No one knew where Pat had come from or how he’d landed the driver’s job. A transfer from an outlying British Oversea Territory became the favoured theory, amongst work colleagues. As a tall and broad-shouldered man, no one cared to challenge or question Pat.
During the household waste collection rounds, neighbours noticed how he approached the job with his precision handling of a seven and a half tonne lorry. He avoided blocking roads, allowing the morning rush hour traffic to flow freely. This man, wearing his plaid patterned flat cap, possessed a unique sense of anticipation and spatial awareness. An observant, early morning dog-walker watching Pat’s progress on a stretch of his route, would easily discern these qualities. He regularly adjusted the large, off side wing mirror and rotated the steering wheel vigorously, first clockwise and then anti-clockwise. The grim look of concentration on his face revealed a man finely tuned to a task and a master of clutch control.
He kept everyone happy, timing the movement of the refuse truck at a pace which served the operatives perfectly. Walking distances for the men reduced, while reports circulated of coordination akin to a military operation. Looked on from above, the streets pulsated to a rhythm of efficiency.
The tips flowed in throughout the year, not only around Christmas time. During early May, mothers held children up in their arms to thread flowers into button holes and behind the ears of the bin men. They became used to receiving greetings, even short and pleasant conversations. As noted, everybody seemed happy.
Everyone, except Pat.
“Something is missing.” He’d told the crew, one Friday. “There’s something more we can do.” The men scratched their heads and chins, with no idea what this might be. A few humorous comments surfaced, which Pat ignored. “Go enjoy your weekend boys, rest assured I’ll work on this over the next couple of days.” They changed out of their workwear and left the depot in silence, wondering what Monday held in store.
The new week began without the expected revelation. No one suggested Pat looked dour, as the team worked diligently through their rounds. Contemplative fitted better and more accurately described his state of mind. Each time after they’d completed a section, he would climb out of the cab and stand in the centre of the road. Stood next to his white charger, large hands rolled into fists and perched on hips, this Roman General scrutinised each detail of what lay before him.
The same routine followed for the next three days. Mild disgruntlement formed amongst the ranks, as the length of the shifts extended to encompass the analysis. Overheard grumblings in the dressing room at the council depot on the Thursday morning, prompted Pat to address his men.
“I understand the frustration you boys have been feeling this week.” He said. His expression had softened from the intense concentration, apparent the day before. “Time is of the essence, I’m hearing you say. Well, it’s not and never has been on my watch. The essence we are dealing with here, is service.”
“Boss, we’re doing a great job,” piped up Jakub, a Polish man of muscular frame. “I heard from Sylvie at the reception desk, we are likely to win the Local Council Award for Excellence this year.”
“Now boys!” Pat raised his voice several decibels to be heard above the chatter breaking out between the men, at Jakub’s news. “Mark my words, it’s never been about gongs, it’s never been about how fast we work. The public pay for a service, the role falls to us and we are paid well enough by all accounts, to deliver that service.” Pat paused, waited for silence before continuing. “You remember what I said last Friday, you’ve seen me assessing our rounds. Well, tomorrow I am introducing a new element to the our responsibilities, it is simple and yet transformative.”
“Why can’t we start it today, Boss?” Asked Lando, an Italian originating from the whitewashed hill towns in the heel forming Italy’s boot.
“Tutto a tempo debito?” Replied Pat, quoting an Italian proverb. The men sitting around Lando avidly watched him to see how he would reply.
“Okay Boss, you know best, all in good time I guess, as you say.”
“That’s right son, all in good time. Next week boys,” Pat said, looking around at each one of the faces transfixed on him, “we are going to raise the bar for household waste collection. We’ll be putting our names down in the history books, nothing will be the same afterwards. Now let’s go out there today and tomorrow, looking after ourselves and each other, and get the job done.” A spontaneous shout of approval reverberated around the changing room as the men stood up and walked out, in line behind their leader.
(end of part one (part two to follow))