Sunday, October 24, 2004

flattening boxes

a human being a machine wallows his way into the working place. he wears his uniform he is in conform as he steps inside. take yourself and put him aside. it’s time to be someone else for a while.

he sits at the table beside the others while he awaits the passing of enough time to get to work. when it’s time he steps inside the bowels of this hell. he takes his card and punches in. it’s about to begin. take your countenance put yourself aside, wear a false face inward and hide. false face must hide what false heart doth know. don’t ever show a blink of yourself. don’t ever think you know where you’re going.

he moves around with heft, taking the bus tubs and emptying them. putting the cups in their rack. putting the plates in a stack. placing the pie plates, the ice cream cups, the soup bowls. he pools his hand around in the varying mess of food garbage in the tub, searching through this marsh to find anything he missed – finds nothing. running the now empty bus tub through the dishwashing machine. the familiar rushing sound of water as it goes through the conveyer belt-like contraption.

the plates are full of food as he grasps them in his hands and swiftly places them on the rack, one by one. some gravy, some mashed potatoes. some fries. some broccoli. some iceberg lettuce. some fried chicken. some steak. some grilled chicken. he takes the hose and pushes his finger adept on it, causing water to flush out. he moves them onto the now racked plates, cleansing the plates of the food. runs those through. he fills up the rack of cups, runs it through. places ice cream cups, soup bowls, pie plates in a rack, washes them off, runs them through. and it goes on and on like this. repeat. redo.

whenever he’s gotten all the bus tubs almost done, or he’s gotten the prebus cart finished, another one’s brought in. another one’s there to empty. to take out the plates, the soup bowls, ice cream cups, pie plates. then it’s racking them, running them through the machine, over and over again. all over again.

there’s not a moment to stop. not a moment to collect yourself. he’s pushing himself the whole time. putting his full attention to it. his hands in a flurry of movement, his feet racing to keep up with what’s going to be brought. there’s no stopping. there’s only keep going. $5.65 an hour, for this.

he does it for around two-and-a-half-hours, straight. no stopping. no going. then he’s told by steffen to go prebus.

he goes by their tables, surveys, looks for the dirty plates. he’s glad to get a rest, but now he feels tired. he feels like he’ll pass out. he’ll fall to the ground an cease to go on.

“how is everything?” he’ll say so fake. “can i take some plates?” he’ll say with tedious boredom. “how was your meal?” he’ll say with practiced waste. “i can get that for you,” he’ll say in listless obedience. then he’ll grab their plates. he’ll take them to the prebus station. set them there if someone’s there to scrape them off. scrape them off himself if no one’s there. repeat. redo. keep going. stumble around, walking like death itself, tired and dulled.

getting more tired. more sick. stumble around, walk around and around the sections, not taking their plates anymore. grab some without saying anything. every so often muster up a tried-and-true dull phrase. take the plates. clean them.

this is the rest of your life. work until you die. earn the inked paper with the adorned faces of the presidential nobodies. retire when you’re least alive.

he asks to leave half an hour earlier, but travis won’t let him. he won’t let him get a meal, even though he’s stayed until 10 countless other times while all the others who aren’t closing leave earlier. what’s owed never is paid.

feel like a man’s inside me. feel like he’s held down in bondage. feel like he broke free. feel like he wants to be wild and crazy. wants to be feral and insane. he’s sick of it being so mundane. he’s wearing a straight jacket, breaking himself from side to side in a blur, struggling to take off what’s holding him down. wanting to be free. but each day his struggles get a little less – a little less tense. this is a losing battle the real me is fighting. one day i’ll be fully broken, barred, and chained. one day i’ll be gone. . .just a nothing inside this useless hull of a thing. just waiting for the end to capture away the pain to a long-sought numbing nothing of endless lessening. one day existence will cease.

i was forced to carpet sweep. i didn’t want to carpet sweep. but he wanted me to. he kept watching me he kept ordering me. he was trying to retie the bonds and chains, trying to get me bent – rent. even though i was spent. even though i was screaming outside from the inside deeper breadth of me. i looked around me as i automatically moved the carpet sweeper hither and thither in cycling haughtiness. i played the dumb and missed spot after spot. said the carpet sweeper wasn’t picking anything up.

it was almost time to go, after i did the boxes. “i’m getting a new job,” i said. “it’s not worth it to work this hard, and get paid minimum wage.” another of the younger managers steps out, says, “flattening boxes is hard work?”

i said nothing to the smartass. i wanted to tell him he knew what i meant, he knew how hard the work was at washing, but i didn’t say a word. i continued flattening the boxes. putting my feet on them, pulsing them apart with pressure, loosening the cardboard into flat prairies of muck upstuck in that brown paper color.

i went outside. i dumped the boxes away. i went inside. i punched out. i told travis i was leaving. i said goodbye to hell for the day. i left its jaws a cynical useless. i left its jaws and feeling the real me being tied down and chained. i felt the feeling of hopelessness. i felt the feeling of endless revisit. that i’d meet this place again and again. that i’d get another job somewhere else just as bad someday.

when i was driving cars passed me by on the going-the-other-direction opposite lane. i wanted to crash into one. i wanted to see the destruction. i wanted to see myself go away. curse the day i was ever born. curse the tribulation as it wears me to the tethers. i’m quite worn. sleep beckons, the dead-but-not-dead existing state where weightless i do as i please. so tired of everything. needing release. lease me a new life. this is always just flattening boxes. this is always just tearing down the walls i build around myself to isolate myself away.
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