Life in a Thrashing Machine

THRASHING MACHINE

A Novel By: WALTER D. PETROVIC
(c) Copyright October 1981 + May 2004
Approximately 54,245 words
513 - 25 Country Hills Dr. Kitchener, Ontario N2E 3L1 Canada
(519) 570-4774
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CHAPTER ONE
The world appeared inhospitable during this time of year. In poetry, songs and art, autumn is said to be the time when all things living prepared themselves to either sleep, or die. The biting wind tossed the leaves into a fury, scattering them into the faces of the people walking along King Street.
There was a certain young man pacing the street along with the rest of the people. He appeared poor and destitute in his half slumped-over jaunt. His shoulders had the appearance of dragging behind him and his hands were shoved deep into the torn pockets of his blue denim bomber jacket, trying to keep them warm.
Vlad was pounding the pavement looking for a job and this wasn't the first day that he's spent on this task. This chore, that Vlad was undertaking was in its third month, now.
He had finished school some six months ago, studying music at one of Canada's leading national music conservatories, and subsequently graduating.
This was to be his life and he knew it ever since he was a child but as with all dreams, most end up coming short of the desired fulfilment.
The hordes of people were quickly strutting down the windy sidewalks, clutching at the collars of their overcoats and staring downwards, as if afraid to watch where they were going.
Kitchener was in the middle of an October cold spell, as it was also, in the middle of an invasion of tourists, here to enjoy the annual Oktoberfest celebrations. This has been the most frustrating day Vlad remembered enduring. The teasing cold was setting itself right into the marrow of his bones and his hands ached. He refused to wear his gloves since he didn't want them dirtied or destroyed, having been given them as a gift the previous Christmas, and they were still like new. Vlad believed that he could endure the cold, which he passionately detested, until he could land a job. He would then buy himself the necessities which would be able to sustain him, until he could afford to return to the pursuit of his career; composing music and conducting an orchestra.
Occasionally, Vlad ducked into a flatulent-smelling store to warm himself and while there, he forced himself to fill-out another job application. He had the procedure memorised: Walk in, as if you are important. Nicely request to be given a form and fill out the intimidating boxes. Name: Vlad Peploh, Experience: some, Education: yes, Desired Wage: more than you're willing to pay. At least, he filled out his name. He wanted to write down some funny or flippant answers. Maybe it would give him notoriety, but he quickly remembered where he was living: Kitchener-no sense of humour and little patience for those who try a light-hearted approach.
He kept staring at the space on the form asking him his choice of employment duration. "Stupid!" he thought when he read it. A day, a week; maybe a year-or a lifetime? The real concern was immediate work for immediate money. Vlad liked to eat and he preferred warmer conditions. Vlad shuddered at the thought of spending one more year, let-alone twenty or thirty, in some store or factory. All that he really cared about was to have a life as a composer, and maybe some day to conduct his own material.
It was Vlad's misfortune however, that he never was able to get the upper hand on anything that he had attempted in his life. He felt like a failure and he prayed, with all his heart, to Divine God, to grant him the blessings of good luck and prosperity. But, if God were indeed helping him, Vlad hadn't noticed. All that Vlad could see was the urine-coloured application form set before him with all those countless boxes that had to be filled. This was the worst part of looking for a job, he thought. These forms were really the degrading part of work, and not the labour that later came with being accepted through them.
Vlad filled out this application form and handed it back to the paunchy, half-bald man, standing behind the counter. To make matters worse for Vlad, the man interviewed him right away, since this store was supposed to have an opening. Vlad was both uncomfortable and pleased for this because he thought that finally he may have a job.
"Vladimir X. Peploh?" the man repeated the applicant's name as he looked at him with questioning eyes.
Vlad just smiled and nodded.
"Have you ever worked in a clothing store, Mr. Peploh?" the man asked him.
Vlad took a deep breath of the warm stale air and shook his head when he answered.
"Not really." he said. "I did