Joe could not sleep and Lola was the cause. She was in his thoughts constantly – she had become a part of his mind. It was impossible not to think of her or, it felt, survive a day without seeing her. It was absolute madness – he knew it – and embarrassing, but there was simply no controlling it. He looked at his wristwatch, saw it was ten in the morning and that she had not appeared in the shop. He turned to Henry, working the other side of the cab.
‘I’m heading across to the floor,’ he said. ‘I’ve got something to do.’ He walked down the gantry and started wandering through the workstations. He stopped beside Old Jim and asked the whereabouts of the foreman. He too was hard to find, enabling Joe to search a little longer. He had no reason to be walking around and everyone knew it. He continued, sometimes halting here and there to look through a doorway. He stopped by the main doors and listened to the sounds of the floor. In secret, he sought her laugh or the clap of heels. Then he felt a shot of horror that she may be seeing someone else.
He stared at a nearby locomotive and watched a boilermaker slowly kneeling at a bogie and lowering his visor. ‘I’m going out of my mind,’ he thought. He watched the welding rod burning bright as a marine flare.
He smelt something fresh and sweet like an open can of peaches, looked to his side, and saw Lola Bonita, metres away, staring at him – J—s!
‘Mr. Judd,’ she said, stepping forwards. ‘How are you, dear?’ It was the first time he had seen her since the nightshift. He had only wanted to see her from a distance as if it might, in some way, ease his distress. Now cornered, he gazed blankly at her face. Lost for answers, he looked away, setting off an uncomfortable silence.
‘What the devil’s going on, Joe?’ she asked. ‘You’ve been acting very strange lately.’
He stared lifelessly at the shop. He looked down, ashamed at his behaviour, toeing a discarded welding rod on the floor.
‘You’re not making sense any more, Joe,’ she said. Hearing their discussion, the boilermaker raised his visor and looked at them. ‘Joe?’ she said sternly. He glanced at her, then looked away and wiped his clammy palms on his trousers.
That was it. Lola got dead angry – no surprise there. She walked passed him and into the aisle. She headed towards her office without looking back. He felt like calling her back to explain, but there was nothing he could say.
That evening he entered his kitchen and switched on the light. He slapped a thick steak and two sausages onto a frying pan and took a beer from the refrigerator. He felt like dirt. He slid the meat onto his plate and slowly sat in his chair. When he ate there was no sound but for his breathing and the knock of the cutlery. He knew he had no appetite and that eating was merely a distraction. He slowly slid the steak around with his fork.
‘You’re in a state of crisis, mate,’ he said to himself. He slowly pushed his meal away. He hadn’t felt hungry for weeks and knew he was losing weight. The deep yearning over time was making him sick – simple as that – and his condition possessed a dreadful sense of permanence. He tilted his head back, looked at the ceiling and began whispering reprimands to himself.
He slowly stood, stepped towards the doorway and turned off the light. His hands went into his pockets and he began wandering around the kitchen. He walked into the bedroom and, seeing his mattress, fell to the cool sheets. Oh, how he yearned to get this monkey off his back and sleep.
He turned over, looked through the window and saw the stars of yet another evening. He pulled the sheet up over his head and slowly closed his eyes, trying to fall sleep.
Sparrows began calling under the ledge in the dark and he listened for a minute before slowly opening his eyes. After a while, the stars lost their brilliance and, with the morning light, the room had resumed its usual shape. He looked down at his bed and saw, to no surprise, his greasy boots sticking out from under the sheets. Yes, he had he had forgotten to take them off.