At My Job I Work the Robotic Arms

On the line, I run a double-forklift. It’s a lot like a regular forklift, but the forks both spread out on either side and when they fan out, you have to catch the grooves of both pallets just so at the same time. And you have to do it FAST. Also, the balance point is trickier, especially if your pallet is stacked high with empty plastic disks that won’t get blown out from forms into bottles till later down the line. The disks weigh nothing, and it is a lot harder than it sounds. Also, on line 5, I work the robotic arms until they stop working, and I call the engineer.

When we are at work, Eugene talks about fantasy sports and the gun he has tucked away in his car. Anthony talks about superhero comics. Greg got so high he ran a forklift off the loading dock and needed a drug test and a lawyer. Anthony died last week at age 43.

At home, my daughter screams in the middle of the night if she has to cough or needs to pee. She plays with He-Man figures and My Little Ponies that we saved in a box for her. My wife gets drunk on boxed wine that saves for 30 days, but she has a hard time making it stretch for three.

At night, when my wife takes a shower, she meticulously swipes the edge of her razor blade against the bar soap because sometimes she gets mad and cuts herself. One time, the bleeding on her wrist didn’t stop for four days. But she doesn’t want to get flesh-eating bacteria from a warm, wet razor blade, so she cleans the blade against the soap. It creates deep, angry, soft grooves. The news says flesh-eating bacteria may be in all 50 states. Sometimes, she just showers, opens the door, and watches the paint peel on the ceiling because the fan doesn’t work. Other times she shampoos and washes and then flicks four, quick strokes against her skin so they look like bloody-beaded, five-lined music. Beyond a doubt, but full of hesitation.

When I am at work, I need to take a 15 minute break that my partner will cover. But my partner is so slow that I need to get him set up for my break so we don’t get behind. I sit in my car and watch videos on my phone and eat a sandwich light on the lunchmeat, heavy on the mayonnaise. When it’s hot, I need to turn the car on to run the AC. I dip my barbeque chips into the edge of my sandwich mayonnaise. I close my eyes and see the afterimage of line 5.

I have a friend who calls me when he’s driving across town to pick his family up Chinese takeout. We get 15 minutes or so of catchup on the kids, our wives, or some shows. Sometimes he tells me about some basketball or the latest fight. My wife says, “How’s Scott? How’s Joan?” and I don’t like to say because when our breaths are counted, we haven’t said that much.   

My daughter has a hard time at school. She writes her name in a kind of cursive she made up with a snake coming off the “t” like a sort of balloon. The snake is smiling. She calls it “snakeish.” Her teachers tell us to let her do it. When she writes thank you notes or cards to my dad or my wife’s mom, we include a parenthetical. We neatly print her message or her name. We explain what she means.

When the robotic arms stop working, there are a few things I do before I call over the engineer. I can punch a few buttons in a sequence, and sometimes, he doesn’t have to come. When he comes over, he comes over like he thinks he’s a god. His steel-toed boots are specially made because one of his legs is noticeably shorter. He walks with a limp. He smirks like a turtle. His teeth are braces-straight where each tooth looks a little too blunted, a little too uniform. His breath smells like mustard.

North Carolina is a “right to work state,” which is the same as saying you have no rights to work at all. It’s steamy-hot in the summer, and the winter is a surprising mess of grey sleet and icy rain. There’s good music and good shopping. The people drive on I-40 like they’d never like to get home. Like they are driving 90 mph for their lives or just finding out. My wife and I would like to move away someday, but we can’t decide on where we’d go. Our dog is so old he wears diapers inside. Our daughter watches the same movie on repeat.

One of my wife’s friends holds a book club every month at her house. She makes themed food, and sixteen ladies act like they have read the book. When I come home, my wife is always holding a book but never reading it. She either grips things too tight or touches so gently it’s like bathwater. You’d wonder how she ever picks anything up. One time, her friend asked about me.

“Does Jake like to go out after work and share a beer with his friends on the line?”

My wife said she just blinked.

“I don’t think he has any friends on the line.”

If I’d been there when her friend asked, I’d have also said no. When I get home, I go to sleep. I touch my daughter’s toes to say goodnight. I count her breaths and wonder. The next day is almost ready to begin.