The magazine of the Melbourne PC User Group Casualties of Change John Mackesy

They'd been chatting, as people in pubs often do - you know, the casual, trivial issues blokes discuss in pubs, things like politics, the footy and Nicole Kidman's bum. Although it was cool and dim in the Alfred's front bar, the stranger was sweating, and fidgeting on his stool; his eyes were hidden behind dark glasses. Harry was intrigued - didn't seem like the type you'd find at the Alf.

"What d'you do for a crust, mate?" he'd wondered idly. The stranger steadied himself, gazed thoughtfully into the amber depths of his beer, then started to speak - but no words came. Raising his glass to his lips, he drank deeply.

"Ah, that's better, now I can talk. Well, it's kind of a long story, but what the hell, who's in a hurry? Used to work for Nissan, spent years there, on the assembly lines. I've worked on them all - 200B's, Bluebirds, Pintaras, Skylines, Pulsars, the lot."

He paused for a moment, as if in reflection.

"Remember what Henry Ford said? 'The man who fits the wheel does not put the nuts on. The man who puts the nuts on does not tighten them' - well, I was the man who tightened them. I'd walk around the car with my air rattler gun, zap! zap! zap! until they were all done up. Then another car'd come along and zap! zap! zap! off I'd go. I was good at it, too, never missed a one."

As if to collect his thoughts, he paused again, taking another long draft from his dewy glass.

"One day, after years of doing that, I got to thinking. Where did the nuts come from? Were they made by blokes like me? Did those blokes watch TV, eat at Macca's and go to the pub? I looked around me, and realised I knew nothing! I was trapped in a morass of ignorance, and it didn't look like there was any way out. But there was - they closed the bloody place down and there I was, out of a job! Best job I ever had, too. What could I do? No bastard would give me a go, so I was forced to return to study. Got me degree, and now I'm back in the bloody English Department, lecturing in 'Techniques of Literary Criticism.' It's soul-destroying, I'll tell you. I'd give anything to have me old job back."

Harry nodded sympathetically, reflecting wistfully on his days as a boner at the abattoirs, before the bottom fell out of the meat business.

"A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, I guess. Take me - I used to be a boner, but what use is that today? None, that's what. Oh, I keep my hand in on the Sunday roast, but that's about it. I was just like you, had to find a new direction. I looked at various things, but all I could get into was Computer Science. Now they've got me hidden away researching teledildonics. It just isn't fair, that's what I say."

"Tele-dil-what?"

"Tele-dil-don-ics - haven't you heard? They say it'll be the new wave in computing. It's pretty straightforward, really, it's the simulation of sex at a distance, virtual reality sex, you know, like computer games - boring kid stuff. Makes me long to hold me boning knives again. I still keep them sharp, y'know."

Above the bar, the dusty clock showed half-past three.

"Feel like another?" the stranger asked. Harry considered the idea, but decided against it.

"No, thanks, gotta get back to the grind. See you around."

Shaking his head in disbelief, the stranger watched him go. Teledildonics, indeed. What would Henry Ford have thought?

Reprinted from the November 2000 issue of PC Update, the magazine of Melbourne PC User Group, Australia

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