I’d thank the heavens my shift is over but I can’t think straight long enough to do it. I don’t even remember pulling past the gates of the complex, and the rising sun shining in my eyes is making it harder to stay awake—go figure. My body feels like it’s shutting down as I drive over the speed limit on HWY 20, desperate to make it home—desperate for bed.
Time slips and I’m back at the factory, spinning caps on bottles at thirty a minute, decked head to toe in heavy choking plastic, drenched in hot slipping sweat.
My eyes shoot open and I’m back on HWY 20, drifting towards the median.
I try to keep it together but I can feel all sixteen hours of my double, 2 p.m. to 10 p.m. to 6 a.m., spinning caps like records on bottles filled with concentrated cleaning chemicals so acidic I’m forced under thick layers of protective plastic in the middle of summer, my body baking inside. The long hours are stretching me thin like a migraine in slow motion, but the pay is shit and rent is past due so I work and work, hour after hour, shift after shift, at thirty bottles a minute non-stop with a thirty minute lunch break and a handful of fifteens for when I need to piss.
My eyes shoot open and I’m back on HWY 20, drifting towards the median.
I hear the whirring of the conveyor belt in my mind as thirty bottles a minute rush by, my bright blue gloved hand reaching into the box of caps, picking out six at a time, spinning them on in batches, six after the other, another six and then six more until 6 a.m. rolls around and I’m free.
My eyes shoot open and I’m back on HWY 20 and I’ve missed my exit. I take the next and manage to keep my eyes open long enough to pull into the parking lot of a Wendy’s. I need to sleep so I shut the car off and close my eyes, and I’m back on the line, thirty bottles a minute, six after the other, another six and then six more.
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