Sunday Night @ Foundation

The restaurant is noisy. I look down at the food in front of me: Veggie burger, leafy salad with dressing, cold flavourless pasta. I stab at the salad with a fork, move it around a little.

"My ex works for a non-profit support centre for LGBT teens in Washington DC," says Carol her voice barely audible over the din of the restaurant.

"Did you say non-profit?" I ask.

"Yes," she replies.

"So no chance for a raise there huh?"

She's not impressed. She takes homosexual issues very seriously. Myself, I know very little about them. I look around the restaurant. The place is packed with patrons, most of them under the age of 30, and most of them a mix of Franz Ferdinands and Miranda Julys. Pasted to the walls are posters with quotes from actors, writers, and revolutionaries. A small line of people has begun to gather at the front door. They stand around smoking, mingling, waiting.

"A line-up on a Sunday night? Isn't there anywhere else for these people to go?" I ask.

Carol shrugs her shoulders.

"It's a popular place," she replies with disinterest.

I look out the window. The sun has gone down, giving Main Street a bluish ambience. I take a sip of my beer. Carol gives me a bored smile. I look back out the window. A man walks by carrying a grocery bag. I recognize him. It's Glen from work. He's wearing a baseball cap, canvas jacket, and blue jeans. He walks unnoticed through the crowd waiting outside. He doesn't see me. He looks tired, alone. I watch him walk away. I know he's headed home because he's told me he lives in the area. I wonder to myself what awaits him there. The thought gives me an unnecessary and unfounded melancholy feeling.

"That was Glen," I say.

"Who?" asks Carol.

"Glen. He works with me, only he works at another warehouse. I haven't seen him in ages. He's a good guy."

Carol nods and takes a sip of her white wine.

"He's a single dad, but he has only part time custody," I continue, "he looked lonely."

"Wanna chase him down and go on a date with him instead?" she asks with sarcasm in her voice.

"Maybe I should," I reply.

"Maybe you should then."

Carol gesticulates with her hands in the direction of the street, and gives me a flippant smirk. I lean back in my chair, and take another sip of beer. She puts her hands down, and her face goes blank. I look back out into the street. Carol leans on her fist and surveys the restaurant.

"Is everything alright here?" a waitress asks stepping up to our table.

I look back across the table at Carol. Our eyes meet. She gives me a flirtatious, bitchy look. I look up at the waitress.

"Yes, everything's fine," I say.

Angry Truck Driver

I turn the pages of a magazine. The pages are saturated with images of celebrities. I take a bite of my sandwich, finish it off. I try to look out the window, but the fluorescent lights of the lunchroom are too bright. All I see is my own reflection looking back at me. I sit in silence staring at myself. I wait for the time to pass. I check my watch; 2 minutes left. I gather up the refuse from my supper, and throw it into a nearby garbage can. I walk to the door, and step out into the warehouse. At the far end of the aisle, Jeff is pulling a skid of product out from under the racking.

"Nelson!" he shouts.

He turns the steering column of the pallet jack into a park position, and walks toward me.

"You have anything going out tonight?" he asks.

"Yes, the Alberta orders," I reply.

"They haven't gone yet?"

"No."

"Well that would explain the angry Arab waiting in his truck outside," he says gesturing toward the shipping doors with a toss of his head.

"Angry Arab?" I ask.

"Oh yeah!" says Jeff with emotion in his voice, "when I told him I didn't know anything about orders shipping out tonight he freaked, started yelling at me."

"He's an hour late. Don't worry about it."

"Oh I won't."

Jeff turns the steering column of the pallet jack, and begins pulling it toward the factory doors. I walk toward the shipping office.

"Good luck," says Jeff.

I turn and nod. Jeff kicks his way through the factory doors. I enter the shipping office, and pick up the waybills for the Alberta orders. I look out the shipping office window. Parked against the far shipping bay door is a 53' trailer with a transport truck attached. The cab is lit up, and a man is sitting inside motionless, leaning against the steering wheel. I walk out of the shipping office and head over to the far shipping bay door. I slide the latch, and pull the door up and open. Rain drips in through the space between the trailer and the shipping bay. I raise the electric dock plate, and lower it down onto the rear of the trailer. The plate shakes the trailer on contact. I take hold of the power jack and steer it into the pallet of an Alberta order. The bell to the shipping door rings. I walk the length of the shipping dock. I open the door. Standing outside in the rain is a man in his mid 30s.

"Thanks buddy," he says as he steps inside, "man that's some rain."

"Yes," I reply, "it's quite wet. Sorry about the wait. I was on my supper break."

"You were on break? No problem. You gotta eat."

I walk to the power jack, raise the forks, and spin the pallet around. The driver opens the door to his trailer. It slides along it's tracks rough and metallic.

"How many skids?" the driver asks.

"There's 14. The waybills are on the desk over there," I respond.

The driver walks over to the desk, and sorts through the waybills.

"So 5 Edmonton? 8 Calgary? and 1 Red Deer?" he asks.

"Yes."

I begin loading the skids. Rainwater runs down in streams off the back of the trailer. It patters against the shrink wrap of the skids as I load them, and hits me in the face and drips down my shirt. The floor of the trailer is slippery with muddy water. The wheels of the jack spin as it tries to manoeuvre the floor's corrugated steel surface. I finish loading the skids, and park the power jack tight to the warehouse wall.

"All finished buddy?" the driver asks.

"Yes," I reply.

The driver finishes filling out the waybills and hands me the carbon copies. I walk to the shipping office and place them in the tray with the rest of the day's finished paperwork. The driver steps through the office on his way out the door.

"What time you start today?" he asks leaning against the shelf of the shipping desk.

"I started at noon," I tell him.

"I started at 6am buddy."

"13 hours is a long shift."

"You're telling me," he says tucking his pen in his shirt pocket, "every day I do this."

"Yeah I know you driver guys have long hours. I don't know how you do it."

"You gotta work man," he says through his thick accent, "but the bossman takes advantage of it. He tells me pick up at 5:30pm, and I tell him I've gotta go home, I've been on the road 12 hours already and I still gotta go back to the depot. Just one more load, he says. So I go and here we are 7pm and I still gotta unload."

"I told your dispatch 6:30pm. I don't know why he sent you here an hour early."

"No it's not you're fault buddy. It's the bossman. He really pisses me off. One of these days I'm going to get a gun and shoot him."

I laugh awkwardly.

"No I'm serious," the driver continues, "he can't keep doing this to me."

"It sucks," I tell him, "but it's pretty much over now."

"Yeah you're right," he says moving toward the door, "you work on the weekend?"

"No, I have it off," I reply.

"Good. You enjoy it buddy."

"Thanks. Have a good night."

"Yeah, you too."

The driver pushes open the door and leaves. I step out into the warehouse. The place is quiet, empty. I walk over to some supplies received earlier. I tear open the packing slip, and remove the invoice, and begin sorting the items piece by piece.

Union Woe

The 5 ton ascends the Pattullo Bridge. The climb is steep. The ride is rough. John changes gears. The truck groans as it ascends the curve of the bridge. I look out the window and down onto the surface of the Fraser river. The water is muddy, and pockmarked with the posts of docks that no longer exist. The truck hits a bump in the bridge. The entire vehicle shakes with the impact.

"Jesus," says John, "nice fuckin' road."

The truck comes down off the bridge. John gears down. We drive for a few kilometers in silence.

"So how old are you?" John asks.

"29," I reply.

"Really? You're old," he says.

"First time I've heard that," I tell him.

"Get used to it."

John turns the steering wheel vigorously. We leave the highway and enter a vast industrial park. A light rain begins to wet the windshield.

"You see that place there," says John pointing toward a large modern chocolate factory.

"Yeah," I reply.

"Looks nice huh?"

"Looks new."

"It's owned by the Hell's Angels."

"Really?"

"Yep. One big money laundering operation."

"I wonder if they're union?"

John smiles and chuckles to himself.

"Probably not," he says.

John spins the steering wheel, changes gears. The truck lurches out of the industrial park, and begins to climb an on ramp. John checks his mirrors, and merges into a busy 4 lane highway.

"You don't like the union right?" I ask.

"Nope," he replies, "few employees do."

"So then why was it brought on board?"

"It was production that got involved with the union," John replies, "there used to be a supervisor in the plant years ago named C.K. She was this big fat bull dyke, and she used..."

"A dyke?" I interupt, "was she actually gay? Or was that just people saying that out of dislike?"

"No she was gay," John continues, "and she was a bitch. She played a lot of favouritism. If she didn't like you, you got the worst jobs in the place, and if she did like you you got whatever you wanted. This caused a lot of tension, and it went on for years. Eventually some people got sick of it, and as a result, decided to unionize."

"That's it? They unionized over one stupid supervisor?"

John nods.

"Why didn't ownership just fire her?" I ask.

"They did fire her, but by then it was to late," replies John.

"What about working conditions? How were they?"

"Fine. The company treated it's employees like family, and overlooked a lot of things that would never go on today."

"Such as?"

"Well you know how after Christmas we get all those product and packaging returns from the stores? Well every year we'd buy a couple bottles of rum, get some cola, and we'd sit back there in the back of the plant drinking and going through all of that shit. Could never do that today."

"And management didn't care?"

"Nope not as long as you didn't drive or operate the forklift."

John turns on the truck radio, and begins adjusting the dial. He finds a classic rock radio station.

"What about the strike?" I ask, "what was that about?"

"A power struggle," John answers, "that's it. That's all they wanted. Nothing was gained at all. All they wanted to do was show the ownership that they were they're and they couldn't be touched. It was a complete waste of time."

"Did you picket?"

"Nope. I didn't want the union so why would I?"

John steers the truck onto an off ramp, and we descend onto a city street. The area is tired looking, rough. We pull up to a red light. John gears the truck down, and we come to a stop. The engine idles. Across the street, at the corner of the intersection is a cheap hotel with a bar opening out onto the sidewalk. Several men stand around out front with nothing to do. Most of them are middle age, or mid 30's. Alot of them are smoking cigarettes. It looks sad, pathetic, and the heavy overcast sky isn't helping much.

"They tried to get me fired after the strike," says John.

"Who did?" I ask.

"The union bitches," he replies, "they told Human Resources I was stealing from the company. It was all made up, complete bullshit. Then after all the drama unfolds, the head of Human Resources tells me they want me to have a face to face meeting with the shop stewards and discuss the problem. So I say to her: 'If you put me in the same room with those cunts, you're going to have to tie me down because I'll leap across that table and beat the fuck out of every one of those bitches'. I have never hit a woman before, but I was ready to kill those stewards for trying to get me fired."

"How did it unfold?"

"The head of Human Resources told me to forget about it, that it was a closed matter. She knew it was bullshit too, but she had to go through the process. It's her job."

"And all because you didn't agree with the union being on board?"

"Yep. Nice people huh? Undermine a guy for having a different point of view."

John stops the truck at a red light. Across the street is a large modern shopping centre. Rain streaks down the windshield. John adjusts the window defroster. The heating fan kicks in, and warm dry air fills the cab.

"Is that where were headed?" I ask motioning toward the shopping centre.

"Yep," John replies, "the kiosk is just inside the food court. It'll take us 15 minutes to break it down, and then we'll have lunch."

"I don't have any money on me."

"Don't worry," says John, "it's on me."

The light changes. John adjusts the gears. The truck lurches forward, and crosses the intersection. We enter the shopping centre parkade. The truck heaves as it hits some curbing.

"Fuckin' truck drivers huh?" says John with a sly look.

Fire Alarm

I place the inventory sheet into the photocopier. I press the "start" button. The machine hums and whirrs, then spits out a sheet of paper. I pick up the new copy. It looks terrible. It's so tough to read I wonder why management even wants me to bother. I paperclip the copy to the original and step out of the shipping office. The fire alarm goes off. It's loud and ringing. I stop for a moment. The rest of the warehouse staff go about their business like nothing is happening. The door to Rob's office opens.

"Is this for real?" I ask him.

"Yes," he replies.

I put the inventory forms in the office and walk to the open shipping doors. I step out into the parking lot and make my way toward the street. The pavement I walk upon is wet, soaked from recent rainfall, and the sky has a look of unfinished business.

I cross the lot and walk out through the company gates. I walk a few feet out onto the sidewalk, and wait for rest of the warehouse staff still languidly making their way across the lot.

"Is this for real, or is this a drill?" James asks as he walks up beside me.

"I don't know," I reply.

The street becomes packed with company employees. Some shivering and looking unhappy, others excited and anxious to see what is going to happen. Several supervisors pace the sidewalk asking nobody in particular if "everbody's here", and giving out reassuring words like "it'll be all over soon people", and "nothing to worry about".

"So you left that warehouse pretty quick Nelson," says Kevin S.

I don't know how to reply to him. I give a forced laugh.

"First to leave," he continues, "and last to arrive. I don't know."

A car pulls up to the parking lot entrance, and signals to turn in. The group of staff gathered at the gate parts and allows it to pass through. The car parks just inside the lot, and a young woman steps out of the driver's side door. She begins walking toward the crowd gathered out on the sidewalk. She waves enthusiastically and says hello to one of the plant managers. Her voice and actions are perky, positive, team-oriented. She begins talking to the plant manager about the fire alarm. Several male staff members gather around her, and begin smiling stupidly.

"Who's she?" asks James leaning in close and speaking low.

"She's new," I reply, "I think she's in Marketing."

"I hate her already," he says.

The sound of a siren echoes down Earles Street. The entire body of staff waiting anxiously by the roadside turns it's collective head. From over the horizon, a fire truck roars full tilt with all it's lights ablaze.

"I thought this was a drill," says James.

The fire truck approaches the plant. It's siren wails. The ladies from the production lines scream, and laugh and wave. In hairnets and white uniforms, they all look the same. This is a break in their monotony. The truck keeps it pace and passes on by.

"That truck is not for us people," a supervisor announces, "this is just a drill."

The crowd of staff gathered on the street loses it's excitement, and resigns itself to the inevitable wait. A few moments pass. A light rain begins to fall.

"Okay people," says the same supervisor, "time to go back inside."

The crowd files through the gates. Rain spits down in tiny droplets. I look up into the pasty grey sky, then back across the blankness of the parking lot. Kevin S. walks up alongside me.

"Well that was a waste," he says.

"Yeah I know," I reply.