Damage

Large, uneven skids line the aisle. They are shrinkwrapped in poly, and their surfaces reflect the flourescent light that comes down from the ceiling.

"This one right here," says Todd pushing one of the skids into the middle of the aisle.

"That one? Are you sure?" I ask.

"Yep. Just give it a good push for me."

"Okay. Anything to give a hand."

The forklift whines as I step down upon the deadman pedal. I honk the horn. It sounds pathetic. I raise the forks about a foot, and extend them as far as they will go. I accelerate forward. The forks spear the side of the skid, and tear into the boxes.

"Oh! Hold on!" says Todd holding up his hands, "go a little to the right!"

I turn the steering wheel all the way to the right, and accelerate once more. The skid swings across the aisle violently, and cracks into the side of the racking.

"Pull the forks back a bit," says Todd.

I withdraw the forks, leaving only a foot still impaled within the skid.

"Okay, now go left!" Todd calls out.

I spin the forklift. The skid slides across the floor.

"Stop! No go right!" Todd shouts.

I swing right. The forks rip through the side of the skid, tearing a hole 3 feet long. Pieces of wicker scatter across the cement floor of the warehouse. Todd doubles over with laughter.

"I guess there was baskets in there," I say backing up the forklift.

I raise the forks as high as the mast will allow. I move slowly forward, until the front wheels of the lift begin nudging the side of the skid.

"Okay. Right there. Perfect," says Todd.

I begin to lower the forks. They come down upon the top of the skid. The boxes give way and begin to crush. Todd's face is red with laughter. Something inside one of the boxes shatters. The shrinkwrap begins to bulge and burst at the sides. I stop the forks midway through the skid.

"That looks about right wouldn't you say?" I ask.

"Perfect," Todd replies.

I reverse the forklift, lower the forks to the floor, and step down. I walk over to the skid.

"Did I move it enough for you?" I inquire.

"Oh yeah," says Todd, "that's about where I wanted it."

"Good. Well if you want me to move anything else just give me a shout."

"Okay, I will, thanks."

I climb on to the forklift, and step onto the deadman pedal. The engine starts up. I put the machine into reverse. I drive through the aisles and park it by the shipping bay doors. I step down, and begin to walk toward my workstation. Kevin W. is sitting in the shipping office, working on the computer. He sees me coming, gets up off the stool, and walks to the office door.

"Uh Nelson," he says stepping out into the warehouse, "can I talk to you for a second?"

"Okay, what?" I reply.

"I just got a call from Bruce. Apparently there were some problems with the orders you sent up this morning."

"Yes."

"I guess one of the cases was missing an address label."

"That's it? 100 cases, and they call down because one was missing a label?"

"Well I guess they had to take some time out to find out which store it belonged to."

"Alright."

I begin to walk away.

"Just remember to double check your cases, and be more careful."

I nod, and walk to my workstation. Stacked in a tray are pick sheets for the store orders. I take one out, and attach it to a clipboard. I throw the clipboard onto a cart. I push the cart into the first picking aisle. The sound of classic rock resounds throughout the warehouse. I look up and across the warehouse. Todd walks passed a couple aisles over.

"Hey buddy!" he shouts with a wave.

I smile, and begin picking the order.

Early Morning

Traffic is dense, loud. Cars and trucks roar by. The faces of the drivers look tired, weary. A cold wind blows through the intersection. I step under the bus shelter. The glow of an illuminated billboard soaks into the sleeve of my jacket. I stand and wait for the arrival of the bus. The wind hits my eyes, making them water. I wipe them off upon my sleeve.

"Goddamnit," I whisper to myself.

The bus approaches. I leave the shelter, and walk toward the bus stop sign. Already standing stiffly at the curb, is a tall, white woman in a dark wool jacket. I stand a couple feet behind her. The bus pulls up to the curb, directly in front of the woman. The driver opens the door. The tall woman steps inside. Coming down the aisle of the bus is a chubby woman struggling with a large travel case. The two women meet near the front door. The tall woman pushes her way passed. It's a tight squeeze. Neither woman can move for a few moments. The tall woman continues pushing her way through.

"Excuse me," exclaims the woman with travel case, "it wouldn't have hurt you to let me get off first."

The tall woman smiles foolishly, but persists in pushing passed.

"Jeez," says the woman with the travel case.

The tall woman finally forces her way through. The woman with the travel case walks to the front door and steps down.

"Thanks for waiting," she says to me.

I nod, and step on to the bus. I flash my pass. The driver looks at me, rolls his eyes, and shakes his head. I walk to the back of the bus. I take a seat by a window. The bus pulls away from the curb. The bus moves briskly along. The engine whines. I look around the bus. The tall woman is sitting in a seat facing the rear door. Her thin, white face is skeletal, paralyzed. Her eyes tired, dead. Her mouth, soaked in expensive lipstick, hangs open, exposing large white teeth. She stares blankly forward. Her image is unpleasant. I look away and out the window. Warehouses and small businesses pass by. Steam drifts upward from thin smokestacks dotting the horizon. The flat blue waters of the Fraser roll unimpeded by the tugboats pulling lumber and and industrial goods through it's body. I drift off into reverie as the scenery plays itself out.

The bus nears my stop. I pull the cord, get up out of my seat, and walk to the rear door. I look at the tall woman as I pass by. The movement of the bus rocks her to and fro. Her lifeless expression remains unchanged. The bus comes to a stop. I push open the doors and step out into the crisp morning air. Work is a good 15 minute trek downhill, and through a wooded park. I pull my backpack over my shoulders and start walking.

Islam

"I went to A&W last night," says Bruce, "I had two burgers, a box of fries, a hot dog, and some apple pie."

I look up from the newspaper I'm reading.

"I like my A&W."

Bruce chuckles to himself. He is sitting at the end of the lunch table. He has a styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand. Steam rises up from it's black surface. A sandwich bag of Arrowroot cookies lays upon the table. Bruce takes one of the cookies and dips it into the coffee, leans back in his chair, and puts the damp cookie in his mouth.

"So what do you guys think of Al Qaeda?" he asks while chewing.

Rupinder rests his arms on the table. I take a sip from my water.

"Do you guys think that they'll attack us again?" Bruce continues.

Neither of us say anything.

"I don't think they will," says Bruce, "I think they're defeated."

"How so?" I ask.

"Well they had their chance when hurricane Katrina struck New Orleans. It was the perfect time for them to strike. The country was completely distracted by that disaster, and they could have attacked anything, anywhere, but they didn't. All they would have had to do was fill their trucks with dynamite and drive them somewhere and just blow some place up. It was the perfect moment for it, but they did nothing."

"I think it takes a little more planning than that to do a terrorist attack. What happened to New Orleans was too random to take advantage of," I reply.

"No, it was the perfect moment for them. The country was completely distracted, and they missed their opportunity. Don't you think so Rupinder?"

Rupinder smiles deferentially and nods.

"Besides," Bruce continues, "that Islam is nothing more than a cult. You've seen how they're behaving with those cartoons, looting and burning."

"I don't think it's a cult religion per se," I respond, "it's been around a long time, and it's tenets are very similar to Christianity."

"I've been reading the Koran lately," says Bruce, "and what it says is kill everyone, but take it easy on the Christians and Jews, but still kill them all."

"Oh," I reply.

I finish off my water.

"They're nothing but a crazy cult. Right Rupinder?"

Rupinder smiles fatuously, and says nothing. I stand up and walk to my backpack. I shake the last remaining droplets of water from my cup, and put it away.

"Is it work time already?" Bruce asks.

I point toward the clock.

"1pm," I reply.

Rupinder stands up. He straightens the newspapers collected upon the lunch table, and removes the excess refuse.

"You're a good man Rupinder," says Bruce, "always working. Not like this Nelson character here."

Rupinder looks at me, smiles and laughs.

"You'd know," I reply, "you are the Lead Hand."

"Oh come on Nelson, don't be so sensitive!"

I push open the lunchroom door. The warehouse is cold. I shiver and walk to my picking area. A pink stack of printed store orders lays upon my desk. I pick it up, and begin sorting through them. I take a clipboard, and attach one of the order sheets. I throw the clipboard onto a nearby cart. I push the cart out into the aisles of the warehouse.

"Oh man," I say to myself running my fingers through my close cropped hair, "I do not want to do this."

The sharp whine of the forklift echoes across the warehouse. Rupinder reverses the machine down through the racking. He drives about 50 feet, stops and steps down from the lift. I leave my cart and walk toward him.

"Rupinder!" I call out.

He turns toward me.

"Yes," he replies.

"What do you think of that Muslim stuff Bruce was talking about? You're originally from India right? I know the religion is stronger in that area of the world? I'm just curious about what you make of he was talking about," I ask.

"Well," says Rupinder leaning against the forklift, "I don't like talking about those topics. They are very touchy."

"I understand, but Bruce said some pretty strong shit in there. I'm just curious what you thought."

"Well Nelson, where I'm from, there are lots of problems with Muslims. They are a very hard headed people. All they know is their religion, and they refuse to know anything else. They are very regressive. I'm Sikh, and my guru says that Muslims by their essential nature are very stupid."

"Oh."

"Yes, and they prove it time and again. They allow nothing for women, they always look for war, and they refuse change."

"Hmmm, I don't know. I think stupidity is a human thing. Maybe I'm wrong."

"In my village back home they were always causing trouble."

"Okay. Thanks Rupinder. I was just curious to see how you felt being so in much closer proximity to the religion, being from India and all."

"No problem Nelson."

I walk away from Rupinder and head back toward the cart. I hear the whine of the forklift as it fires up. I take the handle of the cart, spin it around, and pull it down an aisle. I look across the warehouse. The building is quiet, empty and grey. There are no windows. Harsh flourescent light shines down from fixtures that line the ceiling in strict order. I look at the large, black and white institutional clock. It reads 1:27pm.

"2 1/2 hours to go," I whisper to myself.

I take the clipboard in my hand and begin picking the order.