taking jobs from robots

in the prolonged interim of a pseudo acting career, income is generated in a variety of intolerable temporary occupations. flexible schedules, night shifts, and opportunities for untrained employees are what make filler jobs attractive. soul-sucking labour, pressure-pushing management, and unappreciative customers are what make them unbearable. one particular workplace takes the cake, wherein i lasted a single shift, swearing i'd never return: a factory.

although every image of factory work i'd conjured from memory was of claustrophobic, unsanitary, and essentially inhumane surroundings, i romanticized the chance to experience the grind firsthand. more precisely, without thinking positively, i'd crumble beneath the reality of having to commit to any work opportunity, regardless of compatibility or conditions.

the romance was over before i even got off the bus. deep into the heart of the industrial suburbs, the lengthy travel wore me down. my fellow shift workers and i disembarked before the big grey box, a looming windowless hunk of concrete, surrounded by sky of a darker shade of grey.

i followed the horde to the 'lounge', which looked more like a hospital waiting room in a third world country. a surly foreman performed a roll call, and i prayed my name might mysteriously disappear from the list. i retrieved my time card, and smirked when i punched in, reminded of ralph and sam. i swallowed hard, and pushed through the double security doors into my worst nightmare.

immediately, i was greeted by a thick atmosphere of unknown odour. a maze of conveyor belts, shelves stacked to the rafters with boxes, mechanical machinery chugging and hissing - like willy wonka's younger brother's science project. many workers wore face masks and gloves, and i envisioned contracting a virus from chemical exposure. soon i discovered the protection was from the highly dangerous substance tea, which explained the stench. individually, the leaves emit delightful scents, but as a massive conglomerate, it was sensory overload. i lamented that it was merely the first minute.

i was assigned a station alongside a conveyor belt in one corner, sandwiched between immigrants who would offer no socializing for the entire shift. like the lucy episode with the chocolates, i had to stay alert whilst bags of tea approached slowly. my simple task was to toss handfuls into a box, and fasten the lid. over and over again. for hours on end.

the archetypal factory images returned: depression-era auto workers in coveralls repeating menial manual activities, black and white photographs of overheated children pulling levers in squalid warehouses, rows of scarfed women hunched over dusty sewing machines. my experience wasn't far off.

within ten minutes, cabin fever set in. to avoid going completely postal within the first hour, i struggled to keep mentally active. i'd attempt to recall rap lyrics from back in the day to pass the time, or scrutinize the outfits of co-workers, or consider whether i'd dedicate all my wages to my rent, or splurge on a pack of gum.

after a lengthy excruciating game of extreme patience, lunch hour arrived, without a whistle. we punched our cards and hunched over our brown bags, huddled in clusters determined by the language spoken. others knew english, but i was content to continue my internal monologue.

the second half picked up where i left off, on the brink of a breakdown. somehow i remained conscious for the duration, and wearily stumbled through the double doors at the conclusion. i wanted to keep my first punch card as a memento, knowing it would also be my last.

by the time the bus came, my nasal passages could finally sense something other than tea. during the long ride home, all i could think was, 'automation is the answer.'