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It was looking as if it was going to be another unremarkable blip on the Book Of Days. Which it very well may be, in the scheme of things. It did hold promise, at the beginning/ Walking up to the employees entrance, someone had placed a hibiscus plant just outside in the afternoon sun. Nice, unexpected contrast against the textured brick. Out came the camera, and I made a "snap" for a friend. I didn't have to wait long before the routine got dislodged. No new magazines, shelves empty. I sat down at a foreign workstation, and before I warmed the seat I was "asked" to "volunteer" to help out in the understaffed bindery. A time passer, at least... or so I thought. More like a foetid blast from the past. Before most of the population of diaryland was born, I got my first job in printing... just out of college, ripe for the grinding boredom of industry. There was a four-hour battery of tests for placement, which I must've done well on... informed by the administrator of the high score, and that the president of the company wanted to talk to me. Something that never happened. Instead, I was asked to report to the mailroom. For two years. Today brought all of that back. Standing, flat-footed, alongside a toothed conveyor belt that carried magazines and inserts on their way to a mummification in polyethylene. Digging deep into telescopic cartons to feed hoppers with useless fliers... the soundtrack, cacophonous white noise. With nary an instruction on how they needed to be inserted, how full to stack efficiently, where the panic button was (in case I managed to convey my appendages in the process)... in short, having to mind-read the entire production. Just like it was when I started. Little fiefdoms, all over the caverous expanse. Power plays, humiliations, lame jokes, suspicious looks, ass-kissing... decorated with the red-white-blue, everywhere. BarterTown. And I swear, we've got our very own Master/Blaster... who really needs the dunking in the shit tank. When I was paroled, the most chilling thought was how small a step it was from where I am now, to where I was then. And how quickly I regained the momentum as part of the machine. Nasty little bit of d�j�-vu, that. |
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