A Short Story, A Parable, A Tale of a Man Who Hates His Job

Meet Fish.

Fish works in a pencil sharpening factory. It’s a small factory and his job is to sharpen pencils, by hand. When Fish started work at the Factory he wondered why machines didn’t do the work for him. 

“We can’t afford that sort of Technology” said his line manager. “We are a small Factory.”

Fair enough thought Fish. 

When Fish started his job he was young and stupid. He was laughing that someone would pay him money for doing such a mundane and brainless task. At the end of his first day he was bragging to all of his friends. The money that he would receive! The simplicity!

But that was five years ago.

In the last two years Fish has only worked eight months. He can no longer stand the sight of pencils. He has also come to hate written language and art necessitated by pencils. Grudgingly, his employer let him take time off because if he didn’t he would lose him for good. Fish had become the most senior pencil sharpener in the factory and was so fast that he sharpened pencils three times faster than his peers.

Initially Fish experimented with time off, not really knowing what to do with himself he slept in, ate breakfast at lunch, and lunch at dinner. He had plans to hang out with friends but they were all working during the day. Fish was alone.

Not working, Fish learnt that he still had to meet the costs of everyday living. He still had to pay his rent, the power and telephone bill, food, the list went on. Fish’s employer had only granted him unpaid leave.

Everything is so expensive Fish thought. I can’t go on like this.

So Fish decided to cut down on his spending. He started to realize that if he spent less money, he would not need to work as much. He started to loathe his apartment, his cell phone, his eating habits. They were all sending him to work! His lifestyle made him work!

So Fish left his apartment and stopped buying meat. He lived in his car and only bought vegetables and fruit that were in season. He bathed in streams, cooked with a portable gas stove and started to develop a passion for rice.

Fish calculated that if he lived like this, he would not need to go back to work for another 3.24 years.

Three months pass.

Fish’s hair is long and he has a beard. He wears recycled clothing and looks derelict and disheveled, wild, but surprisingly indie. He is sick of living in a car. When he meets girls and takes them back to his place they would leave disgusted before even inside.

“This is your house?!” they would say.

“Yeah” said Fish.

“That’s disgusting! You’re a freak!”

Fish craved luxury again but still he detested work. His friends and parents gave him pep talks. They tried to tell him that his job wasn’t that bad and that he was actually making positive difference in the world.

“Everyone needs sharp pencils” they said.

“There’s no point” replied Fish. “They’re just going to get blunt again.”

Fish applied for other jobs but no one wanted an experienced pencil sharpener regardless of his Bruce Lee-esque hand speed. They were mundane jobs anyway, thought Fish, demoralized. He started to wonder how he could live in luxury on his savings without spending more week to week. He wondered if it was possible to retire at age 26.

So Fish travelled to Asia.

Then India.

Then Africa.

He lived on islands.

In jungles.

Amongst Himalayan Yaks.

He kept traveling in search of the most cheap and sustainable living arrangement. Once found, Fish would never have to work again.

Eventually he found himself in a Kenyan village opposite a refugee camp. He shared a mud hut with a family of eight who affectionately termed him “Mizungu”. 

Each morning Fish would sit on the mound of dirt sipping tea strained through Zebra hide. He would watch the people in the refugee camp go about their daily business, lining up for food rations, children going to school, playing football, healthcare. It had everything! He did some investigation regarding the cost of living in a refugee camp.

He worked out that if he lived in the refugee camp he would not have to work for another 112.81 years.

Another three months pass and Fish has managed to starve himself to a suitable level granting him access to the refugee camp. He lives contentedly inside and considers the lifestyle and company new and exotic. The only thing he didn’t understand was all the complaining that went on inside. Everyone wanted jobs, big screen T.Vs, they wanted to leave the camp, travel overseas, to lands of ‘opportunity’, lands of the ‘free’.

Fish shakes his head. These people didn’t realize that they were living the dream. They didn’t know what it was like to work in a Pencil Factory.

And so Fish lives in the refugee camp. He watches people come and go. He sees the new tents get put up. His friends and family would write to him and plead him to come back but Fish wouldn’t want any part of it. Everything about home was expensive, and where there was expense there was need of sharpening pencils on his behalf, or some other equally monotonous and meaningless task. They had all become the same in his eyes and he detested them all. He had found a new home now. Life in the refugee camp was meagre but he was at his own liberty. He accepts it and embraces it.

One day a group of UN workers come with gifts for refugees in the camp and everyone lines up in excitement, Fish included. When Fish reaches the front of the line he is given the same gift as everyone else. It is a pencil and the lead is broken.

The children in the refugee camp are ecstatic. They run to walls of buildings making effort to inscribe but nothing happens. Adults try and do the same. Everyone has broken pencils, they all try to use them, none of them working, then turn to Fish - the only white man in the camp - for answers.

“Mizungu! Why dis not work?”

“It’s because it needs...” Fish does not complete the sentence.

He watches boys press with their pencils so hard on the walls that the paint from the pencil exterior starts to come off and stick to the wall.

“It working now!” they exclaim.

The remainder of the camp is dubious. They look at their broken questions and question their worth. Once again they have been given unwanted and technologically defunct gifts from the West in the form of aid. They wanted pens.

Fish goes back to his tent and gathers his things. He decides he must leave. He will head south to Uganda.