The Day Bomfino Went Crazy!

Adolph Luben…”The Last Drop”.

The Day Bomfino Went Crazy.

I doubt that many gen X’ers or Y’s with a “Woke” attitude, would sympathise with the sentiments in the story below, it being of a “raving radical” kind from the days of my apprenticeship when “Workers and Bosses “ were a world apart and “ nae’r the twain shall meet !” . The paint shop man where I worked WAS named Beppi, he DID have a flagon (several that I saw) of red wine behind the tins of primer and he did go troppo one blistering hot day and he did get the sack even though we collectively pleaded to Mac, the foreman for his job (he was a decent bloke, just a tad homesick) … the political rantings are from my imagination and if you don’t approve of them…tough!… though such sentiments were not far from many of our lips in those days … Viva la differenza! … and thank god for the unions!

 The Day Bomfino went Crazy.

The day Beppi Bomfino went crazy was a hot day, it was the third hot day in a row. All over one hundred degrees Fahrenheit! The heat beat down mercilessly on our heads from the low corrugated iron roof of the joinery shop, the dust and sweat and heat like a hair-shirt on our backs. We should’ve been let go for the afternoon as per work-place rules, but the boss, a “self-made man”, an escapee from the communist Baltic States wasn’t one to tolerate such liberal comforts … not while he could still work in his air-conditioned office! So we stayed at our benches and the leading-hand gave out salt-tablets so we wouldn’t grow weak from the loss of sweat .

The salt tablets made you want to vomit when you swallowed them so most of us just chucked them away! But we stayed at our benches and worked. Beppi Bomfino was in charge of the paint-dept’, to be precise, he WAS  the paint -dept’! His paint shop was a corrugated iron shed that backed onto the machine shop and opened out onto the yard where the trucks could load up the finished joinery frames. His shed was a mixture of foul smells, sticky floors and a cacophony of screaming machinery when the “four-sided moulder” was going flat-out next door.

Beppi drank. Beppi kept a flagon of warm red wine behind the tins of primer in the paint cupboard and would imbibe liberally from time to time to make his life more pleasant. At times we could hear him singing a delightful Neapolitan aria as he splashed the primer on the frames. You could sometimes see him flinging his arms wide with the paintbrush in one hand in a flamboyant gesture and flecks of paint flicking over the walls a la ; “Funiculi-Funicula” . At other times though, when things were not going so pleasant, he would break out in a fit of swearing, which, although incomprehensible in his native dialect held enough ferocity in its temperament to impress us immensely, so none would dare venture into the paint-shop till once again the sweet sounds of a gentle melody permeated the dusty air and floated above the hum of machinery and the hammering of nails.

The day Beppi Bomfino went crazy was the day he drank too much warm wine, it was the third hot day in a row, hot enough to strip the skin off a snake’s back! Beppi came out to the joinery-shop and stood by the wide-open doors that looked out onto the loading yard. His staggering torso looking too heavy for his legs so they bowed more than usual. His brow was black and knotted, which meant he had been brooding over something. He stood swaying unsteadily, bare to the waist and only an old pair of grubby dungarees hauled up tight around his stomach with a thin belt.

He glared out at the sweltering yard over to the large plate glass window of the boss’s office. The boss would occasionally sit or stand at that window of his air-conditioned office and gaze over to the factory where we worked. He would look over with the self-satisfaction of a “made-man”, secure in his setting, for he would stand with his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels in satisfied contemplation.

“Just look at him.” Beppi growled “The Padrone oversees his flock! (puttana!)”. he spat, turned mumbling to himself, then stumped, splay-footed, like a “potato-cocky” back to his paint-shop.

Jack, the leading-hand, came around with the daily dose of salt-tablets. We all gave him hell about them, but he wouldn’t listen.

“You gotta take ‘em, th’ boss says so..they’re good for you …. look!” and he tossed one down his gullet and gulped it down.

“Let’s see you do that again with mine.” called Bruce.

“Mine also!” added Baxter as he tossed it over and it bounced off  Jacks’ shoulder.

“Bugger orf!” Jack replied, “just take it and stop whinging.” and he stormed off to Beppi’s  paint-shop.

Around the middle of the afternoon we were suddenly distracted from our work by an almighty’ cry that split the air with it’s ferocity!

“CAAASSO … !!(prick)”

It was Beppi Bomfino.

He was standing unsteadily out by the doors of the joinery-shop. He was out in the full sun swaying unsteadily, holding a filthy sweat-rag in his left hand and the unmistakable large, white salt-tablet held high pinched between  thumb and forefinger of his right hand.

“STRONZ’ .. !(turd)” He bellowed out in the sweltering air of the yard.

He wiped his sweating brow with the rag and held it high for us to witness, we had all gathered in the doorway to watch the spectacle. Bomfino began:

“This is how they measure the worth of the working-man … how much sweat he puts out, the padrones’ holy water! yes, si,  gather it from his brow and bless yourselves with it …. bless yourselves and thank Christ for it and give the men salt-tablets so they can sweat a little more  yes, sweat a little more for the boss!”

He dropped his hand to a gesturing position then began again:

“I’ll tell you a little story my grandfather told me. Every year at harvest time, the Padrone would come out to the fields of maize with the priest where the men were cutting the grain with their scythes. Then the priest would commence to “bless” their scythes one by one with a prayer and a dash of “holy-water”. When he came to my grandfather, my nonno raised his hand flat to stop him!

“Here, Father,” he said as he loosened his neck towel, “sprinkle your holy-water on this towel so I can wipe my brow, so I can cool my temple with the waters of the Lord..as for my scythe,..I will bless that with my own holy-water.” 

The priest looked to the Padrone, the Padrone gave a curt nod to the priest and he, a little hesitantly, splinkled some holy-water on the towel. My grandfather thanked him. praised the Lord and the Padrone and as they stood there, took out his “old fellah” and urinated on his scythe! and as he did he said :

“Holy Father, bless this scythe that keeps me chained to slavery … bless this scythe that allows my family to live in a borrowed hovel and be half-starved …. bless the steel that keeps the Pope in Rome, the Padrone in comfort, and us in our place for ever and ever … amen!” Bomfino threw his head back and tottered about laughing.

“Ha..ha..ha!. The Padrone fired him on the spot!” Bomfino paused for breath, swayed a little then continued; “Here in this country..” he paused to burp “Here things are different …. Oh no! (he waved a thick finger from side to side), oh no, not the work, the work is still the same, the work is the same all over the world! .. The boss .. the Padrone is still the same”. and he flung his arm toward the plate-glass window that now framed the figure of the boss gazing quizzically at the gesticulating individual in the yard, “The Padrone is still the same all over the world! ….. but there are no priests to sprinkle holy-water to cool our brows … HERE THE BASTARDS GIVE YOU SALT-TABLETS!!! Like grease for a hot bearing so it won’t seize up, oil to keep the machine going!” Bomfino yelled red-faced to the plump figure standing at the plate-glass window of the office! Bomfino seemed to relax and straightened up, he smiled to us then turned again to face the boss with the salt-tablet held out in front like an offering.

“But no no … Bomfino doesn’t take his salt-tablet, for he has his own holy-water, no, I don’t need it you see,” he turned to us with eyebrows raised, mouth puckered and his head nodding slowly. “But the Padrone has anyone thought of the Padrone?” he asked with appealing hands, we all shook our heads, he nodded his head as if assured. “No …. I though not … but the Padrone, he too must have his salt-tablet eh? in case HE grows weak from sweating in the heat eh? .. we must not let that happen eh? No … so I … I Beppi Bomfino humbly offer my salt-tablet to the Padrone.” he turned and staggered to the centre of the yard now glistening white-hot with the dazzling sunlight on the white gravel and dirt.

The boss glared at him with hands on hips. He called to someone off the side in the office and a moment later the intercom buzzed in Mac, the foreman’s, office. Mac was locked away in his cool office listening to the races, oblivious to the goings on outside. He slowly picked up the receiver, listened a moment, then sprang to his feet, the chair falling back to the floor behind him as he gaped wide-eyed out to the joinery-shop floor.

Bomfino was out in the sweltering yard gesticulating to the boss.

“Padrone, come out now and I will give you your salt-tablet”. he held it at arms length. The boss scowled behind the glass and shook his fist!

”What? … oh, I see the problem,” Bomfino continued “it’s my fingers, they’re too grubby .. and they have made the tablet dirty …. but that’s alright boss, you don’t have to swallow it, you can take it as a suppository  now come out here and I’ll shove it up your arse!” Bomfino started to undo his belt .. ” and to make it. more hygienic, I won’t use my dirty finger to push it up … I’ll use THIS instead!!” and he dropped his dungarees and his underpants there and then to his ankles. We all roared with laughter, Mac, the foreman pushed through, a look of shock on his face.

“Ohhh gawwd!!” was all he managed to say as he stood rooted to the spot in horror.

Beppi Bomfino held the tablet up high in front and appeared to be grasping his genitals and thrusting them provocatively toward the boss, who stood there mouth agape, arms spread and eyes wide behind the glass!

“For gods’ sake Bill, go and stop him.” Mac pleaded.

“Not me!” Bill was horrified, “He might mistake me for the boss! … why don’t you go yourself?” Mac winced painfully at the thought.

Beppi shuffled forward a couple of steps, his trousers around his ankles.

“Come my little fishy, my plump little polenta … your old uncle Beppi has got it for you .. the same location we’ve been getting it for a thousand years … now it’s your turn for some medicine … oh you lucky man!” .. this in a sing-song voice.

“For Christ-sake someone do something or he really will shove it up! you, Brendon? ” Mac pointed his finger .

“Actually, I was kind of looking forward to the possibility of him achieving his objective in public !” …. Mac groaned again.

“If you don’t come here my little ravioli, I’ll come there.” Beppi crooned.

“Oh god!” Mac wailed.

The boss, on hearing Bomfino’s latest threat suddenly disappeared from the window, a few seconds later his car was heard to start with a roar of the motor.

“The boss is pissing off.” Mac related to us as tyres screamed on the bitumen outside.

“First gear! someone commented , the motor roared a little distance away and the tyres squealed again;

“Second gear!” another quipped with respect and in the distance we could hear the tyres give another faint squeal.

‘Third even!” Mac said, proudly nodding his head, a few of us whistled in respect for the power of that machine.

Bomfino, in his inebriated state was unaware the boss had vacated the premises as he stood in the yard, the tablet held high in reverence, his other hand still grasping his genitals and his buttocks shimmering and quivering as he thrust his groin at the office. He kept up a continuous tirade of obscene suggestions both in English and his own native dialect (strange how degenerate abuse is understandable no matter what the language used). One of the office workers face appeared in the boss’s window, then assumed a mask of shock-horror-disgust ! .. as only women can when confronted with raw, male ugliness! She quickly disappeared, followed by the appearance of two other clerks, they too did not linger, nor were their expressions one of glee! Jack, the leading-hand, picked up a length of two by two inch timber and made to go into the yard, Mac grasped his arm.

“Don’t use that,” he spoke softly, his eye fixed mesmerised on Bomfino, wailing and chortling obscenities in the yard.

“Mac!” Jack pleaded ” we’ve got to do something.” Mac gently took the length of timber from Jacks’ hand and replaced it with a length of four by two!

“Use this and do a good job.” Mac whispered.

Jack crept up stealthily behind the swaying, cackling frame of Bomfino, he raised the timber … suddenly, as if on cue, Bomfino started to sway, then staggered forward , to finally sink to his knees and fell, face forward onto the gravel. Jack looked back to us with astonishment, the length of timber still held high, then everyone suddenly came to their senses and rushed mob-like to crowd around the inert form of Beppi Bomfino , face down, bum up in the dirt!

When the boss returned the following week , we tried to plea for Beppi’s job back, but he wouldn’t have a bar of it (so to speak) no way! which just proves that humour decreases as ambition increases.

So that was the end of Beppi Bomfino’s employment  at the factory. I might mention that it also was the last time we were given salt-tablets on hot days, the boss let us have one cool-drink each FREE! instead. Sometimes a great price has to be paid for a small mercy. We’d get our free drink on those hot days, stand in a circle and raise them to the memory of the day Bomfino went crazy!

“SALUTE’!” we’d cry.