The Last Entry

The Shipping Dock is now closed.

It should have ended better.

Dulce De Leche

I push open the cooler door. It swings wide and hits the opposite wall with a plastic bang. Cold air rushes forth. I zip up my company jacket. I stand and wait for a couple seconds then peer out through the window in the cooler door. I see Ricardo pulling on his jacket and rushing across the warehouse floor. I signal him with my hand to hurry up. He nods and picks up the pace. I turn around and wait for him. The door opens, and he steps inside.

"Sorry it took me so long," he says, "one of the ladies wanted me to bring them something."

I hand him the digital inventory gun. He takes it in his hand and inspects it's controls.

"I've already done most of the inventory, but I've saved a portion in here for you," I tell him.

The two of us walk through the cooler. Skids line the aisles. Very little floor space is available.

"You're counting the last aisle near the back," I tell him, "It's going to be tricky counting. It's quite tight back there."

"How do I turn this on?" he asks holding the gun up into the overhead light of the cooler.

I point toward a button on the control panel.

"Push the on/off button, then select 'inventory' from the menu," I reply.

He takes it in his hand and performs the functions while looking into the digital display.

"Okay," he asks, "what do I do now?"

"You have to get the product code numbers," I reply, "and you do that by either scanning the items with the laser or manually typing the codes in on the keypad. Whatever's most convenient. Then you type in the quantity."

"Okay. Got it."

"Remember, only product with pink tags. Pink tags are for production items, and that's what we're counting today."

"Pink tags only," Ricardo repeats with a point of his finger, "Got it."

We reach the last aisle of the cooler. Skids line the floor from one end to the other. Very little space is available.

"I am supposed to count that?" Ricardo asks in disbelief.

"Yes. I told you it was tight."

"Oh man."

We begin to walk through the maze of pallets. We balance on the edges of the skids, and slide between the stacks of cases. It's a deceptively dangerous task. One misstep or a fall and a broken ankle will result. Ricardo punches in the code numbers and piece counts, as he moves along. He cranes his neck around impossible angles reading the pallet tags looking for ones coloured pink.

"Nice and cold in here too isn't it?" I ask.

"I don't like cold," Ricardo replies.

We reach the end of the aisle. Ricardo looks around searchingly.

"I think this side is done," he says.

I point to a skid in a corner.

"Oh," he says moving toward it.

Ricardo begins punching in the code number. He reads the product description aloud.

"Dulce de Leche."

"It's a new product," I tell him, "liquid caramel centre with a 70% cocoa truffle shell."

"Milk candy," he replies.

"What's that?" I ask.

"Milk candy," he repeats, "that's what Dulce de Leche means in Spanish."

I laugh aloud.

"That's funny," I tell him.

"What's funny?"

"There's nothing 'milk' about that chocolate. It's 70% cocoa. They've just given it that name because it's semi alliterative and sounds fancy."

Ricardo grins and shrugs his shoulders. He's a new employee, so he doesn't want to say anything negative about the company. He's not comfortable enough.

"In Spanish, Dulce de Leche really has nothing to with chocolate either. It's something completely different," he says.

"Figures," I reply.

Ricardo finishes punching in the information. He scans the racking some more.

"I think you've got it all on this side," I tell him, "let's move on to the other side."

"Okay! Other side!"

Ricardo climbs around and through the skids. He fumbles with the inventory gun. I lean against a skid, and wait for him to continue.

Names

The room is bright, clean, stuffy. I'm tired. It's all I can do to stay awake. A thin woman with brown, grey streaked hair is talking to us.

"The first thing I want you to do for this seminar is exchange names with the people at your tables, and give a little history about your names. For example, my name is..."

The woman explains her name. She smiles as she speaks.

"Remember, this is not a competition," she says, "no one is judging us for our level of candour. What's most important is that you have fun."

I'm sitting at a table with a plant supervisor, and two ladies from the production lines. We turn toward each other.

"Okay," says the supervisor, "who wants to go first? How about you Nelson?"

"Nelson Lonigan: It's an Irish name," I tell the table.

The supervisor leans upon her fist, and nods with an air of interest.

"You're Irish?" asks one of the production ladies at the table.

"Irish background," I reply.

"Oh."

The table continues looking at me expectantly.

"That's it," I conclude.

"Well that's good," says the supervisor, "now with me, my name is from my maternal grandparents. My first name was my grandmother's and my middle was my grandfather's. It's a tradition in my family to pass on names. How about you ladies? How did you get your names?"

Both production ladies look at each other as if to decide who goes first.

"Umm," says one of them, "my name was chosen by my husband. It's the closest sounding English name to my Chinese one."

"Oh wow! That's so interesting!" says the supervisor, "I've always wondered how you chose your names. That's so neat. So what's your original name?"

The lady tells us her name.

"Oh your right, that is quite similar to your chosen name," says the supervisor.

"That's just a part of it," continues the production worker, "it's much longer and more difficult to pronounce if you're not Chinese."

The supervisor smiles and nods.

"Well I think that's just neat," she says.

The ladies chatter a bit more about their names. I lean down upon my palms, rub my eyes. The supervisor continues talking about the ladies' names. The woman running the seminar walks to the front of the room.

"So how was that?" she asks, "did anyone learn anything new about some one they didn't know before?"

All the employees seated at the tables turn toward the front of the room.

"Raise your hand if you learned something new?"

Several people raise their hands. The supervisor raises her hand.

"It's amazing what you can learn about some one by just getting to know their name."

The room mumbles in agreement.

"Okay, so for our next topic I'm going to discuss 'bad moods'..."

I lean down into my hands, and start to nod off. It's going to be a long two hours.

Secretary Day

"Oh that looks delicious!" declares Thelma looking into a large metal salad bowl, "what's in it?"

"I don't know," replies the woman mixing the salad, "my butler made it."

"It looks great!"

Thelma steps out of the lunch room. The woman with the salad continues mixing. She steps to the counter, tears open a package of croutons, and pours them into the salad. She mixes a bit more, and then carries the salad out of the room.

"Ever find yourself needing a butler?" I ask Rupinder.

He laughs, and takes a bite of curried chicken.

"Neither have I."

The salad woman comes back into the lunch room. She scrambles about with a fussy matronly air, gathering plates, plastic forks and knives, and napkins. The heels of her shoes clack against the floor. Her tight, blue, dress slacks ride up the crack of her buttocks.

"Do you need help love?" asks Thelma stepping back into the lunch room.

"Oh shit!" the woman exclaims.

She pulls the sleeve of her dress jacket, inspects it.

"I spilled some dressing on myself," she says taking a napkin.

"Let's see," says Thelma looking at the woman's arm, "oh, it's nothing love. Just a drip. It won't show."

The woman shakes her head, and wipes off the dressing.

"Could you take the plates and silverware into the meeting?" the woman asks.

"Sure thing love," Thelma replies.

Thelma props open the door, takes the supplies and walks into an adjacent room. The woman follows behind with a stack of napkins. Voices echo through the hall. Some one is giving a speech somewhere. Administration employees walk past the open door of the the lunchroom. They look in at Rupinder and I, but say nothing. The faces are blank, some smiling, some not; some laughing, some not.

"What's going on?" asks Rupinder.

"I don't know," I reply, "something for administration employees I suppose."

I pack up the refuse of my lunch and stand up.

"Your break over?" Rupinder inquires.

"Yeah," I answer, "I started it late."

Rupinder nods. I throw away the remains of my lunch, and walk toward the open lunch room door. A couple administration employees walk past me. They look at me and smile and say nothing. I watch them as they step into the board room next door to the lunch room. I try to look inside, but see nothing. I walk down the hallway toward the plant. I reach the factory doors, and step through. The noise of production fills the air. Women work the lines in white coats, hairnets and aprons. To a stranger it would be hard to tell them apart, but I work with them every day, and I recognize all their faces. A lady pushing a small cart full of product walks past.

"Hi Nelson," she says with a smile.

"Hi," I reply.

I walk toward the warehouse doors, kick them open, and step on through.

The Way We Speak

The warehouse is alive and hectic with midday noise. The sound of trucks unloading echoes throughout the building. Some one shouts my name. I do not listen. I sort through torn pallet tags and scribbled notes, and continue writing down product transfers. The bright light of a flourescent bulb shines down. I cap my pen and put it in my pocket. A forklift pulls up. I'm tired, and I don't want to talk, but I turn anyway.

"What's up?" Kevin S. asks from the perch of his lift.

"Not much. I was really busy there for awhile," I reply tossing several papers into a recycling tote.

"You see the crowd out front for the hiring fair?"

"No. A good crew?"

"Let me put it this way: No white people."

"Oh."

Kevin S. nods and then steps on the dead man pedal. The forklift comes alive.

"It's going to be a fun Christmas," He putting the lift in reverse and speeding off.

* * * * *

"What's that Russian word Sergei that means a dirty dick that has fucked every dirty fucking hole known to man?" Todd asks.

Sergei smiles and laughs and tells us the word. I lean down onto the counter of the shipping office. I scribble my weekly hours onto the timesheet.

"And what's that other word you told me? That means son-of-a-bitch?" Todd continues.

Sergei repeats the word for Todd.

"That's it! Does it mean son-of-a-bitch?"

"No. It means asshole, son-of-a-bitch, and nigger all rolled into one," says Sergei.

Todd laughs. I hand the timesheet pencil to Sergei. He begins filling in his hours.

"I love the Russian language," says Todd.

* * * * *

John pushes the cart. He pushes hard, and then lets go. The cart crashes into some empty racking. I walk over, and look at the cart. Several boxes of product lay stacked haphazardly upon it.

"What's up with this?" I ask pointing toward the cart.

"That's the online store's product," John replies taking hold of the power jack.

"Are they returning it? When did they order it? Yesterday?"

"Yep, they ordered it yesterday, and now they're returning it today. A complete fucking waste of my time!"

John steers the power jack into the back of his truck. I walk toward the cart and steer it into a corner under the racking. John comes out pulling a skid of boxes.

"Does Sergio still run the online store?" I ask.

"Yes, he does," John answers.

"That guy's a fool. I don't know why they have him running it. He's a complete fuck-up. He's always ordering product, and then returning it the next day."

John stops the power jack.

"Yeah I know. It's because the guy's a 'Can," he says.

"A 'Can? What the hell is a 'Can?"

"A Puerto Ri-Can, A Mexi-Can. The guy's a fuckin' wetback."

"Well, he's definitely an incompetent ass."

John nods, steers the power jack into his truck and continues unloading.

Codes

Boxes of chocolate, spaced evenly on a conveyor belt move slowly along, and enter the mouth of a long complicated machine. The machine hisses. Gears clang together. A box is spit out, then another. Both are freshly wrapped in golden paper. A woman at the end of the line, takes the box, and places it inside a poly lined case. I walk up to her.

"How are things going?" I ask her.

"Fine," she replies with a curious smile.

Another woman, putting together cases and lining them looks up at me. Another wrapped box of chocolates is spit out, followed quickly by another. The woman packing the case continues doing so without even looking up. She's a white woman in her 40s, with deep tanned skin, and red hair.

"You guys wanna hear something funny?" I ask.

"Okay," she replies, "what?"

"You know the code on these cases you're packing? Well it's designated Mail-Order by the 'M' at the end of the code number this year, but it's a product that has and was only made for Mail-Order, so creating a new code for it, and printing thousands of new labels was completely redundant."

The two women say nothing and continue packing and lining the cases.

"Just thought it was kinda funny," I tell them.

"You know what Nelson?" says the red haired lady, "after 15 years here, you just don't give a shit anymore. If they want to change codes let them. I don't care. They'll change them again."

The woman putting the cases together laughs aloud. Both women smile at each other.

"Oh," I reply.

"Oh Nelson," says the other lady, "we're sorry. Do you want us to care about your codes?"

"You know what? You girls are always picking on me. I think I'm gonna grieve this."

"Oh no!" she says, "don't do that!"

"Well, you should have thought of that before you started making fun of me."

Both women laugh. I begin to walk away.

"We're sorry Nelson!" one of the ladies shouts after me.

I wave my hand and continue moving.

Morning Meeting

Todd steps out from the lockers. He has a cup of coffee in his hand. He walks up to a forklift parked beneath the racking, leans against it, takes a sip.

"You might want to hide that coffee once the meeting begins," I say stepping toward him.

Todd rolls his eyes. He has been reprimanded before for drinking coffee during morning meetings.

"Yeah, don't I know it," he replies hiding his cup within the well of the forklift's gearshift, "wouldn't want to piss off the union."

I look up at the warehouse clock. Red digital numerals read 7:29. Several employees mill around quietly waiting. Bruce stands amongst the racking with his hands in his pockets. He looks eager. The clock changes; 7:30. Rob steps out of his office.

"Morning Rob," says Bruce.

"Morning Bruce," Rob replies.

Rob lowers his glasses, and surveys the small gathering before him.

"Everyone here?" Rob asks.

"Full crew today," Bruce replies.

"Looks smaller than usual."

Rob shrugs, and begins reading from his notes.

"Okay, good morning everybody," he says, "it's Tuesday. At 9am we have a truck coming in from..."

I look around at the group of employees gathered. Todd has his baseball cap removed. His messy, slept in hair sticks straight up. He has his glasses in his hands. He carefully cleans them with his t-shirt. Bruce stands with a clipboard in his hands. He watches Rob speak, and nods insipidly to his words.

"...Just an FYI for everybody - maintainence will be working on the alarm system today, so the alarm system..."

I lean back against the racking, and fold my arms. I find it hard to follow along. I begin to zone out.

"...A lab tech will be in today to test the cherries that came in yesterday..."

Sunlight shines in through the shipping office window. I study it for a few minutes. It begins to look really good to me, almost emancipating. I focus on it. My eyelids become heavy.

"...And as most of you already know by now, Ron resigned from the company last Friday..."

"Resigned?" whispers Glen while leaning in close to me, "what the fuck? Was he the vice president? More like quit!"

I wake from my reverie, and laugh a little bit.

"Okay that's it folks," says Rob, "take it away Bruce."

Bruce smiles deferentially at Rob and holds up the receiving report. He's not wearing his glasses. he struggles for a few seconds to see the words printed upon the page.

"Okay, yesterday we received 5 totes of sugar from..."

"Fuck," says Todd quietly, "I'm barely awake here."

"Hold on," I tell him, "it's going to get good in a couple minutes. I added something to the report this morning."

Todd grins.

"Yeah?" he says.

"Yeah."

Bruce draws the clipboard closer to his face, strains his eyes and then pulls it away.

"And uh, from KFC, we received 3 buckets of original recipe," he says.

All of the warehouse employees laugh heartily.

"Hey! Wait a minute!" exclaims Bruce.

Rob smiles, chuckles to himself.

"This isn't a joke sheet guys!" Bruce continues.

"Who would write such a thing?" I ask him.

"I don't know Nelson," says Bruce, "sure has nice handwriting though."

The laughter begins to settle down.

"Okay, that's it," says Rob.

The group starts to disperse. I begin to walk in the direction of the shipping dock. Todd catches up and walks alongside of me. He has his coffee in one hand, and his cigarettes in the other.

"You write that?" he asks.

"Yeah," I reply.

"That was great."

"I thought you'd like that."

Todd stops at a garbage can, finishes his coffee, and throws the cup out. He tucks his cigarettes into his jacket pocket.

"I did," he says.