Day 1 of Work: Gorsky's Slave of Siberia
Finally! A real job, one that isn't "running from monsters" or "seeking shelter in dumpsters." Today is my first full day as the Gardener/Caretaker/Handyman at Gorsky Mansion. Or, as I like to call it, "Structural Emergency Operator and Unauthorized Sandwich Collector."
The primary motivation isn't the paycheck (which is a bad joke), nor the purpose of serving a greater cause (which I lost three existential crises ago). It's the visceral, hypnotic memory of the smell of sandwiches wrapped in plastic wrap that emanated from the kitchen on my "orientation" day. A heavenly delicacy compared to my recent diet of frozen squirrel scraps and despair.
The walk to the mansion is a pilgrimage toward the promise of calories. The place looks like it was abandoned after a successful zombie attack and then painted by a gothic decorator suffering from depression.
My first sacred mission: intercept one of the seven bowls of chicken soup destined for the addiction recovery ward. The smell of chicken powerless against the demons of withdrawal is heartbreaking. I, like a noble knight, relieve a bowl of its useless burden. It's just saltwater and noodles, but to me it's a feast fit for the gods. For lesser gods, and quite miserable ones.
Then I consult the to-do list on the break room whiteboard. It's a sadist's wish list:
1. Snow Removal: Translation: "Relive the feeling of the Klondike Gold Rush, but without the promise of gold, just the promise of not dying of hypothermia."
2. Structural Damage Check: Inside joke. This mansion is a house of cards made of rot and sadness. Looking for structural damage here is like looking for a bald hair on a bald head.
3. Minor Heating/Ventilation System Repairs: The "funny" part. The machines come with "instructions" (blurred Russian hieroglyphics) and a "number to call a professional" (which, I suspect, is the number on a coffin).
I spend the day digging, blowing snow, scraping ice, and performing other tasks worthy of a convict in Siberia. It's tiring, but it's an honest tiredness. The kind of tiredness that makes you sleep without dreaming about your hands in gloves. As long as I can steal a sandwich or the occasional bowl of chicken soup, I think I survive this workload.
The place is weird, to say the least. The vibes are so sour you could make pickles out of them. There are restricted areas, of course. Locked doors that emit whispers. Corridors that end in brick walls... or pretend to. I don't go any closer. My curiosity has starved and been frozen for several nights.
My only ambition now is to master the art of stealing food unnoticed and find out where they hid the mayonnaise. Survival of the fittest, and the fittest is the one who can fill their bellies with the soup of recovering addicts.
Next: The Great Sandwich Operation.