Sweden part (II) - Graveyard shift

Sporting a bit of a hang-over from the vodka fest shared with Arvo , I crawled out of my sleeping bag in the midst of scurrying commuter legs.  It was seven o’clock.  I had slept maybe three hours.  I felt tired and my eyes burned, but I had no time to lounge around.  Today was the day I had to find work, or I would consider moving south down toward Austria and the ski resorts.

I went to the men’s room and shaved, washed my hair and generally tried to make myself look as clean and respectable as possible.  I was off, biting down on the last pieces of my cheese and bread, which I shared with Arvo the night before.

         Well today I looked very hard and was more aggressive in my searching.  I went to the main campus student union area asking students, all  speaking disgustingly good English.  Almost everyone I spoke with seemed genuinely sincere in wanting to help.   Several students gave me ideas of places to visit and some with phone numbers and “use my name.”  These possible positions ranged from working at a bicycle shop, to a flower shop, to a grocery store, to a bowling alley, to posing as a nude model at the Uppsala Art Institute. 

But despite the contacts and going to all these places in person, there still was nothing open.  The flower shop would take me but that was only two days a week.  That would not do, I needed to make some money.  By now it was nearing two o’clock and the light in the sky was already beginning to darken.  Time for today was running out.

Then just as I was starting to feel dejected and bumbed out regarding the job situation in Uppsala, and already planning my hitchhiking strategy for tomorrow, I looked over to my right.  There about fifty yards away in the midst of the campus were two men raking leaves.  Leave raking, man I can do that and without hesitation I headed over to the closest raker.

The fellow was about thirty years old, very dark, looked mid eastern and said, “No English.” I made a gesture with me raking leaves.  I am not sure he understood me, but he immediately motioned for me to follow him.  His name was Imir, and he was from Turkey.

I followed Imir slowly through the graveyard, as it was now almost dark.  He pointed to certain rocks and big roots to avoid so I would not trip.  Soon I was face to face with a nebbish looking little man with big glasses, he reminded me of a Swedish Woody Allen. His name was Pavel. I introduced myself to him and explained my situation.

“I am a student from the States, traveling Europe and am seeking work here in Uppsala.”  I noticed how carefully he was listening to me.  I went on to tell him that this is my fourth day of looking, and I can’t find anything.

When I attempted to speak Swedish asking him, “What part of Sweden are you from?”  He looked at me and said very matter of factly, “I am Finnish, a Swede would never rake leaves.” This is certainly my good karma time with Finns I thought.  He went on to say that my timing might be good, as one of the rakers recently had to go home to take care of his mother in Morocco, and they need another person.

Pavel excused himself for a couple minutes as he disappeared into a nearby shed, and I assumed  placed a phone call, for when he came out he handed me a piece of paper that had written on it the particulars of my official leaf raking interview.

It said Mr. Sven Anderson ( the Bob Smith of common names in Sweden) wants you to meet him in his office at 9:12a.m., Pavel pointing to a little brownish house at the end of the graveyard about 300 yards away.

Alright, 9:12 am, not 9:15, but 9:12a.m…   I tried joking with Pavel, “9:12 I guess he wants me to be on time.”  Pavel gave no response, just turned and walked away, his little wiry body disappearing soon amongst the trees and dark of the graveyard.  On first impression Pavel seemed like the serious, quiet type.

 I felt elated.  You would have thought I had just landed the dream job interview.  But for me at this time, right now in my life, it was.  Oh how I wanted to put down my bag for awhile make some good money, rest, eat better and be in the beautiful babe nirvana of Sweden.

That evening I splurged and stayed at the youth hostel.  It an expense I normally would not have done.  But it was worth the extra money, as I wanted to make sure I would get a good sleep and have a shower in the morning.   And needless to say get a wake up call in time for the official 9:12 a.m. meeting.

I woke fresh and ready to go.   For the meeting I brought out (this being the first time I would wear these clothes) a white shirt, tie and gray slacks. These I thought would only be used for special events like getting into a club or to impress a date, but never had I envisioned they would be for a graveyard job interview.

 The DTK, “Dress to Kill,” outfit I called it, was buried deep in the bottom of my backpack.  The clothes unfortunately were badly wrinkled.  I had a most anxious moment frantically borrowing an iron from the hostel and trying to navigate the iron over the clothes.  No matter what I did the iron did not seem to work correctly.  How pathetic, I could not even iron clothes.  In spite of being embarrassed I did not hesitate to tell Kristin the Swedish girl behind the desk about my pressing (get the pun) situation, and ask if someone could please help me.   She called one of her assistants who gave me a great deal of help, she did the entire ironing. Thank you! Thank you!

Well, I made it on time.  Actually I arrived at the little brown house where the interview was to take place at 9:07, and waited behind a tree for five minutes.  With my cheap Bulova watch I studied the second hand exactly as it hit 9:11, and then made the deliberate walk, and just as the second hand hit 9:12, I knocked on the door.

Behind the immaculately clean desk with only a pencil holder in the top right hand corner with several very sharp pencils sat Mr. Sven Anderson.  He looked pasty, thin and serious.  My guess on first impression was correct.  This man was a nerd and all business. On my approach to him I extended my hand and greeted him in Swedish.  He did not smile or rise from his seat and just gave me his hand, not a shake, just sort of handed me his hand.  It was limp and unwelcoming.

It is always unwise to generalize about a people or a country.  But the one thing that I have heard about Sweden, other than the gorgeous women, is that the people can be serious bordering on the severe, especially in the dark months of winter.  This guy from the start seemed to fit the prototype.

Without any small talk Mr. Anderson got right to it. “Why do you think your background is right for this job?”  You would swear I was interviewing for a top job as CEO at IBM.  I felt like saying “Look anyone can rake leaves.” But I knew this flippant response would not go over well, so I stated:  “Mr. Anderson, I grew up in the Midwest, in the state of Michigan.”  This seemed to trigger a small spark in Anderson as he said, “Many Swedes in Michigan.”  “Yes,” I replied, not as many as Minnesota, but we have our share.”  Feeling a little more confidence, I continued: “Being the eldest in our family it was my responsibility, (deliberately using this word ‘responsibility’ instead of ‘job,’) to rake the leaves off our large lawn.”

So here I am telling Anderson this half-assed totally full of shit story about leaf raking, and he has his head down writing notes as fast as he can about my “experience.”  I knew I had him now, and I was heading for the slam dunk.  This next phrase I knew would lock the deal.  Anderson’s face came up from his fervent note taking, and then I paused and looked him straight in the eyes and said in the most earnest voice possible, (though I had to do everything to keep from laughing).

”Mr. Anderson, would you like to see my stroke?” He nodded and without hesitation I launched into four consecutive, powerful but smooth raking movements.  You’d think he would say, “Sit down you wise-ass, hot dog, you got the job.”  But instead, he looked at me carefully and in the most reverent tone said “impressive.”  That’s what he actually said: “impressive.” And he was nodding his head back and forth with approval as if he had discovered some amazing young talent, as if he were a scout for a minor league baseball team.

After my exhibition of my stroke, and telling him my rich background, Anderson did loosen up and said: “We would be pleased to have you as a raker.  You would be a good addition.”

 “Good addition,” I love it.  He explained to me the hours; 9a.m.–3p.m. six days a week; Sunday off; and pay of fifty kroner an hour.  When he said that, I almost jumped out of my chair into Sven’s arms.  That was $5 an hour for this leaf raking gig.  Fantastic!   And on top of this he told me, thinking this would be bad news for me, but it was perfect, that I could only stay on for six weeks.  That was the ideal time period I was hoping for.  I was ecstatic.

          First day on the job I reported bright and early and had been hard at work until almost lunchtime.  Scarcely conscious of my change in pace or

direction, I found myself raking a huge mountain of leaves.  I could not resist.  I got a big running start and jumped into them with abandon with a great squeal of exhilaration. (Just like a kid back in Michigan).

          I lay there awhile, the sky so open above me and those autumn leaves

in their brilliant sun-lit golds and crimsons floating down on me…

          Sven Anderson would never understand.  But my toiling Turkkish fellow rakers near-by seemed to get it.  Soon we were having a rollicking leaf fight.  Gathering up big armful of leaves, chasing each other hurling them at each other, laughing hard and shouting.  And then all of us jumping together in my big leaf pile.  We had become leaf men, covered head to toe

with leaves. Our hair leaf helmets.

           I was in a celebratory mood:  I was celebrating autumn in all its splendor.  I was celebrating freedom and fun in any language.  I was celebrating hope and success.  I had aced my first interview.  I had landed my first job out of college:  “Official Leaf Raker.”  I could now afford the delicious luxury of purchasing a Swedish pastry.  Not much of an accomplishment most would agree.  But my father would always say:  “There is nobility in all work.”

          So my first day on the job, I was feeling “noble.”  I was feeling silly and

crazy.  I was feeling very much “ALIVE” in a Swedish graveyard. 

Displaying my leaf raking stroke...Upsalla, Sweden 1976