Lucky No. 7

The alarm goes off. I get out of bed and pound the clock until it stops. I stand in the darkness half naked and shivering. The green digital numerals on the clock read 5:31am. I begin to put on clothes: track pants, t-shirt, flannel top.

I walk to the bathroom, turn on the light, stand in front of the sink. I turn on the water, and look in the mirror. I put my hands under the faucet and wait for the water to turn warm. I take a face-cloth and soak it with hot water. I bring it to my face. It's soothing, refreshing. I hang the face-cloth upon the towel rack and step out into the hallway.

The apartment is cold, empty. There's no furniture except for the bed and the dresser. Here in the kitchen there is nothing. No tables. No chairs. No anything at all.

I stand in the doorway still half asleep, cold, knowing that in a couple hours I will be at work. I walk to the coffee maker. I pull out the pot, and wash and fill it with cold water. I pour the water into the brewing tank and remove the filter holder. I open up the cupboard beneath the sink, and dump the old filter into the garbage.

"What the..." I say aloud to myself.

There have been mice problems lately. At the bottom of the cupboard, beside the bleach there is a mouse trap. It has killed 6 mice in 6 days. Everyone of them - backs broken and skulls crushed. But this morning the trap is gone.

I crouch down and peer into the cupboard. I look between the ammonia bottle, and pine scented floor cleaner, but see nothing. I move the ammonia, and then the floor cleaner. I see something; a movement, the trap. I reach down and pull at the trap, move it back a couple inches. Attached to the copper killing bar is a mouse, but he's not dead. He's only trapped. His tail is caught midway. He struggles to get free. He may not be able to see me but he knows he's being watched. He's tiny, light gray, and his tail is long.

I reach down and take the trap in my hand. I lift it up to eye level. The mouse dangles by his ensnared tail. He swings to and fro, and squirms frantically. He let's out a long terrified squeak. He knows he's going to die. It bothers me. He fidgets for a couple more seconds then goes still. I try to figure out what to do next. I think about throwing him out the window. It may be 2 storeys down, but there are bushes down below. It might cushion his fall and allow him to survive.

"But you'll just come back in and get into my garbage again," I say aloud to the him.

I walk from the kitchen to the bathroom, trap in hand, mouse swinging. I step to the toilet and lift the seat. I raise the trap. The little mouse struggles a little bit more, then stops completely. He stretches four tiny legs out as far as they can go. His tiny toes have tiny claws attached to tiny pink feet. He swings and spins by his tail.

"How did it not rip in half man?" I ask the little creature, "you should have chewed yourself free."

I hold the trap out over the toilet, and place my fingernail under the copper kill bar. I pull it back. The mouse falls 2 feet and splashes into the water. He immediately begins to swim, to fight for his life, his survival. I reach for the toilet handle and press down. The toilet flushes. The mouse swims against the current of the vacuum. It's too strong. He's quickly sucked down the hole to meet his fate somewhere in the plumbing of the apartment house. If he's lucky, maybe he'll be ejected alive into the Vancouver sewer system where he might be able to swim his way to a better future.

I walk back to the kitchen. I load the trap with bread, and place it under the sink, just inside the cupboard. I wash my hands under the kitchen sink. I pick up the coffee filter holder, place a filter inside, load it with coffee and continue on with the morning.

Lotto

It's early morning; almost 7:30. I cross the company parking lot. The sky is grey. The air feels damp, imposing. Huddled outside the warehouse doors are several employees smoking, drinking coffee, chatting.

"Morning Nelson," says John as I approach.

The other employees greet me with either quiet assents or small nods.

"Interested in getting in on the lottery?" asks John as I walk passed the group.

He holds up a colourful mass produced flyer.

"Not really," I reply.

"It's for the Children's Hospital," he says.

"What do I win? Some one's kids?"

John laughs.

"Yeah; mine," he says.

I smile and step inside the door to the shipping office. The warehouse is clean and empty. A couple new employees stand around waiting for their shifts to begin. They look uncomfortable with their surroundings. I walk to my locker, take off my hoodie and back pack, and begin to put my belongings away.

The automatic lock on the shipping office door buzzes. The crowd from outside begins to file in. John walks directly to the lockers. He dials in the combination to his padlock, and pulls open the door.

"You sure you don't want to get involved in the lottery?" he asks.

"Yeah I'm sure," I reply stuffing a box cutter and pen in my pocket.

John always looks after the staff lotto draws. He collects all the money, and does all the ticket purchasing. Everyone but myself gets in on the draw. Sometimes they win $10 here, $20 there, but never anything big.

"Well, when the stretch Hummer comes to pick us all up," he says, "I'll be laughing while you'll be working."

"And if it doesn't come can I laugh in your face?"

John smiles.

"You sure can," he says.

John takes an envelope out of his pocket, opens it. Inside are $2 and $1 coins, quarters, and the odd $5 bill. He methodically counts the sum, and then places the envelope in his locker. Attached to the inside of his locker door is a glossy publicity photograph of 3 women in matching tight white tanktops and thong bikini bottoms.

"Those your sisters?" I ask gesturing toward the photograph.

John closes his locker, locks it.

"No, but they'll be more than that after I win this Friday."

John grins and walks away.

Two Bits

The door to the lunch room opens. It's Todd.

"Nelson!" he shouts.

He has a packaged burrito in his hand. He steps to the microwave, opens the door, places the burrito inside. He programs a time, presses 'start'. The microwave beeps, kicks into action.

"Hey, what's up?" I ask.

"Not much man," he replies.

He walks to the window. The company fountain sprays in jerky movements. Wind blows the water to and fro. The sun shines down a bright white-yellow. Todd puts his hands in his pockets.

"What are you doing this weekend man?" he asks.

"I have family coming to visit," I answer.

"If you get a moment away from them I know something you should attend."

"What's that?"

"My buddy works in the film industry here, and he's hosting a huge wrap-up party for a new reality program this Saturday."

"What kind of reality program?"

"It's call 'Fat Farm'. Something to do with a bunch of fat bastards losing a ton of weight. Doesn't matter - the party's gonna be over the top. You should go dude."

"What's 'over the top'?"

"Man, all the booze you can drink, coke, pot - you name it it's there. And all the freakiest fucking people you can imagine! It's gonna be pretty cool! You should come."

The microwave sounds it's alarm. Todd steps to it and opens it's door. He pulls out his burrito, tears open the packaging, and places it in a paper towel. Steam drifts up from the soggy piece of food in his hand. He takes a bite. Cheese stretches from the burrito to his face. He waves his hand in front of his mouth in an attempt to assuage the heat.

"I probably won't get the time to attend. Thanks anyway," I tell him.

"No problem. But if you do get time, come talk to me man. It'll be pretty fuckin' wild!" he replies.

Todd walks to the door of the lunch room. He takes another bite of his burrito.

"See ya," I say.

"You bet," he responds.

He leaves the lunch room. The door closes with a loud institutional slam. I look out the window. The wind blows hard at the fountain. Water flies everywhere.

* * * * *

"You the cardboard bitch today?" asks Todd.

I'm standing in a far corner of the warehouse, breaking down boxes and sorting cardboard. The area is a mess. Totes full and empty lay strewn about, and the floor is covered with ripped twine, shredded shrinkwrap and torn paper. It is my job to clean the place up.

"Yeah you could say that," I reply.

Todd has been wandering around, trying to stay out of the supervisor's eye and trying to look busy.

"What are you doing?" I ask, "nothing?"

"Pretty much."

Todd takes one of the totes and begins to break it down.

"Did I tell you what Jeff did to me the other night?" he asks putting the tote down upon another stack of already folded totes.

"No," I reply.

"Well I'm on my break, and I start looking around for a place to take a nap. So I come back here and see all these totes laying around. And I find one that has some nice soft poly in it. Looks good enough to me. So I climb in, curl up inside and start to doze off..."

One of the lead hands walks passed in a nearby aisle. Todd picks up some cardboard and begins sorting. He tries to look as busy as possible. The lead hand eyes him but continues on his way.

"So I'm in the tote," continues Todd, "and I'm just starting to doze off when WHAM! Something hits the tote hard. It felt like I'd been hit by a truck. I mean it really jolted me. But it doesn't end there. All of a sudden I start moving! So I look up, and here's Jeff pushing like six totes (including mine!) with the forklift!"

"Did you get out of the tote?" I ask.

"No! I don't want that fucker knowing I'm sleeping in there. Just one more thing for him to bitch about. I just squated down, pulled some poly over myself and waited for him to finish what he was doing. I mean what a goof! The guy could've fuckin' speared me with the forks if I'd have been in that front tote!"

"Did you get any sleep?"

"Not after that."

Todd looks around through the aisles.

"I should get going," he says, "sooner or later their gonna realize I'm not doing anything. See ya dude."

Todd cuts through the racking and walks slowly down the aisle. Parked at the end is a forklift. He steps on, fires it up and drives away.

Afraid

The bottom of the kitchen refridgerator is covered in cream. All the milk crates are out of order, and somewhere among the stacks is a leaking bag. I push the stacks together and line them up properly. There is no way I am searching through 30 bags of cream for one squalid sack with a hole. I leave the mess as it is, and begin loading the new crates into the refridgerator.

"Hey Nelson!"

I turn around. Tom, one of the senior candymakers, is emptying a bag of sugar into a large plastic container.

"What's up?" he asks.

"Not much," I reply.

"James working with you today?"

"Yes. He's somewhere in the warehouse right now."

"Did he tell you about what I said to Christine?"

"No. What was said?"

Tom finishes emptying the bag of sugar, crumples it up in his hands and throws it into a nearby waste bin.

"I was razzing him about his fear of her," he says.

"What were you saying?" I ask.

"When he came in here this morning I started bugging him about it. I yelled to Christine and told her he was afraid of her. You should've seen him go red."

"He is afraid of her isn't he?"

"You bet! He's afraid of women in general. Talk to him about chicks and he gets all defensive telling you he doesn't look at them 'cause he's got a girlfriend. Girlfriend my ass! He's just pussywhipped. He calls it respect, but you know it's 'cause he's afraid of them. Especially Christine."

I finish loading the refridgerator, and begin stacking empty milk crates.

"She yelled at him once. I think it scared him a bit." I tell him.

"Who? Christine?" says Tom, "she's yelled at him plenty of times. She's got him running for cover. But you see, it all goes back to his mama. The pussywhipping goes back that far, and now he's afraid to say one word against any of them."

"I think he told me his mother used to cut his food for him."

Tom laughs. It's a loud and abrasive laugh, scummy and predatory. I finish stacking the milk crates and start to leave.

"Ever ask him about peeler bars?" Tom asks.

"No," I reply, "not recently."

"I once told him I was going to 'The Cecil', and he asked me how I could seeing as how I'm married. I mean Christ! Does he think I can look at the same old fuckin' gash for 10 fuckin' years?"

Tom laughs. I smile and walk away. As I walk through the plant I can still hear him laughing. I cringe and continue on with my day.

Lesbian

I'm lifting cases, building orders, stacking pallets. Todd is on the forklift. He pulls into the aisle, drives hard, and stops a foot from my workboots.

"So Nelson, what do you got for me tonight?" he asks leaning toward me.

Todd is the night shipper/receiver. I fill him in on all the details for the night. He listens lazily, then stops listening all together, and nods toward something in the neighbouring aisle. I look over. A. walks passed. She knows she's being watched, but walks on defiantly.

"I'm gonna turn that to the other side," he says watching her walk.

"'Other side'?" I reply.

"Yeah, the other side."

"What do you mean 'other side'?"

"She's a lesbian."

"She's a lesbian?"

"That's what I'm told."

"Who said this?"

"James."

"How does he know?"

"I don't know. Do you think she looks like it?"

"Like what? A Lesbian?"

"Yeah."

"What does a lesbian look like?"

Todd laughs.

"I don't know," he replies.

James comes out of the plant. He talks to the lead hand for a couple moments, then walks passed in the neighbouring aisle.

"Let's ask the man himself," says Todd, "James!"

James turns around.

"What?" he asks in an exasperated manner.

Todd motions for him to come over. James walks over.

"What?" James repeats walking alongside Todd's forklift.

"Were talking about how that A. chick is a lesbian," says Todd.

"Yeah," says James.

"Who told you she's a lesbian?" I ask.

"I can't really remember," says James, "I think it was Kevin S."

Todd rolls his eyes.

"Of course it would be Kevin S.," says Todd.

"Why would it be Kevin S.?" asks James.

"Because the guy's a pig," explains Todd, "she probably shot the fucking guy down and now he thinks she's a lesbian because of it."

"Maybe," says James, "but if you do the math it does kind've add up. She did go to art school, you could say she has the look a little bit, plus I was talking to her once about her going out for drinks after work and I joked about her picking up guys and she very vehemently told me that 'she does not pick up guys'. I don't know, I could be wrong, but it's just a feeling I get from her."

"I'm still turning her to the other side," says Todd.

"Yeah," says James.

"Yeah," replies Todd.

James shakes his head and walks away.

"He's just pissed because he won't be the guy to do it," says Todd nodding in James' direction.

"You're probably right," I reply.

Todd slowly reverses the forklift out of the aisle. I watch him for a couple moments then return to stacking pallets.

* * * * *

"You have an extra piece of paper?" I ask.

Kevin S. parks his forklift.

"I've got lots of paper here," he replies.

He tears a piece from a notepad clipped to his forklift and hands it over.

"So James tells me that A. is a lesbian," I say taking the paper, "he says you told him. Is that true?"

Kevin S. starts to chuckle.

"I don't know if she's a lesbian," he replies, "Jimmy must've walked in on a conversation some of us were having and took his own thing from it. I mean she does have a strange way of talking, but she's talked about boyfriends before. The gay thing is something we've only guessed about."

"Oh."

"Yeah, when she first started here she had long hair in a ponytail. She looks more dyke now that she's cut it, but whatever."

Kevin surveys the neighbouring aisles. I look over my shoulder. A. walks from her office to the DHL computer.

"Gay or not she's got a great pair of funbags," he says in a lowered voice.

"Yeah she's cute, but cute don't make you either gay or straight," I reply.

"I wish it did. I just want to get my hands on those titties."

He laughs and drives away on his forklift. I take the paper and walk to a nearby skid loaded with product. I need the product code. I write it down, fold the paper, put it in my pocket and walk away.