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It was April. They came in the early afternoon at their usual hour and ordered four gins, two each, to mark the end of their shift and the beginning of endless idle talk at my kiosk. I poured four generous shots and placed them on the counter. It was quite low, and they had to bend a little to grab them. As they did, I saw up close their rough hands, cracked nails covered in black oily dirt mixed with metal filings. Their old boiler suits were marked with large black stains, torn in places and smelly.
They kept my business running, spending hundreds of crowns on booze every day, and they were chatty. And anyway, who am I to judge. Drinking was a way of forgetting — for a while at least — the dirt and back-breaking speed of construction sites, steelworks or the local landfill where most of them worked for peanuts.
He was talking to his friend, but his voice was loud as if trying to reach to a broader audience, a couple of street cleaners who were taking a break nearby the kiosk, and me. I knew he belonged to a group of geezers who were collecting steel from a nearby industrial landfill.
People made fun of them and called them thieves; they were the bottom that we all wanted to avoid, or almost the bottom in any case. The other man was a bit shorter and had sad eyes. Listening to their conversations daily, I noticed he would get drunk faster and quickly proceed to share one of his unhappy love stories, of which he seemed to have plenty. He struck me as someone who indulged in self-pity, but I barely saw him sober, so maybe it was just the effect of the shots.
