-That damn fool, how he does it is a mystery to me! where the last words I could hear the big fellow saying to his chums at the moment when everyone returned to their jobs.

Training would obviously have given me more power and stamina, but the time for enjoying them was rather limited.

I was forced to take every overtime job that I was offered, because my fianceé and I having been blessed with two children, had recently signed a contract to purchase our firstappartment, thus becoming participants in the rat-race and were drowning in our own debts.

When at the end of every long and strenous workday I came home I was exhausted on body and soul.

Quite often so tired-looking that I was just like a zombie.

Most days I was supposed to assist the valuator, a
middle-aged man called Hreinn (clean) along with a bunch of school-girls in the stock-fish department.

Slowly I turned my head until I was able to see the enormous and powerful big fellow, who had beaten all the other enormous and powerful big fellows, where he was
sitting fully prepared and relaxed with his muscular right arm on the table.

I was forced to take every overtime job that I was offered, because my fianceé and I having been blessed with two children, had recently signed a contract to purchase our first
appartment, thus becoming participants in the rat-race and were drowning in our own debts.