“Shake It Off”

My fine motor skills are not cooperating with me today. I woke up at five thirty. I think I passed out at three. The sleep of alcohol isn’t restful, processing it requires energy which I’m low on. I had a few cautious nips from my fifth of vodka when I woke up then drank some coffee, half convinced the coffee smell might mask any liquor smell. I ate some stale peanut butter toast, not because I was hungry, because I knew I had to eat. I tried to write my name on some notebook paper. It only looked like I had mild Parkinson’s so that was encouraging. I dressed casually like the woman from the temp agency instructed and left over an hour early for a thirty minute drive. I don’t know exactly where I’m going. It’s some white flight village north of the suburbs that I’ve only heard mentioned in passing. The call yesterday and prospect of employment only made me lucid enough to be polite and ask for the address. They called a week earlier too. Missed that one. They called back at the start of the new work week. They can’t find workers. This is undoubtedly a shit job, perfect for an alcoholic in visible withdrawal at the last portion of the interview. Having $1.32 in your checking account does strange things to a man.

I’ve been unemployed for a month, maybe two. Things were fine at first. Frantically applying for jobs, getting up every day, shaving and putting on a dress shirt, going to the grocery store in the afternoon and convincing myself I was lucky to have some free time. But futility led to depression led to cheap vodka led to more depression and cheap vodka.

With the warehouse only ten interstate miles away, I realize that highway speed makes my little lemonade colored car sway like its owner. I go fast enough to not totally piss off the other motorists and slow enough to let the pods of cars pass. The manual transmission has been a bitch from hell. I’ve pulled it out of gear at least twice before pushing in the clutch. If I drank the rest of that fifth I’d fail a breathalyser. But my nerves would be steady and no cop would see cause to pull me over. I’ve got a paradoxical impairment at the moment.

After the ten miles of fast nervous traffic, I exit and cruise by a little bit of nothing: gas station, gas station, Waffle House, then an industrial park with the wrong address. A left turn and a few more miles: cemetery, church, a couple more miles, church, church, parked cop car. I turn around in a subdivision that consists of a single cul-de-sac. As I pull to the stop sign, the sheriff is setting up an LED radar sign. I think about asking him directions. Instead I decide on one of those gas stations. I can get some food, find out where I’m going. I haven’t eaten much during my little unprovoked fuck-it-all bender. I know I walked to Dairy Queen a couple times in a blackout. I know because I found the receipts. Unemployment does strange things to a man.

Pulling in to the gas station there’s a couple pumping gas and a leather suited crotch rocket enthusiast. I decide to ask the clerk directions. First the food. I walk the aisles carefully, trying to pick out something bland I can eat without my stomach vetoing the decision. I choose a granola bar and take it to the counter.

“Do you know how to get to the Pet Partners DC?”

“Did you take a left? You gotta go right. It’s round the corner. These country roads are confusing.”

“Yeah they are. Thanks.” I swipe my card. I always thought of credit as borrowing against future success but it’s becoming obvious I’m fueling a problem on the hope of the past. And a much better credit rating.

Parked by the curb. I eat my breakfast, hold a cigarette between jittery fingers. It’s a little peanut butter granola bar. It does down without complaint and tastes better than the manufacturer probably intended. From the lot I can see other little signs of civilization. A foreclosed community bank up for lease that can only be repurposed as a different, larger bank. A cash for gold hut. The hut has a sign spinner. In the Depression they had sandwich boards. Now we have guys dancing for minimum wage in 90 degree heat. They say history doesn’t repeat, it rhymes. I pass sign man as I leave and try to grin at him. The clerk was right. I drove four miles in the opposite direction. Less than a mile after that right turn is the address the woman gave me yesterday in big serif numbers.

The parking lot is full but I find a couple cars parked on a curb with enough room between them for me to parallel park. I pull parallel to one of the cars and shift into reverse. The clutch comes off with a little lurch but I squeeze in. I get out and notice the car is angled acutely away from the curb. Close enough. Pulling out will be easier. I find the yellow awning boss lady told me about. The door beneath it is bordered on all sides by various liability signs. Drug Free Workplace. Visitors subject to inspection. Stand clear, door opens out. Have ID visible at all times. No Firearms! Smoke Free Campus.

I knock and after a pause the door opens. A gaunt old face framed by a white beard pokes out and asks, “What?” I jump a little, equal part DT’s and not expecting a guard at a building full of Alpo. “I’m here for the walkthrough with Helen.”

“OK.” He scowls but nods, swinging the door open. I shuffle passed him.

It’s brighter inside than most warehouses but still dim. There’s one of those A frame metal detectors. “Empty your pockets. Put it in the tray.” The old security guard stands on the other side of the metal detector in front of his sad, gray folding table security desk. They’re really serious about protecting this pet food. “I said empty your pockets.”

“Belt?”

“Anything metal.”

Trembling all morning, the formalities of entry cause all the anxiety I thought I’d calmed to come back more viciously. I empty my pockets: cell phone, spare change, keys, pen, a receipt, all dropped into the tray. Then the belt. Leather holes and a buckle prove more challenging that usual, causing me to quake like a man being shaken at the waist by an assailant.

“You OK?”

“…Yeah… I’m sick. I didn’t sleep last night.”

The guard doesn’t give a shit. I step through the detector without setting it off. As I collect my things, the guard moves passed me and lets in two more candidates who, presumably lacking any chemical dependency, move smoothly through the checkpoint and grab their stuff, reaching around me, also unfazed by a fumbling drunk.

The guard motions us into a chain link holding pen where the employee lockers are kept. There are about fifteen of us and a ping pong table. Must be a fun place to work. The others dot the perimeter of the cage. I take my place towards a corner. They are almost exclusively young black people. More women than I’d expected. There’s one other young white guy. He’s thin and his sallow face is pocked with sores but he’s at ease, joking with two girls about how good he as at this sort of work. Meanwhile, I’m in the corner with my hands jammed in my pockets, one foot tapping frantically. Redistribute the sickness as impatience.

We wait. Five minutes. Ten. It’s hot. Alcoholics and heat do not mix. I sweat like two fat men in a sauna. Huge ceiling fans like slow moving inverted helicopter rotors push hot air around. No one’s paying attention to me quiver and wipe off sweat every couple minutes, not even the guard who’s surely seen some shit in his years. I’m a minor curiosity to him. The others sweat a bit, fan themselves with hands or resumés. One guy grabs a ping pong paddle and uses that to cool himself. I size them up but they aren’t competition. None of them are going through what I am for this job. I’m tougher than any and all of them put together. We’ll all get the job anyway. It’s temp work. The company can’t find workers. Too many lazy people and drug addicts. At least I’m not lazy.

After twenty minutes the little crowd grows restless. Complaints pepper the conversation. I remain silent, trying to bleed off the shakes as what appears to be nervous energy. I pull out my pen, wag it between two fingers. I tell myself that if I can make it through today, this is the end. This is rock bottom. I won’t end up writing about this one day with a beer in one hand and an empty bottle of vodka on the floor. Normal people don’t do this to themselves. Later, I’ll get a six pack, drink it slow so at least I won’t shake. Or have a seizure. I have some trazodone at home for sleep. Maybe I can get some benzos somehow. Librium maybe. Start new tomorrow. It’s time to move beyond the early twenties rebellion, accept normalcy. Maybe get a nice potted plant to convince myself I’m more responsible than I actually am. I am tiny and unimportant. Not unlike an aloe vera but with an elevated sense of importance.

“Helen, dial 13. Helen 13,” someone pages our soon-to-be boss over the intercom.

Five minutes later, a stout woman with wavy bleach blond hair enters the cage carrying a thick clipboard that hinges to hold documents inside. Everyone who was sitting or haunched stands and shuts up. “OK, some people were running late but we’re going to get started without them. First, I’m going to call roll, then I’m going to ask each of you a couple questions. She calls names alphabetically. When she gets to me, I try for an inconspicuous “Here.” but it fails to register so I speak up and throw her a little wave and half smile. She checks me off and continues.

“Now, I’m going to ask everyone two questions,” she says before glancing through the door and going to speak with one of the company men. They talk for a few minutes, she returns and continues, “I’m going to ask you for your shift availability and if you have any obligations in the next ninety days that will interfere with working for our client.” Her eyes lingered on me a few too many times as she looked around the room. Fucking guard squealed.

She begins alphabetically again but then moves according to proximity. She has some names matched with faces. “Can you work any shift? Anything coming up that’ll prevent you from working? Sign here.” Sign? She gets to me. “You said in your interview you prefer second or third.

“Yes, but I can work any shift.”

“Anything coming up?”

“I have two doctor’s appointments. The 17th and 22nd I believe.”

“Of July?”

“Yes.”

“OK. Just sign next to your name.”

I pull out my pen and wiggle my way to a signature that would put the busiest doctor to shame. Putting the cap back on requires some of those fine motor skills I’m lacking. She looks me in the eye without emotion and I give her my best shit eating grin.

After the Q&A portion we move on to the grand tour. “We’re going to go out into the warehouse. I’m going to show you the different departments and tell each of you where we think you’ll work best. When we get on the floor you’ll see a set of yellow lines. This will be our safety zone. It’s important to stay in the safety zone when you’re on the floor. The jack truck operators and forklifts are careful but they expect people to stay inside the safety zone. Let’s go.” She turns, rolling her eyes as she spins around, and leads us to the actual warehouse. She must give this speech and tour 2-3 times a month, maybe once a week.

“Hey, man. Pallet jacks and stuff. Haven’t used one of those in years.” I turn a little and it’s the sallow white guy, whose name is Wendell. I nod and speed up with my bizarre sober-drunk gait.

We window shop the departments. Maintenance, the lift station, admin, ecommerce, non-conveyable merchandise. Once I worked at a small distribution center. But it was nothing like this. Inventory racks rise three stories and stretch further than a football field, boxes glide overhead across a maze of motorized conveyors. The intercom is an aggressive mumble set below the background of horns, buzzers and the chatter of steel rollers. At every department she gives a speech that’s muffled by the ambient noise.

“You hear anything she’s saying?” Wendell asks. I offer a grim smirk, “A little.”

Between the tremors and trying not to step on anyone in front of me as we walk, I stumble along like an amateur puppeteer’s marionette. The safety zone is barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast. I want to remain largely unnoticed but need to show interest. I stay near the back but close enough to move within earshot when she begins talking. The others chat and laugh during the tour. I get the impression that they just want a job due to societal pressure rather than the looming threat of homelessness and all its myriad joys. Thirst. Hunger. Gay prostitution. Death.

We turn left passed ecommerce to see a long row of pallets paired around ten or so belts that freight slides down from a central conveyor near the ceiling. We stop in the middle of this department. I get close. So does she. I brace myself against the guard rail that separates the work area from the lane we’ve been walking in. “You and Wendell will be working here.” She describes the position. We will be stacking cases of pet food and hamster balls and bird cages and all that sundry bullshit in preparation for shipping. “Sounds too much like work for what they’re paying,” Wendell says to me as Helen turns to lead us through the rest of the warehouse. Nine dollar an hour monkey work is still work. Desperation does strange things to a man.

The last department is loading but no one gets assigned to load trucks. She still tells us not to ride a pallet jack out of an open dock door. “Some people don’t know the difference between a red light and a green light.” She points at the stop light system next to each dock door and asks if we know what a red light means. We all nod or mumble an affirmative. “Don’t enter on red.” Now I’m sure she does this every week.

The last stop on the tour is the break room. It’s air conditioned. The lights are a bright pale amber. It’s decorated with large stock photos of dogs and cats and parakeets. The cool is nice but it serves more to reinforce how hot the work floor is. She takes the break in the heat to explain some of the finer points of employment with the agency. We will be charged twenty dollars for our background check and ten dollars for a utility knife we will be issued on our first day. Accidents on the job may also results in garnishment. The shifts are twelve hours, as needed. One break toward the beginning of the shift, one half hour lunch at 12PM or 1AM and one more break if we’re needed longer than ten hours. We are at the will of the employer and may be dismissed at any time but we may also excuse ourself from employment at any time with no penalty.

“Is there anyone who has a problem with this? I don’t want to waste my time or yours.” Everyone agrees. She does her eye roll again. She knows most of us are wasting her time.

“Now, if everyone can just fill out the necessary paperwork we’ll be finished with the walkthrough.” She opens her clipboard and pulls out a stack of paper. Christ. This is bad. No one mentioned a written exam. Helen walks around a long table and places a stapled packet of forms at each seat. The semicircular group winds around the table and seats itself as she distributes pens. I find myself somewhere in the middle.

I was a good student. Not great. It’s hard to excel when you schedule your classes around being drunk the night before but it can be done. One thing I always did was test well. I never thought I might fail a W-4 form. OK. Just do the easy ones and come back to the hard ones

Name: legible enough.

Address: Not bad. For a five year old.

City: Curves are hard.

State: Only two letters, easy enough. I’ll just find that on every form.

Zip: Well, she can look that up.

Tax form: One deduction, zero, zero, zero… I decide to slash through those zeroes like my dad taught me. And now one of those is a six. And now it’s a black egg. Those are delicacies in China. Let’s see if I can skip ahead to something less challenging. I sign every form then I find the spaces with the easy symbols.

‘One,’ ‘X,’ ‘one,’ ‘X,’ ‘one,’ ‘one.’

‘X,’ ‘one,’ ‘one.’

Skipping ahead to the easy problems isn’t very productive. Maybe if I brace my head with one hand. Nope. How did I do so well in the notebook this morning? How do five year olds do so well? First graders are amazing. I look around at the other applicants. Most are plowing through at steady paces. One girl has her wallet open looking for something. One of the guys flips the state form over a couple times to look at the deduction worksheet. At least I don’t have dependents…

There are the two tax forms, liability releases, acknowledgements of receipt, agreements to the deductions. I sweat despite the AC. “For security, we have to leave as a group. Is everyone finished? No? Not quite?” She sounds patient enough. I look around and a few others are still writing. They look like English is their second language. I try to turn the pages at angles I normally wouldn’t. I hold the pen differently. I settle on bracing myself against the table with my left hand and forearm, using them to hold the paper down as if it were attempting a violent escape. It doesn’t work much better but I’m sure she’s seen some terrible handwriting. I give up on legibility and try for a certificate of completion. Anyway, one guy who spoke with an accent finishes a few minutes after me. Thank you for the complexity of the English language and the US tax code I suppose.

“OK then. Can everyone start tomorrow?” Terror washes over my face and I shake my head in a quick nervous fit. I can’t get my shit together that fast. I’m opposite her and she sees me immediately, she smelled fear when she asked the question. “Anyone else that can’t start tomorrow?”A well dressed young black girl and a young Latina raise their hands. The Latina changes her mind after some quick brainstorming. The black girl and I agree to start on Friday so we can be in orientation together. “The warehouse runs Sunday through Thursday. Come in Sunday. I’ll lead you all out now.”

As the guard passes us through without the scrutiny of our entrance, Helen waves from in front of the security desk. As I hand her my forms and her pen she smiles at me, “Have a good first day of work.”

In the parking lot I manage a quick, controlled flail out to the car. I look like an alien being operating a human after watching one Olympic 40. Movement becomes easier as I get further from anyone resembling authority. My car is parallel parked. Poorly. I pop the clutch and rocket away as best a 1.4L four cylinder engine can rocket.

In the safety of my car I soon realize I have to piss. There’s a c-store opposite the intersection where the warehouse lives. It’s part of a small strip mall. After a U-turn, some fits and jerks and an abrupt stop, I make it to the restroom. Relief. I have a job. Before I leave I put a cheap sixer on the credit card. Gas station clerks are some of the most indifferent to drunks. I like them.

I set the six pack in the passenger seat. It’s about noon. I’ll start to drink around 3, try to finish it around 10 or 11. An hour per beer. No buzz, not drunk. No discomfort, no DTs. Four days to reassemble myself. As I turn in my seat to back out I see a sign I missed when I was entering the strip mall. I read the big, friendly, yellow letters: Royal Package Store. Open til Midnight Everynight. 24HR Drive Thru.