On The Bins

He has a job on the bins, now. Each morning up at 5 and in the depot. That portakabin full of steam and prejudice, tits on the wall. The first day they showed him where to get his fluorescent waistcoat, issued him with safety boots, metal toed; his gloves with suede patches on the palms, along the fingers.
What he can't stomach is their small talk. Each day the same. In the chill of dawn, the blue sky widening, the windows thickening with condensation, the kettle on.
He doesn't feel like he is a man. They talk about the telly last night, their wives, their kids. This morning as they all spark up, the smoking ban. He can do this. Shakes a cheap fag from his packet, accepts a light. For the time it takes to breathe in the blue smoke and let it out a shade lighter, he is part of it.
"Won't be the same," one says, "pool and a pint without my smokes?"
"We'll be all outside the door," another laughs.
"I was in Ireland last Summer," he begins, carried along with it. "Each pub had a bucket of sand outside." They turn to look at him, listening. "A little gaggle of smokers," he tails off. They are waiting for a punchline. They want to laugh. Into the uncomfortable silence they blow the last knockings of their cigarettes. He shifts on his chair.
"Should be done by 3 today," the driver comments.
"Yep," someone agrees.
Soon they will be a team, running along the streets to get finished early.
He bends his fag end in amongst the others in a metal lid. The sun lifts a beam of light in through the portakabin window, the signal that the shift begins.