The fourth collection of M. Edward McNally's short stories, from beyond the vale of history (AKA: the 1990s).
Contents:
Flipper the Stripper - You think your job is boring?
Justice in Ireland - One of those "metaphoric" titles.
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Flipper the Stripper
Justice in Ireland
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By M. Edward McNally
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 M. Edward McNally
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Flipper the Stripper
There are a good four things wrong with this Monday morning.
First and foremost is just that: It's Monday. First day of the work week, though of course everything you earn today is going to the government. Which begs the question; why the hell show up for work?
But like a putz I do, and so there I am smack dab in the midsection of the second reason this is shaping up to be a truly lousy day, which is the work itself. See, I'm a stripper.
No, no, no, not one of those. I don't shake my money-maker for anything but purely recreational purposes, not that Chip'n'Dales or whoever has been beating my door down. No, what I do to pay the rent is strip photo-reagent off panels of little metal parts that go into pacemakers and computers and missile guidance systems and God-knows-what-all. The photo-reagent is this grapefruit-juice colored goo that goes all over the panels when the parts are laminated and etched out, and you get it off with a line of tanks full of Pratta brand hot stripper.
Then weak hydrochloric acid, then alcohol, with rinse tanks in between. Then you dry the panels in ovens, or blot ‘em gently with towels for the smaller, more delicate stuff. That's what I do: Soak and rinse and dry these panels, for ten hours a day, four days a week. Or five, on glorious time-and-a-half, if we're behind. And we are pretty much always behind.
I'm a stripper, and as such, my Monday's are lousy from the get-go. This particular one I'm talking about now doesn't stop there, of course. It's also raining out, which is hardly rare for Tacoma, but it means that on cigarette breaks everybody will have to huddle against the wall out by the loading dock, like we're all guests at the St. Valentine's Day Massacre. Really blows dog, as the kids are wont to say.
Fourth and finally, something is up. Up as in jammed up, screwed up, or the explicative of your choice, up. I know this because I've been doing my little strip gig here at Kirkson Parts Inc. for some years now, and after that long I can read the signs. No, not the ones that say don't drink the hydrochloric, I could read those when I got here. I mean the signs that say the shit is starting to circle in the air, looking for a fan.
One end of the long room where the Strip and Prep decks are located gives into the front offices, and all morning there's been quite the hub-bub going on out there. People keep scurrying by past the door talking real fast (though I can't make out what they've been saying from my deck, not over the country music on the radio), and about twenty some-odd minutes ago the Lord of the Manor, Wayne Kirkson himself, went barreling through here heading for Inspection, with his tie and two supervisors, Bruce and Sharon, flapping behind him. Wayne is the owner of our fine establishment and he's usually only in here once or twice a week (providing he's not in Barbados, or some-damn-wheres), and even then, it's never
