The Work-A-Day World (Part I)

For those who have read both previous and (as of this moment, unwritten) future posts to this blog, you'll no doubt see that more often than not, I'm writing commentaries on various topics from the world around us. But I will make certain for the sake of those who follow this blog (only one at the moment, but that may just change) that I know in my personal life, I will occasionally include journal entries so as to keep them abreast of current happenings. And, unlike my other entries, these will not be started off by a relevant quote from some famous thinker or celebrity, nor a line from my own collection, the Codex Anima. (For those seeking my sagely pearls of wisdom, skip to the next entry - these journals may just end up being hotheaded bitch sessions.)

So, recently I began doing hours through a local temp agency. For the record, I have had horrendous experience with such places before. I have no problem naming Labour Ready in Brantford as an example, though I shall remain silent on the exact reason. So the fact that I even looked at such a place at all should be fairly startling.

Anyway, today was my second day with them. My first, last Friday, had started with a last-minute call to arms when someone bugged out of their shift after five minutes. The rest of the day was slow and mundane, easily managed. Today was not.

Wart remover. That's correct, I was dealing with small ampoules of semi-gelatinous wart removal medications. I also realized there are now five things on the planet that I can actually smell. One of them I like. Wart remover is not one of them. The small bottles, half the size of a shot glass and the colour of a beer bottle, went three to a retail pack, and twelve packs to a shipping box. Things started out rather kindly, I'll admit - until the shrink wrapper broke down. Of course, they didn't stop production, despite the required twenty minutes to get the damn thing working. So all the little bottles had to be taken off the conveyors as they crossed my post (of course, it's got to be me) and set in large Tupperware bins.

Once the shrink wrapper was fixed, I was told to start putting the bottles back on the conveyor - until the conveyor broke down. Bottles back in the bins. That got fixed in ten minutes, and the bottles were returned to the conveyor - then quickly removed as the packaging machine decided to take a vacation. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Lunch came and went, with no further major crises happening. Until the packaging machine wanted another break. Bottles back in the bins. For ninety minutes straight. Yes, for ninety minutes, nothing getting packaged, but plenty getting made. You'd never think, with the thousands of bottles that crossed under my eyes, that so many people on the planet had problems with unsightly warts. Or was there a convention of witches in the area?

So, the packager was finally fixed, and ninety minutes worth of bottles were put back onto the conveyor. For the uninformed, this means that the six of us there had to work double-hard to keep up. No problem, right? (You oughta know by now, my luck isn't that good.)

Five minutes after the machinery started running full barrel again, the next mishap happened. And this time, it was serious. I don't know what happened exactly, nor did I see anything, except for hearing one of the six people devoted to warts scream in pain. Somehow, some way, her hand got caught somewhere while trying to keep up, giving her some pretty bad lacerations. One of the other people ran to get the person in charge of first aid - and slipped on the smooth cement floor, taking a concussion for her troubles.

Now, don't get me wrong. I truly feel bad for what happened to those two. I certainly hope they're alright, and that I see them tomorrow. But in the meantime, do the math with me: a crew of six people, now left at 2/3 strength, having to handle three hours' worth of work in half that time. Please define disadvantage.

Also, please define workhorse: by myself, I took on my workload, and had no choice but to take on the duties of two other people. There was no way around it, really; I was the most mobile person left. (For those who know my history of injuries, don't laugh at the irony.) Perhaps it's best to say that I was the sole person remaining who was not forced to confine my activities to one location.

Five minutes of my fifteen minute break were spent smoking. The rest was diverted to refilling what supplies were needed for the continued operation of our little corner. You know what the bitch of it all is? At 1600, the station supervisor declared that we had pounded hard enough all afternoon, and had met our production quota half an hour early. And there I am, eyes bulging and nostrils flaring, adrenalin running race tracks through my blood, at my peak efficiency, headstrong and iron will, ready to take on the whole damn world - and I'm getting sent home.

Now how's that for a kick in the cajones?