Dairy Delivery

Rain drips down through the loading dock door, and patters against the warehouse floor.

"Chilly morning," he says unlatching the door to his truck.

"Yes," I reply.

The driver opens the door to his truck, and steps inside. Crates of milk and cream stacked on pallets line the truck to the door.

"Your order is in the middle," says the driver, "it's going to take me a couple minutes to get it free."

"Okay," I reply.

I step over to an electric control panel by the wall. I press a button, and the dock plate begins to raise. The motor whines as the plate lifts and extends. I remove my finger from the controls. The plate lowers and settles down upon the back of the dairy truck.

"Thanks," says the driver.

The driver removes a pallet of cream from his truck, and parks it in the warehouse. He steps back inside his truck and begins arranging pallets.

"They never load these things according to my delivery schedule," he says.

The driver is a big man, with a goatee, and a gentle face. I notice a wedding band on his finger, as he spins a pallet around.

"Okay, this one's yours," says the driver pulling a pallet stacked high with cream and butter from the truck.

The driver parks the skid in the warehouse, and removes his jack. He walks over to a desk near the loading dock door, and picks up a small portable printer. He begins entering figures for the invoice. A small sheet of paper runs through the machine, then becomes jammed.

"Shit!" exclaims the driver.

The driver pulls the jammed sheet from the printer, and begins to reload another. I lean on the steering column of a nearby pallet jack. The factory muzak system begins playing the theme song from All in the Family.

"Okay," says the driver pulling the freshly printed invoice from the printer, and handing to me.

"Do I need to sign it?" I ask.

"Nope. It's billed directly."

The driver pushes his jack into the other skid he unloaded. He pumps the steering column a couple times and then loads it back onto his truck. He pulls the door to the truck closed.

"That's it," he says in a friendly manner, "have a good morning bud."

"Yeah, you too," I reply.

The driver walks off and leaves the warehouse through the shipping office doors. I take a pallet jack and steer the dairy delivery under some nearby racking. The truck starts up and pulls away from the shipping dock door. I walk to the open bay. Rain pours down through the early morning darkness. The shipping lot is muddy and black with rain. Pieces of plastic and broken pallet lay strewn about the pavement. A cool breeze blows through. The truck rumbles through the empty parking lot, stops at the gate and then leaves it's red taillights glowing and flickering through the rain. I take hold of the chain and pull the door shut.

Exhaustion

I hold the box together. I hit the side with a tape gun. I pull the gun across the top. Tape stretches. I push down on the strip of tape, tear it off, pat it down. I lift the box, and throw it down on the floor.

There are voices echoing through the warehouse. I can hear Kevin W. speaking to some one; probably a truck driver. His voice is loud, instructive. The plaintive squeal of a power jack reverberates loudly. I hear a couple more voices. One belongs to Jag. I hear laughter, and the crashing of metal, something heavy.

I step out from the packing area and look across the warehouse. Kevin W. speeds from one end of the warehouse to the other on the power jack. He steers the machine and the skid it carries through the loading dock doors. Afternoon light pours through the open doors alive and unforgiving. There's a crashing sound, and then the sound of a skid being lowered. Kevin W. whips back through the open doors, and across the warehouse.

I walk back to the picking area. I pick up the case I threw to the floor, and lift it onto a nearby pallet. I feel sick, tired, my mind races, and my head aches. I put my hands down upon the cold steel of the picking table. I look at the clock upon the wall: 11am. The last truck arrives at noon, and leaves at 12:30. I have too many orders to pick. I will not finish them all in time. Frustration and anger flushes through my blood.

"I've got to get out of here," I mutter aloud to myself.

"Nelson?" says a voice.

I turn around. Rob walks over, and hands me a clipboard.

"I need you to fill in your hours," he says.

I take the clipboard, place it down upon the picking table, and begin scribbling in my shifts. I fill in the columns of the timetable, initial beside my printed name, and hand the clipboard back to Rob.

"Thanks," he says taking the clipboard and walking away.

"Rob?" I say.

"Yes?" he replies spinning around on his heels.

"Can I make a suggestion?"

"Sure."

"Can we have more trucks scheduled for the next peak season? This cramming of all the store orders into one small window is foolish. Friday is the busiest day. 18 stores are being shipped out and it's complete chaos because of the trucking schedule. One extra truck would make alot of difference."

Rob massages his face. He looks fatigued, drawn out by the day's events.

"Well," he says "the schedule will improve once the peak season is over with, but right now we're tapped out."

"But wouldn't it make sense to have a more flexible schedule during the busiest season? When the company does most of it's business?"

"Yes, and we have that planned for next year, but right now we have to work with what we've got."

"Okay."

"You alright Nelson? You look pale."

"I'm fine. Just tired."

Rob nods then walks away. I take a roll of address labels, peel a couple off and apply them to the boxes on the floor. Everything within my body feels heavy. I stop and put the labels down upon a picking cart. I look at the clock on the wall: 11:15am. I breath deeply, and close my eyes.

"15 mins gone," I say aloud to myself.

I pick up a case and place it on a pallet. I pick up another and do it again. My head throbs. I wince, and pick up another case. I hear a loading dock door slide along a track, then the rattling of heavy, metal chains. The door to the shipping office bangs open. Kevin W. walks in and sits down at the computer. Rob walks in behind him, and begins speaking. I can't hear what he's saying, but I see his mouth moving. Kevin acts like he's listening, but his wearied expression suggests he is ignoring him. Rob continues speaking, berating him. I squat down, and pick up another case. A sharp pain shoots through my brain. I put the case upon the pallet, and move on to the next one.

Liquor Store Story

The bus rolls slowly down Main Street. The traffic is thick, stop and go. The windshield wipers squeak and hiss. Rain streaks across the glass.

"I paid $140 for these," I say pointing toward my workboots, "and now 8 months later they're dead as a doornail."

"You paid $140 for those?" asks Carol.

"Yes."

"Fool."

I wipe the condensation off the window. The bus begins to pick up speed as traffic clears up. The streets and sidewalks are slick with rain, and soaked in golden streetlight. Semi illuminated storefronts pass by; cafes, hip clothing stores, Philipino grocers.

"Could you pull the..." says Carol gesturing toward the stop cord.

I pull the cord. A little bell dings at the front of the bus.

"Yeah that," she says.

The two of us stand up. The bus is packed. We make our way to the rear door. The bus slows down, and pulls up to the curb. Carol steps down into the well of the rear doors. The sensor reacts, and the doors open. We get off, and walk down onto the sidewalk. The rain has let up. The bus pulls away. .

"Let's go to the liquor store on Kingsway," I say as we begin to make our way down Main Street.

The corner of Main and Broadway bustles. People walk by to and fro, carrying umbrellas and shopping bags, smoking and talking and laughing. Most of the faces are young, hip, and fortunate. Cabs drive by. B-Line buses head east. Carol and I talk about things, but not much at all.

"Have you ever been to Habit..."

"It looks expensive..."

"Tera Patrick's married to that guy from Biohazard..."

"He sometimes performs with her..."

"Buy Low Foods? More like Sell High Foods..."

The traffic light at the intersection of Broadway and Kingsway turns green. The street hisses with the passing of wet tires. Carol and I cross the street and enter parking lot of the Kingsgate mall. Two men stand outside the doors to the mall looking useless. They watch us as we approach, then go back to talking amongst themselves. Carol's cellphone rings. She removes it from her purse, and checks the digital display.

"It's my mom," she says putting the phone back inside her purse.

We approach the doors to the mall. The men standing out front, move out of the way. I push open the door to the mall. Carol steps through. I follow directly behind. The mall looks closed. Voices echo through the warmly lit halls. Young men in puffy jackets walk past. A little boy rocks back and forth on a coin operated ride. He makes quiet noises to himself.

"Come here," Carol says signalling me over to a closed storefront, "look at those."

Within a glass display are women's shoes of varying styles and sizes.

"Which ones?" I ask.

"Those ones," she replies, "with the crazy looking heels."

I look at the shoes. They have leather straps, and large, clunky, wooden soles.

"You like those?" I ask.

"No," she replies, "but they're crazy. Oh man, could you imagine wearing something like that?"

"No."

Carol opens her purse and removes her cellphone.

"Let's see if there's a message," she says.

She checks the digital display, and puts the phone to her ear. I wander across the hall. I walk to the windows of the public library. I look inside. The lights are off. The tables are empty. The checkout desk still. I look at the racking closest to the glass. It's filled with children's books with colourful covers and worn edges. Pictures of teenage spies, sleepover parties, and superhero pets stare back at me. I put my hands in my pockets.

"Hey!"

I look around.

"Liquor store?" asks Carol.

"Yes," I reply.

We walk down the hall. The liquor store is brightly lit. We step inside, and walk past a young woman standing at a small booth with a large poster of a tropical beach at sunset taped to the front. In the photograph, a silhouette of a couple walk hand in hand.

"Would you like to try some new lemon flavoured rum?" the young woman asks, "there's a contest for an all inclusive trip to Mexico..."

"No thanks," I reply.

"Okay," the young woman says smiling brightly.

I walk down an aisle. Bottles of varying sizes and colours line the shelves. I stop and check the price tags.

"I don't think price matters with vodka," I say, "the stuff all tastes the same."

I take a bottle from the shelf. Alberta Pure the label reads.

"Good enough," I say.

We walk to the register. A couple people stand in line with purchases. I put my hand in my pocket, and pull out my bank card, and ID. The man standing in front of us turns around. He's tall, disheveled, dressed in jeans, construction boots, and a rain jacket. He teeters as he turns. He looks at Carol, leers. Carol forces a smile and begins to fish for something in her purse.

"Hi," he says to her.

"Hi," she replies.

The man smells strongly of alcohol.

"You... know... from over there... Zimbabwe..." he mumbles.

Carol ignores him. She takes out her cell phone, begins scrolling through it's menu.

"There... will... pretty..." the drunk continues weaving back and forth and slurring his words.

"I think you're next in line," I say pointing to the green bottle of gin he has resting on the cash counter.

He looks at me with confused eyes. He can't seem to decide between becoming aggressive, or speaking with me. He turns around, and takes the bottle.

"Next!" says the cashier.

The drunk puts the bottle down, and removes a couple bills from his pocket.

"Did he ask if I was from Zimbabwe?" I ask jokingly knowing full well it wasn't me that he posed the question to.

"I think he said he was from Zimbabwe, and that you were pretty," Carol replies.

"Next!" the cashier shouts.

The drunk takes his bottle of gin, puts it in the pocket of his jacket, and stumbles out of the store. I step up to the cashier, and put down my vodka.

"$20.25," says the cashier.

I hand him my bank card. He swipes it through the Interac machine. I punch in my password. The transaction is approved. The clerk puts the bottle in a plastic bag, and hands it to me.

"Thanks," I say as I take the bag.

"Have a good night," says the clerk.

"You too," Carol replies stepping away from the till.

We walk out into the empty mall. She puts her cellphone back in her purse. We reach the mall exit. I hold open the door and she steps through. A couple of faceless men stand outside the door smoking. They look at Carol, scrutinize her. I look them both in the eye. They return the glance. Nothing is said. We walk away. Carol slings her purse over her shoulder. I take her hand and squeeze it firmly. She looks into my face.

"Hi," she says.

"Hey," I reply.

"What's up?"

"Nothing."

She smiles. The two of us walk toward Broadway. We cross and begin walking into the darkness of the neighbourhood at night. The distant lights of the city spread out before us; towers glowing with dots of golden yellow. I squeeze Carol's hand again.

"You sure you're okay?" she asks.

I look her in the eyes. She's very beautiful.

"Yeah," I reply, "I'm fine."