Fish Plants

My father’s work ethic was incomparable to anyone elses. He would be adamant about my sister and I being self-sufficient people and to stop milking the teat we call father.

By the time I was 13 years old I was both working at the local fish plant doing job shadowing and moonlighting as a bus boy for my father's restaurant. Any night there could be something different and it wasn’t something I looked forward to initially, but I knew dad was proud. I could be butchering crab, working on the sorting lines, packaging, or if worse came to worse clean up.

Now, I must say this wasn’t the place you’d want to work for the rest of your life. The fish plant was full of uneducated; chain smoking, hardcore Newfoundlanders who would never leave the rock – not even this small town for that matter.

It was a living for sure. And, it was pretty good money and we had breaks every hour for 15 minutes. It was at the fish plant where I started smoking, where I learned the ins and outs of life, and where I promised myself I would try has hard as possible in life to get a white color job. Lord knows, this wasn’t the place life was happening. This was the place where people give up and become complacent.

When we had to work mornings, my sister would usually throw a fit. Start crying, complaining that her feet hurt; sometimes her stomach. It got to the point where we realized it wasn’t a physical ailment that affected my year older sister; she just didn’t love the job!

I have witnessed many a fight between my sister and dad in the wee hours of the morning, nothing but screaming and tears, and finally my father either giving up or becoming enraged and sending her off to the fish pits anyway. Once you get there, and start up the monotony, it really wasn’t that bad. I just didn’t think she was really into working for a living.

I had a rubber suit, which was my uncle Larry’s at some point and all the standard gear. My family and I were so cheap I decided to use the hand-me-downs instead of investing in my future at the plant. Mind you the rubber suit didn’t fend off water as well as the standard green ones you could buy at the plant, and also it was bright yellow. If you could imagine, a faggot in a yellow rubber suit, trying to fit into society really stood out at the plant. I didn’t mind though, I mean I always did want to stand out, so when I blinded people with the brilliance of my rubber clothes, it was just one more notch on the belt of being unique. To quote my mother: "fuck 'em all".

“My sonny boy, get out while you can, this isn’t a place for a young go getter like yourself”, an older man who I befriended at the plant would tell me. He would grip my arm so hard to drive the point across. Some knew you see that there was more out there. Some had regrets, and dreams, and longings – but they settle into the same role as anyone else because how can you escape? It’s too late for some.

“When I was your age, my son, I was up on the mainland making a great living. There was tons of beer and women. Those were the times”, he would eye me in such a direct and focused way, and I would be taken aback. It’s rare to find such an awareness in someone so ‘small town’. He just wanted to get me out, wanted me to think about where I was, I can’t hold him against that. It’s like a prison you see, a prison that you can’t escape from. There isn’t a time limit in this place, or 10 year sentence. It’s the rest of your life, unless you plan, scheme, and are brave enough to do something about it.

The best part about the plant was getting off work. My friends and I would rush home, shower up, and head out the local bar. Now, the smell of fish and crab doesn’t wash off. Sometimes it could stay on your skin before a couple of days. This film or layer of fish stench…my father always called it the smell of money, but it certainly didn’t help in picking up a nice girl at the bar. Although that wasn’t necessarily a bad smell after all, I referred to it as the smell of someone indifferent to the opposite sex.

I came from a well off family, yet I was one of the local plant workers, and I enjoyed not depending on my father's handouts, because I know he would only use it against me in the future. There was no giving, it was something that was brought up time and time again - you owe me son. Fuck that, I'd sooner shave a yack.

We’d all head out to the Cozy Corner, the only club in the area. It had one pool table which was in need of an extreme makeover, the standard gamblers who played video lotto in the corner (sometimes I wondered if they ever left), some round tables which were not stable, and a variety of card and dart players. This was my life until I was old enough to leave and explore the world. This was the cubby hole of existence where I accepted it because I had no idea what was out there.

I became a great card player – 500’s, 120’s, cribbage, and at the same time could play any game for a beer, and almost always win – provided my partner was of average intelligence. The local’s enjoyed my company too, unknown as to what I really was, I was accept as being a under intelligent, beer swiveling, card playing monkey – much like the rest of ‘em. If they ever found out I could think, they may have left me for someone else. I had to play down every part of my existence. Nobody likes a smart ass.

“Yes bye, the beer is some good tonight”, Lee would say. My best friend, although I can’t believe people could buy into the dialect. I didn’t talk like that. Why are they doing it? I never did understand how people can just adopt a dialect so against the rules of grammar. He was a strapping young man, tall, blond, good looking…sigh. How did I ever make it out of there alive?

“There are a nice bit of women around tonight, aye bye?”. Need I say more?