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- Herausgeber: 0111 Edizioni
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
Waking up early, getting on the old bus to go to work. Every day the same people, with the same behaviours. Bordering on come dy, absurd, unsustainable. A journey spent criticizing others, until the final surprise.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013
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Enzo D’Andrea
Today I think I’m not going to work
Translation by Carmelo Massimo Tidona forZed Lab
www.quellidized.it
TODAY I THINK I’M NOT GOING TO WORK
Copyright © 2012Zerounoundici EdizioniISBN:978-88-6578-252-1Cover Image: Shutterstock.com
Today I thinkI’m not going to work
Vroom... vroooom... a blue parallelepiped on four wheels is going to pull over to the side of the road. Finally this wreck has arrived. The smoke invades our side of the road, obscuring for a moment the already gray sidewalk on which we usually wait.
An acrid smell fills the air, pungent, artificial and polluting in a healthy and strong way, like only old means of transport can be. Today the wreck broke every previous record. A delay of no less than ten minutes. To be added to the time we’ll lose at the free-call stops to which my fellow citizens have grown accustomed.
This is the bus that every given day brings workers from Monvio, thecharmingtown – not so much, if you look good, but it's a common saying by now – where I live, to the capital. Except on Sunday, the holiest day of all.
The distance is not great, just fifteen kilometres. But we have to add at least another seven or eight, made in fits and starts in the middle of the chaotic traffic. And this until the last commuter gets off, in the mist of the cold winter morning, to reach his workplace.
After having left the last human being who is on board, the driver – usually a moustached guy, with a crooked hat on his head, either too quiet or too nosy about all imaginable facts – drives along the stretch to the last station.
Every given weekday, the same old story, whether it rains or it’s sunny. Not to mention when it snows. That is the start of a separate chapter, and the comedy never ends.
The driver hasn’t yet opened the doors and already Mr. Buffò, upright janitor – are they still called so? – makes his way through the crowd, smiling right and left repeatedly, while imitating with his arms a skilled swimmer, and he materializes in front of the door. It opens, brushing – as it has been doing for years by now – the tip of his pointed nose, always imperceptibly out of the way, as if the owner always calculated the distance perfectly. I almost feel sorry for that poor door, seeing it so mocked by a nose seemingly helpless but still too out of reach.
