Antò Lu Purk

Early Friday morning, without having slept one wink in anticipation of this new endeavour, he
introduced himself to the foreman dressed and ready for work: his long hair loose, corduroy trousers
and a t-shirt that said “Jail Craxi, Free Weed, Revolution Is What We Need”

“You look like you’re in bad shape, kid” the foreman reproached him, scrutinising the
alarming dark circles under his eyes. “What happened to you, you didn’t sleep?”

“Chill, man. I’m all charged up” lied Lu Purk. “I can’t wait to start, let’s go” he said. “Gimme
the first bucket over there!”

He gestured vaguely towards the top of the scaffolding: one of the young bricklayers saw him from
the roof, he waved at him cheerfully.

“I’m coming now, bro. I’ll give you a hand,” he shouted? impatiently

“Are you joking, kid?” the foreman said, with a hint of agitation in his voice. “We agreed that
you would handle the buckets. It isn’t the place for you up there. It’s dangerous,” he added gravely,
“You’ll keep an eye on the cement mixer and give the cripple a hand with the buckets, plain and
simple.”

“As you wish, boss” said Lu Purk, shrugging. “Don’t worry. I’ll stay guarding this damned
cement mixer even if the sky falls down.”

“Sure,” his boss replied. “If you want to earn some money and not make me regret listening
to you, you’ll do me the holy pleasure of obeying orders, understand?”

“Yes,” said Antò Lu Purk, “I wouldn’t dream of giving you any trouble.”