The Rock Shovel

I don’t know why I do this every day. Shoveling rock is strenuous work, and my pay is a joke. I wash black dust off my hands and stare at myself in a ruddy mirror. Stubble has found its way back to my face. Has it already been days since my last shave? It’s hard to keep track of time in the new tunnels. They don’t have cycle lights here. Those are for civilized folks. Instead, we have a single large electric sign that displays the time.

You’d think they’d put the date up, but they don’t. It drives some people mad. I’ve seen strong men break under the pressure of it all. Why wouldn’t they? Losing track of days really messes with your mind. I’ve been doing this for seven years, and it still screws my brain up. Still, I show up every day of my own accord. My mind screams for me to stop, to go find some other job in the cities.

I can’t do that. I don’t deserve a city job, not after the life I’ve lived. I laugh at my reflection. As if I had a choice. The city folk know what I did. They wouldn’t give me a job if I were the last man alive. I still don’t think I did anything wrong, but societies made it crystal clear they don’t care what I think. That’s how I got here. I tried to speak to deaf ears, and they cut me down.

I hear a knock at the bathroom door. A voice, probably that of my supervisor, calls for me to hurry up my business. It’s a reminder that I’m not here for me. I’m here to expand the colonies. It’s supposed to be an honor, and it is for most workers. They’ll finish a week’s work, then head home for a few days. When they arrive, their wives will cook their meals and make them sweet teas to ease their burning lungs. I’ll stay here, alone.

I grunt at my supervisor as I exit the restroom. My shovel lies next to the door. I pick it up and walk down a metal grate pathway to the end of the tunnel. Ahead of me lies a mountain of rubble. A week ago, large machines would have been here breaking apart rock. Now, hundreds of men grunt as they shovel debris into large hover bins. It’s about the least effective method of clearing rocks as any could think of.

We know they don’t really need us to do this. They have machines that could do it thousands of times faster, but it’s not about speed. It’s about making more jobs for the people. Sometimes, I wonder if the colonies really need to expand. It wouldn’t surprise me to discover that they’re only making us do this to keep us busy. Busy hands mean quiet minds; no one to challenge the system of power in the colonies.

It’s worked on me well enough.