Creative Writing: Using a Helmet While in The Building Site

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It has all happened so stupidly, to my mind: one moment, Powel standing there, brushing from off his helmet the chalk-dust which has turned his face and stiff overcoat prematurely grey; suddenly, a shout from a welder a few stories up, a falling steel beam, and Powel stretched out on the concrete, his head split cleanly - segmented like a grapefruit. So stupid; there is no sense in feeling shocked or dismayed about it. You take your helmet off for five seconds and someone drops a steel beam on your head. We none of us knew Powel well. I was as close a friend to him as any man on the building site, and I didn't have any strong feelings for him. He was a difficult man; he had to provoke people. No doubt he didn't do it deliberately, but he rubbed people the wrong way. There had been the time he had arrived at work clutching a paper bag full of Dobostorte his wife had made for him. Dobostorte! Hungary's national cake, shaped something like a high-rise apartment block, filled with chocolate cream and topped with a kind of caramel lid, much like an éclair and just as rich. That day it reached forty-three degrees in the shade; out in the sun it must have been nearly sixty. In his perversity Powel choked down these cakes one by one, all day long - we laid bets that he wouldn't be able to finish them. He stuffed the cakes into his mouth, crumbs coming out of his nose and caramel and sweat smeared all down his cheeks like plaster eyebrows which had come loose. I suppose it was his favorite, he'd managed somehow to coerce his wife into baking Dobostorte, and he was damned if he wasn't going to eat it all. And of course, as the afternoon lengthened into evening, we all became tired and hungry, drained by the heat. After ridiculing him all da... ... middle of paper ... ...steel beam on his head. For another half-hour at least, Powel's wife is not a widow, her children are not fatherless - longer, if I should be unable to reach them. The twins will stay home from school for a week, farmed out to relatives perhaps, glad for this unexpected windfall. Then a day in church and the drive out to the cemetery, and the next thing you know Mrs. Powel has taken to wearing lipstick and those earrings - fake pearls, as big as crocodile tears. She loses a bit of weight, she has her hair done - and suddenly there's a new man in the house, and the twins are spreading mayonnaise all through his underwear. Life goes on for everybody, except Powel, who didn't know what to do with it anyway. I stop dead in my tracks. I will have to go back to the building site - I suddenly realize that, on the train, I have lost the piece of paper with Powel's address.

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