Earth. Live. Neutral.

Earth

I was good at rewiring plugs. It was one of the skills that I was admired for in my first job. Stan the man was the boss. He did the Stanley dance on a night out; two little fists circling each other shoulder height at his left side and then his right, looking like he had a pair of invisible maracas. He had a racy red sports car, an old horsey straight-mouthed wife called Alice and a ‘good friend’ who used to pop in, just when she was passing, mind. She would wear a Tina Turner wig and at times be clutching a fake microphone with her long crimson nails wrapped round it. Nails that could hurt. Nutbush City Limits. Strut. Although the others laughed, I couldn’t see the humour in it; in her. I’d give tight smiles.

   I enjoyed the thrill of mending the lamps he used to sell. Prising open the back casing of a plug, I’d see if perhaps some whiskers of wires had escaped or if a fuse had blown. I’d sit in the basement and make gentle indentations with scissors around the sheath of the wire to reveal gold threads. Then I’d wind the threads round and thread them back through into the little holes as Bamboleo by the Gypsy Kings heel- stomped out from the stereo upstairs. I’d take my time, fill my time, do something useful. When I’d slotted the wires back into their correct places, I’d plug it into a wall socket and if the light-bulb went on it made me feel almost superior. To who or what I didn’t know.

     I’ll never know if Stan knew my big dirty secret. He dropped me off at home after a night out or two, so there could have been clues for him there if he had chosen to look. Secretly though, I was just excited to be getting a lift home and hoped someone would see or hear the red roaring car coming along the street. I liked what it said about me. It contrasted well with the other me who pulled Dad out of taxis covered in dried earth from a fall, fly open.

Live.

I once was blown across a room by electricity. I’m serious, straight over my sister’s bed. She was sound asleep at the time. I’ll never forget that weird wave-like feeling going through my body. Gah Gah. Lucky to be alive, mum said afterwards, whilst my sister’s named me the stupidest person ever. Doh. I’d plugged my hairdryer into the wall, around 7am on a school morning. (The hair had to be done in those days). The back of the plug fell off as I plugged it into the wall, the long capsule like fuse popping out at the same time. I was curious seeing these inner workings. So I did what any other clueless teenager would do and pushed the fuse back into its little holding station. Bam. Ca-zam. Pow. Waves and a weird rubbery like sensation ran through me. As I found myself across the room. And a sleepy eyed sister rose her head and said huh? 

Neutral.

I’m still doing it now. Re-wiring plugs. All these men you work with, some customers will say, and it’s you doing the man’s job. Makes me feel like the stupidest person ever. I’m no longer working for Stan. He went bust a long time ago and ran off with Tina Turner or so I heard. Probably not around anymore actually, him or Alice. And what was it all for? All those years they stayed together; two opposites. Him running off with, well maybe someone he liked. Even though she repelled me, sometimes I preferred her, Tina Fakery, to the stoic rage that festered inside Alice.   

   I aim every day to do something useful, only now there is no wine after work on Saturdays, no nice Christmas bonus from the boss, no rats in the basement. The rats I work with now are in suits. I carry lamps around, swap them all day long, ‘Watch out its Florence Nightingale,’ they’ll say now and again as I pass. Or if I have a hammer in my hand it’ll be ‘never trust a woman with a hammer.’ And I’ll play along, kid on I’m hitting them with it like in a scene from Psycho.

   Sometimes I’ll rewire a plug and it’ll not work, I’ll try everything. Then I’ll wrap the wire round the lamp-base and take it to the dump. It’s no use holding onto things that don’t work. They do it all the time at the lamp-shop, store all the broken, useless lamps in the cupboards and then complain they have no space. But I’ll not blame them, they say they're scared to throw out things in case they get in trouble. Give it to me, I’ll say. I’m the neutral party, you see.  

    After he left, the first one, the main big guy, I felt- nothing. Flat-lined. He’ll never have known about the time I got blown across the room. That’s because the electricity in his brain; the wiring, had got damaged. Water damaged. Irreparable I’d say. That puts it nicely. The great big dirty secret had left the building. And I’ve been fixing fuses and rewiring plugs ever since.