A Vignette

This is something I’m going to try doing on a somewhat regular basis, as a bit of writing practice, since I always feel that my descriptions could use some work….

I was working a shit job at the time. A warehouse job. I lasted four days before they showed me the door, but I remember that guy.

Four days, I don’t think That Guy changed his outfit once. White button-down Oxford shirt, tucked into navy blue dress pants (but a cheap brand). White sneakers that matched his shirt. And a navy blue windbreaker that matched his pants. There were two bulges in the windbreaker: his enormous key ring in the outer pocket, and the rectangle of a pack of cigarettes in the inner one.

That Guy was short and potbellied. His hair was white and was the most perfectly-combed hair in history. He had to use some kind of product.

I have no idea what his job was. I only saw him walk around the warehouse, constantly muttering under his breath, in a thick Italian accent. There was one phrase that he used, over and over and over and over again: “Alla that shit”. It was like a mantra for him: “Alla that shit. Alla that shit. Alla that shit.” Once in a while he’d stop and talk to the dude I was working with – never addressing me a single time – and he’d point and say “Move alla that shit”. It was never clear what, exactly, he was pointing to. One time he came back an hour later and said, “Didja move alla that shit?”

Dude I worked with said, “Sure did.”

That Guy looked, grunted with approval, and then waved in some other direction. “Start workin’ on alla that shit.” And then he walked off.

Of course we hadn’t moved a single thing.

Yeah, I remember That Guy.

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