Chapter 103: Conflict and Getting Beaten
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Hammer was a very common worker on the docks—just like his name, very ordinary.
He had the bad temper that most dock workers had. Every day, he was annoyed by one thing or another; there was always someone who could get on his nerves.
He never thought the problem was himself. If it were, why would someone else make him unhappy instead of him making himself unhappy?
Lately, his mood had been even more unstable, because all the bars had stopped selling alcohol but told them if they were willing to pay a bit more than usual, there were places that could still sell alcoholic drinks.
Hammer went. The worst beer was fifteen cents a glass. The kind he usually drank was twenty cents. If he wanted to add one ounce of low-quality whiskey, that was forty cents.
Too damn expensive!
He only earned thirty-seven bucks a month. If converted into beer… he had his son calculate it — only ninety-two “bomb” drinks.
Since when did drinking a glass of beer become so difficult?
But not drinking wasn’t an option either.
There was nothing more relaxing than finishing a long day, sitting at the bar after dark, having a “bomb” drink, watching the young and beautiful girls take off their clothes one by one.
Oh, and the beer had to be cold—but not with ice cubes. Some fools put ice cubes in beer. They were idiots.
That might be one of the few moments Hammer used his brain. If he had used his brain a bit more back when he was studying, maybe now… No, even if an ordinary person studies, unless they become the top one percent, the result won’t change much.
“It’s all those damn immigrants’ fault!” The huge wrench weighing 20 to 30 pounds in his hand made his arms feel like they weren’t his, but he still had to keep working.
He held the wrench while his coworker swung a hammer and struck one end of it, tightening a fist-sized bolt.
This was one of their daily tasks. Every day!
Because of vibrations or other reasons, the bolts would loosen a bit every day. It wouldn’t be a big deal not to fix them, but to be safe, they tightened all the bolts in their work area every day.
It looked like an easy job and they worked in pairs, but only when you actually do it do you know how awful it is.
In summer, you worked under scorching sun; in winter, you worked in biting cold winds. The only comfortable seasons, spring and autumn, still left you so tired from heavy labor you didn’t want to talk.
Now even the only way to relieve fatigue—the beer—had become expensive again, so all he could do was complain.
After his coworker raised the hammer high and brought it down hard, the “clang” sound vibrated Hammer’s hands until they went numb.
“Fuck! Fuck all immigrants!”
His coworker stopped laughing and said, “So we’re standing here in the sun—what does that have to do with immigrants?”
Hammer let go of the wrench. “If it weren’t for those sons of bitches immigrants, do you think they’d pay us only thirty-seven bucks a month?”
His eyes widened, and his tone was explosive.
“Those sons of bitches would work for thirty bucks if you gave it to them. If it weren’t for them repeatedly letting the vampires know they could find workers for less money, I’d have at least fifty bucks a month by now!”
He sat down on a mooring post used to tie boat ropes, rested his foot on another post, and panted slightly.
“Not just thirty-seven bucks a month!”
His coworker also put down the hammer and took a short break.
“You make some sense.”
“Right? Many people think I’m wrong.”
“Think about it. If no one wants to work even at forty-eight bucks a month, isn’t the only way to raise the price?”
“Actually, if we all hold out and refuse the current wages, they have to raise the pay.”
“But look!” He pointed to workers standing by the ships, wiping or holding tools to clean the hulls.
“Those sons of bitches will work for ten or so bucks. How can the capitalists raise our wages then?”
His coworker didn’t know how to argue. He thought it was wrong but had no counter.
Besides, they were coworkers, not him and those immigrants, so he sided with Hammer.
“These people really destroyed our happy life.”
Hammer’s opinion was accepted. He brightened up immediately.
“Wanna grab a drink after work?”
“I recently found a new tavern. Only forty cents for a big beer with an ounce of whiskey, plus free striptease!”
Actually, this price was only five cents cheaper than where they usually went, but five cents was still money.
Given how often they frequented the place, it could save them at least a dollar a month, which meant they could enjoy two more days of fun.
His coworker nodded.
“Let’s try it. Lately, I suspect the dancers at the place we usually go have some illness. There’s always a faint stink.”
“You smell it too?” Hammer looked surprised. “I thought I was the only one.”
They exchanged a glance and shuddered.
“Since you hate immigrant workers so much, did you report them?”
Hammer liked to report others. Among dock workers, it wasn’t a secret. Whenever something made him uncomfortable, he’d report it.
He reported capitalists, coworkers, even the union. That was why he had few friends—only a couple of coworkers got along with him.
Others were just so-so—not good, not bad.
His coworker asked while tapping nuts on the ground with a small hammer.
The loose ones rattled and shook; those needed tightening.
The tight ones had no movement at all.
Hammer had to stand up.
“I reported. The union said my reports had no evidence.”
His coworker looked curious and raised his head at him.
“What did you report, and why do they ask for evidence?”
“Illegal immigrants.”
His coworker gave him a “you’re crazy” look.
“If they found out you did that, you wouldn’t have a good ending.”
“Illegal immigrants can be scary sometimes.”
Hammer smiled, with contempt.
During the worst anti-immigrant period recently, he had beaten several immigrants or illegal immigrants.
His coworker hit a loose bolt.
He picked up the wrench and squatted down.
“I’ll tell you a secret. I beat up some immigrants before. They didn’t dare fight back. I got my anger out!”
His coworker shook his head.
“That’s dangerous.”
“They’re much more cowardly than you think!” Hammer’s hands were numb again after another strike.
“Fuck!”
Working with Hammer meant getting used to his complaints.
He complained all afternoon—complaining about this and that. It was always someone else’s or society’s fault; only he was innocent.
His coworker got tired too, told him to shut up and rest several times, but it didn’t last long before Hammer started babbling nonsense again.
When it was almost quitting time, the two started to work a bit more seriously.
After the foreman made his rounds, they put away tools and walked toward the dock buildings.
Work was over for the day.
Hammer and his coworker showered, changed clothes, and were about to go to the bar for a drink when someone approached.
“Mr. Hammer?” A short young man stood not far.
Hammer recognized the accent—Empire accent—and his face showed some impatience.
“What do you want?”
“I want to talk with you,” Elvin slowed his tone. “I promise I mean no harm.”
But Hammer wouldn’t hear it.
“I have nothing to talk about with any Empire bastard,” he said and tried to walk around him.
He clearly discriminated against Empire people.
But at this time, racial or regional discrimination was not a social outrage issue.
Slaves had just returned to society, and many elderly people had even owned slaves before.
Plus, slaves were still fighting against discrimination and prejudice, so discrimination wasn’t seen as unforgivable.
Discrimination was discrimination. No one thought it wrong—not even those discriminated against.
Elvin reached out to stop him, trying to talk more. Lance told him to handle the reporters. He came with sincerity.
But obviously, like his name, Hammer rarely thought.
Seeing this short bastard trying to stop him, he threw a punch.
Under his coworker’s “Wow,” Elvin was hit and flew backward at an angle, head buzzing!
He was stunned—just one punch!
A guy who worked heavy labor all day—one punch was no joke.
Hammer walked over and kicked Elvin again, knocking him down.
Some people gathered around.
His coworker, afraid Hammer would get into trouble if he kept going, stopped him.
“I’ll buy you a drink tonight. Don’t cause trouble!”
“He’s already down. That’s enough!”
Hammer tried to struggle but failed, so he gave up on continuing.
He spat.
“You’re lucky!”
With his coworker calming him down, they left the docks.
Others seeing no excitement left too.
As for Elvin?
Nobody knew him; who would care?
Only when immigrant workers got off work did someone find Elvin.
He often appeared around the labor introduction office. Many illegal immigrants got their work cards there, so they knew Elvin.
A few people immediately helped him up. He was already unconscious.
Some moved him to the roadside to take care of him, others ran to the office…
