It's late at night.  I park my bike in the bushes and lock it up.  The trucks are driving in and out and you can never be sure.  The drivers get higher wages and benefits, and there’s something to them you just can’t be sure about.  But in the end, the bike is always there.  I smoke a cigarette.  Bob sits on the loading dock.  He rolls his own cigarettes with Tops mentholated tobacco.  He smokes them down to the nub.  It’s something that he doesn’t singe that ratty beard right off.

“Must save a lot of money like that, rolling your own.”

“Yeah.  I save some.”

“Tonight'll be hell.”

“Hell for you maybe.”

“Yeah.  Hell for me.”

It's eleven o clock.  The bell rings and we walk inside.  Bob gets on the main loader and I get into the booth.  The usual help didn't show up so I'll have to do their job too.  That means I'll have to run to Bob for a cart and then have to thank Bob each time and then take the cart back.

The papers come shuffling from the conveyer belt hanging from the ceiling.  They shuffle down into the chute and Bob watches twenty papers drop, then the whole slot jerks a full turn and another twenty papers drop on top of them.  Bob splits the pile of papers, sending half of them down the rollers to me, and then loads the other half onto a cart.  Every now and then, these guys come and take all our carts off.  Nobody knows why.

And every now and then the printing press jams and production stops.  We’ll have to stop the whole assembly line of hoppers, the people loading the inserts, because there won't be enough papers.  Bob is under strict instructions from Chuck to keep those carts loaded.  That means I won't have papers and the hoppers will be forced to shut down and everyone will have to stay and extra hour or two.  They all say they aint staying 'nother ten goddamned minutes. 

But it doesn't matter.  Staying an extra hour or two is nothing when three in the afternoon is beating through your walls.  The shades are drawn down but the sunlight is as bright as hell and manages to squeak through every crack.  The bed sheets are soaked in sweat from the tossing and turning and you’ll beat your fists on the pillow as everyone else on the outside goes about their world.

Things are running smoothly tonight.  Papers are in great supply.  It's a cool summer night.  It doesn’t get any better.

“Not too bad.  Eh, Bob?”

“Nope, not too bad.”

“Got any plans after this?”

“Hunting.”

“Hunting what?”

“Whatever comes along.”

“Going with some buddies?” 

“Just me and me good eye.” 

My job is to take a stack of papers, jog them out on the jogger so all the spines are flush and then load the conveyer belt which feeds the papers into the assembly line where they will be filled with the inserts that are being loaded by the hoppers.  That’s what I do.  I'm the brains of the operation. 

Next thing I know, the press is powering down.  It's a little before one.  The ceiling conveyer belt goes empty.  I look at Bob.  Bob loads the cart.

“Any idea?”

“No idea.”

I decide to get a soda.  Maybe a cola.  Maybe a candy bar to go with it.

“I’ll be in the break room.”

“You better be back when it's back on.”

“It won't be back on.”

The break room is sort of nice.  It’s nicely lit.  It has a bookshelf.  Mostly paperback romance novels, a couple religious self-help books, a biography on Johnny Cochran.  The walls of the break room are big panes of glass, and outside, the world is dead.  The lighting is like an oasis.  The break room even has a microwave oven where you can heat up a meat ball sub out of the machine. 

I've been gone a few minutes, and haven’t decided anything.  If the printing press start were to start again and I missed it, no one would be there and Bob would have to do the sorting and loading himself.  No one is capable of that.  Not even Bob, not even after twenty years.  All the hoppers would be waiting and waiting for the papers to get there and Bob, trying to do it all, would jam up the whole feeder.  The maintenance guys would have to come in and fix everything while I’d stand around, chewing a candy bar.  It was grounds for termination.

I get back to the loader and the presses are still down.  I step into the doorway to smoke a cigarette.  There is a no smoking sign on the door and the boss comes down.  She asks for a cigarette.  Life hadn't been kind to her.  I give her one. We light them and each take a drag and then another.  The presses start rolling.  She tosses hers.

“Can I take this in?”

“Afraid not.”

“I see Chuck smoking in his office all the time.”

“Chuck has been here for forty years.”

“I understand.”

Chuck Marcione has been there forty years.  He has his own office after forty years of service.  It's a decent office.  He let me smoke in there once when I was working as a delivery driver.  We used to chit chat, Chuck and me.

“Having a good night, Eddie?”

“Fair I guess.”

“I like that.  Work is fair.”

Then I lost my license and I was back on the main loader with Bob.  For better or worse I suppose; work is fair.

When I finish the soda it's four am.  Bob is loading the last carts. The printing has stopped for good.  There are eight carts in excess we have to get through before the night is over.
I continue to jog the papers and load the papers and the hoppers continue to jog their inserts and load their inserts and the bell rings.

In the bathroom I use the sandy soap mix to get the ink off my arms, hands and face but you can never get it all.  I go outside and sit on the concrete ledge. 

“See you tonight, Bob?”

“See you tonight.”

The sky is a dark blue and the birds are chirping.  There is a hint of sun on the horizon and I know that three pm is going to be a very ugly thing. 

TrackBack URI for this entry

Comments (0)