You’ve heard of thankless jobs, usually that means a job that people would rarely realise exists. In my case it means a job that, according to any sane person, couldn’t possibly exist. But it does. I will not mention my name, because this story is not about me, it’s about the job. The job! I haven’t told you yet! Do you ever wonder how the leaves on all of the trees change colours with the seasons? Biologists with all their scientific knowledge will tell you something about chlorophyll and sunlight and however else they can to make sense of it. The truth is that I (and many, many others around the world) change them ourselves. “How?” you ask, well the same way you change a lot of things. We paint them. “You paint all the leaves!?” you must wonder. I know, it sounds ridiculous. But it is charming, isn’t it? Some cynics among the masses may even ask “Why bother painting the leaves?” I think those people lack imagination, and must have a very dull life. That is all I will say on that particular subject.
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Each year, without fail, my associates and I wander throughout the forests, woods, fields, gardens (those are tricky), anywhere that there are trees really and we paint the leaves. It takes very precise technique and obviously many years of practice to master. You must have a good eye for colour too; to create the lovely scenes of orange and brown in the autumn, the vibrant and energetic greens of spring and summer! I should add that it is no ordinary paint we use. We couldn’t just go out and splatter poster paint on the fragile leaves! No, no, no, that wouldn’t do at all! We use a special mixture of its own kind, all natural ingredients of course. Myself, I am not directly familiar with the process of mixing and creation; those secrets lay with the Chroma Council. Quite a pretentious name, in my opinion. (We in the field just call them Mixers.) What I do know is that upon our backs we carry a pack similar in shape to a tortoise shell, with some switches, buttons and dials on each side to programme the exact right shade for the job. There is a short hose protruding from the side of the pack, left or right – it varies on which is your painting arm. On the end of this hose in an attachment point (kind of like your vacuum cleaner at home, I suppose), where you can switch between brushes, spray nozzles and whatever your chosen instrument may be.
You’re probably wondering how my colleagues and I conduct our jobs without being seen. The answer is quite simple: when a person is not looking for something, they won’t notice it
Speaking of it now makes me yearn to return to it! You see it’s winter currently and winter is our time off, given that there are no leaves to change. I actually put in a proposal last term for a new leaf style and colour scheme, but it was turned down unfortunately. Something about “You can’t change winter now!” or “The whole point of winter is the dying off of nature and rebirth in spring.” All of which were terrible excuses really. All right, I’ll get back on topic; you’re probably wondering how my colleagues and I conduct our jobs without being seen. The answer is quite simple: when a person is not looking for something, they won’t notice it. And no one is looking for us, because why would they ever think to? It’s all about psychology really.
I’ve been doing this job for longer than I can remember and, while I will admit that I’ve had a few bad days, my experience as a whole has been incredibly enjoyable. There is one thing that keeps nagging at the back of my mind though. How did I start here? The years have sped by and like I mentioned, I’ve enjoyed them. Surely, I can only have been doing this for a brief time? I still feel young. I look at the other painters and see they look much, much older than me, deep wrinkles that begin in each corner of their faces. Some have wonderfully long beards. Some wear glasses so thick I wonder how they can make out the individual leaves. It’s hard to gauge time when so engrossed in my work. Perhaps I truly have been here longer than most men will live. In an odd existential way, that idea doesn’t bother me.
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There is this street in the capital that I am tasked with each September. It’s simple enough: just some London plane and sycamore trees. When I’m in the capital I get to see people going about their daily lives, businessmen, accountants, people who wear monotone suits which must uncannily resemble the colour of their souls. Colours you would never see among the tree leaves, if we can help it. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the unending passage of time and it’s immeasurable effect on one’s psyche. What I was getting to was that: I have enjoyed my job, I do currently enjoy my job and if I were to think logically, I would say that I will continue to enjoy my job. What else should I worry about? Perhaps next winter break, I will take some time to view my situation from different angles and think on what I am really doing here. Not now, though. For now, I have leaves to paint.
I have shared with you some secrets of my trade, I have told you of my life and some of my doubts. Whether you choose to believe me is up to you. Next time the seasons change, maybe you should take a closer look at some of those magnificently coloured leaves. And perhaps, if you’re lucky, you might catch a glimpse of us one day.
