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.