Umarell
Secondhand Writing Prompts (10/30)
’Just Write, Right’ emerged quietly, but spoken aloud, as a personal project that admitted openly - but not necessarily confidently - that I had stories to tell. To mark the third anniversary of my creative writing project, I plan to revisit previously-used prompts to see if something fresh emerges. The aim? Thirty stories in the month of May. Sometimes, I will ignore my own ‘rules’ and come up with an idea from one of the many prompts I keep in notebooks scattered around the house, ideas like this one.
Umarell
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Umarell is a description that originated in Bologna … it refers to men of retirement age who spend their time watching construction sites - especially roadworks - stereotypically with hands clasped behind their back and offering unwanted advice to the workers. Its literal meaning is “little man”. The term is employed as lighthearted mockery or self-deprecation. I have used Catania, Sicily as the gathering place for my ‘little men’.
The young man watched them heave themselves to their feet. If the noise of the excavator wasn’t drowning out the sounds of his home town coming to life, the boy would have sworn he’d heard bones creaking.
A pronounced limp slowed the third of the three old men as they made their way across the main square from their habitual perch on the Cathedral steps. The others turned frequently, urging the boy’s great-uncle to move a little faster, though none of them had anything to rush for. Every time the extended family gathered, he’d heard a version of the story about the workplace accident that caused the injury . His uncle had the story stretched into an epic in which he was hero not victim, a tale of the little guy fighting injustices wrought by company bosses. He’d sued, making lifelong enemies in the boardroom, but winning improved conditions for workers who came later. Workers like his great-nephew, who was temporarily part of the same sprawling construction company.
Three old men living off their stories.
They kept a tight routine. Doppio, sugared to taste, taken standing at the counter. On then for granita and brioche at Savia before the tourists arrived and queues got out of hand. A slow walk around the square before settling on the worn marble that guided the faithful into the Cathedral. This was the closest any of them came to observing the rituals their upbringing had compelled them to observe throughout their working lives. By mid-afternoon, they were usually awash with grappa and tales of the ‘old days’.
But that schedule had been adjusted since the young worker’s crew had started on the service trenches for the government-funded works to improve the sala comunale. Public money invited scrutiny from such venerable elders, daily oversight through assumed responsibility.
Each shuffling step heightened the dread the young man felt.
He’d been warned by the Foreman to ‘have a word’. But he couldn’t bring himself to have the conversation. He loved his uncle but, truth be told, he was terrified of him. All three men, friends since they scuffed knees and lost teeth in the primary school playground, were rugged, rough around the edges. In contrast, the boy’s love of literature had earned him plenty of gentle teasing at Sunday lunches, his lack of a girlfriend even more.
The old men reached the barrier, finding their breath in the minutes before they lit the strong cigarettes that took it away again.
His great-uncle was first off the mark, perfectly timed to coincide with the moment when shovels and strong backs took over from mechanical excavation.
“Is that trench meant to be uneven?”
The Foreman bristled, a sideways glance to the boy revealing fire in his eyes.
“It will never meet up with the hole over there if you carry on like that.”
His uncle’s friend, Carmelo, picked up the theme.
“It doesn’t look deep enough. What do you think, G?” Giacomo Donato had not disagreed with the burly Carmelo since they had fallen out over who would date Rosa Cucinotta when they were all just fifteen years old. The young man had heard the story and Giocomo’s misshapen nose was a lifetime reminder of an argument lost. It was easier to agree about everything.
“Definitely not deep enough.”
The scrape of shovels and the rattle of aggregate gathering in two barrows did little to still the voices.
“Hey, Pietro,” … at least his uncle wasn’t using the nickname his family had given him back before he had taken up weights to build the strength now valued on the construction site. Passeri. His workmates had called him Sparrow for a week, long enough for the name to grate but not to stick.
“… in my day we kept things straighter. String and two sticks. Keep it simple, lad.”
“It’ll be fine, Uncle Tommaso. Maybe come back next week and you’ll see.”
Carmelo piped up, “Hey, Tommo, he’s trying to get rid of you.”
“Don’t be daft, you big lump, what do you know?”
“Lads, lads!” Giacomo was always the peacemaker, quietly spoken, only ever repeating what the other two said.
The town hall clock chimed the half hour. They’d left it late. Eleven thirty already. They knew, and he knew, that it was half an hour at his uncle’s pace to get back to Savia and that first throat-burning grappa.
“Right, we can’t hang around here all day supervising your work. Places to go, people to see. Just make sure you double-check that trench, Pietro.”
“For sure, Uncle, we will. I’ll let you know on Sunday how we’re getting on.”
Carmelo piped up, a rare moment of realisation, “Hey boys, there’s a team digging on the corner of the Piazza Stesicoro. Telephone company, I heard. We’ve got time to check it on the way if we get going.”
Uncle Tommaso bristled, “That telephone company is so damn cheap, they’ll have hired cowboys. We better get over there.”
The old boys moved off heading for the Via Etnea, voices fading.
The Foreman looked over at the young man.
Pietro sighed. Only two more weeks until he was due to start at the University in Bologna. Unlimited books and surely no umarell.
He looked over at his boss, feeling brave. “Don’t start, it’s not my fault.”
This story could have taken place nearly anywhere. That you chose Italy made it all the more delightful!