Lazy Job
(Note: I
actually would have tagged this one Lazy Asshole but I didn't think
that would fly well
with the CL people *shrugs*)
Okay, this is the thirteenth in the Lazy series. The others
are
getting
deleted from
CL. If you would like to read the others, drop me a line and
I'll send
you the
link to the ones I have archived on my site.
FYI: Just because you request the link that does NOT mean you
wanna
bang me,
have me spam you incessantly, be buddy buddies, or even like
me. It
means you
want the link. I'll send it to you, and that, comrade, will
be That.
(Lucky thirteen, woo hoo!)
Thanks to alla the folks who are requesting the link, too cool, I'm
gettin' a nice big fat head here, thanks muchly.
Onward.
*sips*
So contestant number one washed out.... *sighs* expectations.
Generally, I'm not a 'no strings attached' kinda guy... hell, if you've
actually Read all of these things then you know there's a very
Real
string, and a putt putt boat, and bait.... (I am, after all, trolling
for chicks) There's just no hooks.
Hooks *shudders*
Hooks suck... and they hurt. If you think those dinky little
hooks
you use to go fly fishing with hurt, try the big industrial ones
meant to
snag a 500 pound halibut, ouch.
I don't do hooks... or boats for that matter (they tend to sink)
(although I like little boats... canoes and row boats and little putt
putt boats) And I don't do crab...
Kinda mad about the crab thing, actually...
I used to love the stuff, but after getting stabbed in the hand with
their pointy little feet and sprayed in the face with gallons of
green
alien sea spider blood a gazillion times I developed a shell fish
allergy *sighs*
So if I don't do hooks, don't do boats, and don't do crab, what the
hell Did I do at that fish factory for alla those years, hmmm?
*sips*
Good question.
I think a LOT of folks wondered what I did there for the last few years
I was livin' on the rock *laughs* 'cause I wasn't really
doing my designated 'job' much...
Officially I was in charge of shipping and receiving for the Cold
Storage side of the factory... Basically everybody would
bring
their shit to me and I'd make it go away: The asshole of the
factory, that was me and my job *shrugs*
Every area of the factory had it's own name... Brite Stacks, Crab
Alley, Packing Room, etc. My turf was known as the Cold
Storage Van Dock. Like all sphincters, it was tucked away in
the back
of the factory out of sight. So off the beaten trail that it
was actually kind of hard to find. You didn't just 'stumble
upon' the van dock, you had to hunt for it.
The only ways onto the van dock where from the alley (dark and
foreboding and full of forklift traffic), through the freezers (off
limits to most folks) and through the packing room (manned by a small
crew of 'special people')
I first caught glimpse of the van dock when I was lucky enough to be
one of those 'special people'. Through the packing room
door I could see little bits of this mystical place where the guys wore
street clothes, smoked cigarettes, drank coffee, and
listened to really good music. I could also see that they
didn't touch
fish, they handled boxes and other nifty types of containers.
That was the place for me and I spent the next few years trying to
figure out how to get out there.
It was only a two man crew, a boss and a flunky, so getting work out
there proved to rather difficult. I spent a lot of time
leaning on the boss, buying donuts, chatting about stuff I didn't care
about, being there but not being annoying or in the way...
Finally it paid off. One summer the flunky didn't come back
and the boss asked your truly if I wanted the job. *melts*
No more rain gear, no more dungeon, no more slime in the face, Hell Ya
I wanted the job.
I spent my first year on the van dock doing as told and learning the
ropes...
The second year the boss and I started to perfect techniques,
streamline things, little tricks to make our jobs easier and more
idiot proof (and though we were gods, we were overworked brain dead
gods. Idiot proofing was a good thing for us)
The van dock proper was a slab of concrete about as wide as a sidewalk
and maybe 80 feet long... not a lotta space there.
Thirty Million pounds of product had to pass through that sphincter
each year.
Needless to say, one little idiot mistake or glitchy procedure and that
slab of concrete would instantly become a plugged up
cluster fuck that would take life times to straighten out...
no big
deal when you are playing with car parts... million dollar big
deal when you are playing with spendy perishable products.
After a while though the boss and I did all that we could do to keep
things unplugged and flowing smoothly, and Still we'd get
slammed and buried alive under mountains of frozen seafood.... very
stressful.
During my third year on the van dock I started to take little walks...
curious where alla that crap was coming from and who the
bozos were that were making our lives so difficult...
Turns out they were a buncha freeks just like me, good folks just
trying to do their jobs who had No Idea where their shit went
once the forklift guy scooped it up and drove it away...
That was when my Real Job was finally defined.
I'd spend a big chunk of my day just walking around the factory talking
to everybody, seeing what they had, how much there
was, when it was coming around... letting them know that if they sent
it around in This order enstead of That order it would
make a world of difference on our side... asking if they could hold off
for a few or kick it into high gear now... pointing out that
if we always put the tag where a postage stamp would go it would make
things easier for everybody, etc. etc.
I'd also carry gossip and messages from the 'outside world'.
Valuable stuff when you are chained to a machine all day long.
After a while my boss quit and I became the van dock guy.
This meant even More walking around and chatting with folks.
On
top of that, the folks started to include people outside the
factory... the dispatcher for the van drivers, the dudes down in
Bellingham that we shipped most of our stuff to, various buyers
from around the world, a Lot more office fucks... I hardly ever sat on
a forklift doing nothing anymore.... walks, phones, chats,
waiting for some one or something or some bit of information to come
around so I could put it into the mix and keep that little slab
of
concrete clear of clutter.
One nice sunny day I was down in the van pit juggling my devil sticks,
digging the sunshine, and waiting for my van driver to
show up so we could exchange information and choreograph our schedules
when The Man, the Head Honcho of the entire
freeking factory walked by and saw me doing not only 'nothing', but
apparently playing with toys.
Of Course there was a 'conversation'.
I explained that I was waiting to have a meeting and was using the down
time to perfect my hand / eye coordination.
I was told that I was jacking off, got my sticks taken away from me,
and found my sorry ass firmly chained to my forklift with
the pleasant reminder that if I moved just one cheek offa my seat I'd
either be doing hard time on line five or lookin' for a new job *sighs*
Needless to say, within a few hours we were clustered. By
dinner
we were fucked. Come ten o'clock seafood was backed up
all the way down the alley and starting to plug up Other parts of the
factory. By midnight the office itself was all but blocked
off by a mountain of melting profits... but at least the factory had
stopped producing shit by then.
Four hours later my partner and I finally got the mess cleaned up and
then we went home for two hours of blissful sleep before
going back to
do it all over again.
Next morning I crawled back into the factory all bleary eyed, and what
do I see?
My devil sticks sitting neatly on the seat of my forklift.
The Man NEVER bothered me again...
Sometimes the asshole just knows more than the brains, ya know?
Rock on