Job 10 and one half: itchin’ to get workin’
The one good thing about low end temp work is you never stay at any place too long…
I arrived at Top Temporary around seven A.M. after a two hour bus commute, and sat waiting in my plastic chair for my work assignment. I was tired and nervous, and my mouth was dry. I gnawed my way through a stale pastry, downed about five cups of burnt watery coffee, and waited. After about a half hour, the woman at the front counter called a few names, and mine was included in the list. The woman briefed us on our new job, and then asked us who had a car. We’d be going to some factory in North East Minneapolis. A guy named Dale said he had a car, and he was appointed the driver for the day. Dale looked and smelled stoned, and he had the slight order of urine emanating from his army jacket. It turned out that Dale was quite stoned, and wanted to further his state as he threw a large bag of marijuana in my lap from the front seat. "Roll one up", he said as he tossed a pack of rolling papers afterwards. At this point in my life I had made the decision that smoking dope at 7:30 in the morning on the way to a new job isn’t the best idea, but dale and the boys did not agree. I passed the bag to the temp worker sitting next to me who was more than willing to partake in Dale’s generosity. We spent the next twenty minutes driving to the factory as Dale and company talked about hockey and one of the temp receptionists with the large cans, and smoked themselves into a stupor.
There is something about a factory job, this overwhelming sense of despair and futility every time I walked through the factory door, the smell of fork lift exhaust and the warm dry heat that blasts from the huge heating units over head, the radio cranking a classic rock station at high volume. I don’t think I ever felt as depressed as I did starting a new temp factory job.
This particular factory job involved manufacturing insulation, the itchy scratchy fiberglass kind. The factory had a huge open room, and in the middle sat a monstrosity of a machine. This machine’s main purpose was spitting out long sheets of paper. Two sheets to be exact, both separated by six inches of scratchy fiberglass. My job was to stand at the mouth of this beast, and cut off sheets at a certain interval, roll them and stuff them into plastic bags. We’d haul these bags over to a waiting truck at the loading dock, and cram it full with insulation. I don’t think I have ever itched so much in my life.
The good thing about factory jobs is that they tend to adhere strictly to the eight hour day, two fifteen minute break and a half hour lunch rules. Some even had bells or buzzers signifying a break. Like the sweet voice of god himself, these bells were always welcomed. A break normally consisted of some Hostess product of some sort, and a good ten minutes of scratching.
Thankfully this particular job lasted only a few days. Not that the next was any better, just less itching.
