The Art of Breathing Underwater

Chapter 19

In early January, I started my new job. That first evening, as I was shown around the warehouse by the night-shift supervisor, a familiar effervescent smile greeted me, followed by a squeal that caused heads to turn. Nicky might look as demure as Bambi on sleeping pills, but behind that doe-eyed sanguinity was a personality that fizzled like a firecracker and was twice as loud.

Just knowing she was in the same building put a spring in my step. I couldn't wait to catch up with her.

The supervisor, Jim, was a nice enough bloke. An obvious people pleaser, he cracked risqué jokes with the lads and held a ready smile in reserve for the women. He showed me to the aisle I would work on and rushed through my duties.

My job was to fill the plastic containers that looked like mini skips, with items from my two aisles corresponding with those marked on the order docket. Once completed, I would leave the coloured container out for collection, and start on the next one.

A day worker hung back to help familiarise me with the routine. Which proved fortunate. Last, in the door, I got delegated to the busiest section. The sector housing anti-depressants and sleeping aids, the most frequently ordered items by pharmacies, outselling heart medication.

The aisles spanned over six metres in length, five shelves high, a matrix of boxes of everything from Prozac to Valium. Mental illness is a business. And business was booming. No time to ponder this. Busy buzzing up and down the aisle like a blue-arsed fly while the containers continued to arrive and pile up.

When the seven-thirty coffee break came, I had dropped a jeans size and my calves burned.

In the canteen, the guys sat around two tables shoved together, and the women did likewise. I wondered if this was a hangover from the fact that most Dublin schools were single-sex education. Ol' Pavlov and his conditioned reflex.

Those poor tortured mutts.

I resisted the urge to break protocol and join Nicky for a chin-wag. It would have been rude to Keith. He eyed me with a smirk the moment I hobbled in. I almost didn't recognise him. Shorn of his long locks, he sported a military-style buzz-cut. It suited his head shape better. He had ditched the black Slayer and Metallica tees for a bright orange Ben Sherman shirt, and the Doc-Martens for smart trainers. All part of his conversion from speed-metal freak to hardcore raver. Funny how when some people change, they do the full 360 degrees. Keith was not alone in this. I later found out that Nicky had dumped Fast Eddie, eight years her senior, for Keith, eighteen months her junior.

"Ah, Jaysus boys," said a rangy guy with mousey hair swept back in a ponytail, as I joined the table, "they're getting younger by the day. This one looks young enough to be my son." He grinned broadly, "Yer not mine, are yeh?"

"Nah, me da bears full responsibility for this mess." The laughs started.

Introductions and hand-shakes followed.

Within a few minutes, I was reeling off my favourite bands. I gained plenty of kudos for being a Bowie-boy. And, moments later, lost most of it by confessing my love for Manchester United. The banter, all good-natured, got tossed about like a hot potato.

At the other tables, the women were equally adept at letting fly with the wit, as Nicky discovered when she aimed a wink in my direction. "Is this another of your boy-toys? Any more and yeh could open yer own nursery.

The lads were quick to leap in. "Wha'? An' here's me thinking of inviting you to me nephew's christening."

"Would ya stop," a woman with inky black hair said. "Nicky'd snatch the poor wee creature from the font before the priest'd dunked him in the water."