The Boss by Rowley Habib We were a fortnight overdue already. And the boss was mad. What with the other job waiting for us in Tauranga and one thing or another. Somehow everything went wrong with this one. It was one of those hoodoo jobs. First there was a hold-up at the mill itself. At the last minute one of the neighbouring farmers decided he did not want the power lines to run down through his paddock. So we had to take them to the right then approach the mill from the off side. This meant arranging the wiring in the building to enable connection with the new approach of the lines. Then we discovered we were a dozen or more poles short and had to go back to the depot in Taupo for more. About three days were lost in all. Then the bad weather set in, and we could only work in snatches when the rain and wind ceased. Yes, it was one thing or another. He was a small man, the boss. Squat and solid with face and hands like aged tanned leather. And he was a character because he always wore a cap like golfers do, or rich horse owners at race meetings, which looked out of place on our job. And he had a voice on him. It was as coarse to listen to as some of this new rock ‘n’ roll music we hear on the radio nowadays. A real sandpaper voice. And did he use it. Even when he was talking naturally it always sounded as though he were annoyed and growling at something. All his men disliked him. Sometimes even hated him. Like the time I am talking of. ‘The old b—’, Joe Mason said. ‘He's going to kill us just because we should have been finished the job a few days ago’. This and many other remarks (unprintable) were passed behind his back. I can tell you. He had no faith in us it seemed. We were a pack of dunder-heads and could not do a thing without his guidance. But he knew his job all right. No one of us disputed that. He was a man well into his fifties, who had been a life-time with power lines. But all the same–— That morning, a Friday, the sun broke through. A weak sun: but it looked as though we might finish the job at last. A peculiar wind was blowing that day. It would blow in gusts: suddenly while everything was still. Then as suddenly it would drop. We were standing on the roadside where the truck had been parked. The boss was looking up at the sky. Watching with half-closed eyes. ‘We ought to finish the job today’, he said. ‘I think the weather will hold all right. We're all connected up at the main line now. There's just the old line to come down, then we'll see how she goes'. He looked up at the sky again. His eyes still half-closed. ‘Yes we'll see how she goes', he said again. ‘We'll see how she goes all right’, I thought. ‘The old b–—, he'll have us out anyway. Rain or no rain’. Well it rained. And he had us out anyway. It was not too bad though, for it only rained in spasms. But those peculiar gusts of wind kept up. Blowing then dropping: blowing then dropping. Jack Kahui and I worked together in the afternoon, dismantling one end of the old line. The rest of the gang were at the top end, except the boss, who was checking the wiring at the main line connection. The sun had come out again, still weak, but we were enjoying it, knowing that it wouldn't last long. It was blowing quite strong now and we had to hang on to the arms of the pole ‘with our teeth’. Jack was sitting on one side of the pole and I was on the arm on the opposite side to him. Jack Kahui was a South Island Maori. From Invercargill. He had been with the Power Board for about ten years and was one of our top men. The little while I'd worked with him, I had learned quite a bit, just watching him. They say on the Power Board that the longer you are in the game the more careful you become. But in Jack's case I think it was not so. At times he was inclined to be careless. A showman. I suppose it was the Maori in his veins. Often he would lie across the wires. Just lie there, smoking. The wires burning beneath him. Two hundred and fifty volts. He used to pad himself up thick with clothing, and as long as you were not earthed you were all right. But it took a lot of nerve to do a thing like that. But as I say, Jack was pretty good. Sitting there a'top the pole that afternoon, Jack and I talked a lot about ourselves. He was married, he said, with a little daughter. I had not known this before. But Jack was such a hard case that I was not sure whether he was telling the