A Working Stiff's Manifesto Read Online Free

Market. He is unclear about what happened to his store, or why he found working here preferable. He mentions that he is a type-A personality, a workaholic who just can’t stop himself. He tells me this as he watches me, hands in his pockets, barely looking at the ice-filled Styrofoam boxes of fish he is supposed to be checking for quality. He is more interested in the weather, reminiscing, and the tightly-clad women we can see going into the store’s front entrance. It’s only my first day with him, but he appears to have come to terms with his workaholism.
    We go back inside, and I am introduced to the junior manager, an Italian fellow named Ippolito. Ippolito is making the schedule for the fish department. It turns out there are only three people who work the fish counter, and I am the third, which explains my rapid and untested hiring. I thought they were looking for an ass-kisser with a good haircut, and it turns out they wanted someone, anyone. These two chiefs were obviously desperate for an Indian. I become more confident of my status.
    As I am putting the crates away in the freezer, I hear pieces of a conversation between Ippolito and John. Ippolito is asking for a raise, I gather, and John is hemming and hawing. I shut the freezer door so they won’t think I’m eavesdropping. I’ve seen this scene before, and I already know how this is going to turn out.
    When the fish has been neatly stacked in the freezer, I come outside, and Ippolito is alone, filleting flounder. I watch his hands, trying to pick up silent pointers on fish cutting. No doubt he has done this before. His nimble hands remove the meat from the bones of each fish with a few deft strokes. When I look up, I realize his cheeks are flushed with rage.
    â€œHow much you make?” he asks me, still cutting the fish. He has a thick Italian accent but his English is good. “How much they pay you?”
    There’s no way around it. It’s a direct question, and I figure he’s a manager, he’s entitled to the information. “Twelve dollars an hour.”
    â€œMotherfucker,” he says. “That motherfucker.”
    I nod sympathetically.
    â€œYou cut fish good? You better than me?”
    â€œUh, no.”
    â€œBut you cut fish before, right?”
    â€œSure.” Worst comes to worst, I can always claim a blow to the head or carpal tunnel syndrome to explain my suddenly lost abilities.
    â€œYou cut flounder good?”
    â€œFlounder … that’s always been a problem for me.”
    â€œBecause they are flat, right? Flat fish are hard.” Ippolito is smiling now, enjoying the brotherhood of us fishcutters, those who know that flat fish are hard. He hands me the knife. “Cut me a flounder.”
    It’s go time. I’ve seen him do at least ten of them, and I have a built in excuse—flat fish are hard—so I dive right in. I pull a flounder out of the box, insert the knife under the skin the same way I have seen him do it ten times, and the knife strikes a bone right away. I wriggle it around, but I can’t get the knife away from the bone.
    â€œHere, let me show you.” My secret is out, and Ippolito seems to have expected it. He slowly inserts the knife, makes a few deft movements, and lifts the meat from the bones. Like magic. He hands me another flounder, and again I strike bone.
    â€œYou cut fish before?” he asks again.
    â€œSure. In Alaska. Long time ago.”
    â€œAlaska fish, maybe they are different,” he says, his voice fatherly and kind. A light goes on as I suddenly realize the situation. Ippolito knows damned well Alaskan fish and Atlantic fish are pretty much the same. He’s not a bad guy, I figure. He knows I can’t do the job, but I imagine they’ve been working him to death the last few weeks, especially if he was teamed with Workaholic John, and he just wants some time off. He’s willing to work with me just to keep