This Is Why I'm Like This: Postcards From The Warehouse

  I am the only white woman of a certain age in this warehouse. There are two other women of not color, but younger than I. The rest are male or Latina or Vietnamese or African American or a mixture of many. It makes everyone treat me a bit differently, which is really OK, but at first I assumed they all hated me. Nope, they just thought I was a spy.

  Considering I'm blogging about them, they aren't wrong.

  On the line I am with L, K and A, and sometimes "Neck Tattoo", who is not consistently in attendance. My first two days, didn't have my headphones and had to listen to K's music as for some reason, he also does not have headphones. I don't know why. He has one of those Twinkie shaped speakers. I am still unsure of what, exactly, he is listening to. Sometimes it sounds like comedians, sometimes it's rap and on more than one occasion, based on the volume and timber of the speaker and the boisterous audience, I thought there was a revolution being planned. I turned around at one point, as I thought I recognized the voice, and K immediately turned it down. "Is this too offensive? I can turn it off." I smiled, I was just wondering what the hell it was, not suggesting he turn it off. It happened again the next day, when I turned around to see what was holding up the line behind me and he repeated his thesis. "If this is too inappropriate, I can turn it off." I smiled and said "Dude, I teach high school, you can't offend me."
  Turns out, this is not accurate. After two weeks--even with my headphones in I hear strains of "N" words and "F" bombs---I'm not so much offended as I am over it. I've never heard such sexism, misogyny, and anger that seems to be disguised as rap/stand up or whatever. K loves it and frequently responds to the Twinkie box with a "Ya, that's right" or repeating a phrase. Clearly he is not upset by the sexism, misogyny or vulgarity. He's about 24 years old, so I suppose it's just my age. But I'm on his line, so I'm not going to be a jerk about whatever gets him through eight hours of monotony.

  I have thus far listened to : Every Christopher Titus album, Tina Fey's Bossypants, "Confessions" with Jimmy Fallon and a variety of guests, two Kathleen Madigan shows, Kevin Hart "Let Me Explain" as well as anything else I can find of his (I've listened to the white water raft story at least four times, I love it) Steve Martin's "Wild and Crazy Guy", several Tiny Fey and Amy Poehler interviews, all Duran Duran videos,  Guns and Roses, Bon Jovi, Beastie Boys and a smattering of smaller stand up posts, as that seems to be what I enjoy most.  If King Soopers does not hire me as a stock boy tomorrow -fingers crossed-next week I intend to listen to John Cleese's memoir. All in all, to sum up: I'm Whitey (thanks Christopher for allowing me to call myself out like this),

  Part of the line gig is to cut down cardboard boxes to be used inside other cardboard boxes. This is done in a very precise way and A had to demonstrate it for me. I don't agree with his anal approach to exacto knifing off the flaps first, then cutting the box into rectangles. I believe you can achieve this by putting the whole box on the giant paper cutter and hacking through it. NOTE these people have no idea I have a recent scar on my hand from the miniature version of this thing in my copy room. Just as I question their choice to give me an exacto, I question their choice to let me cut the boxes. Let me be clear, I was shown how to do it correctly. A was painfully slow and deliberate in his demonstration. I just don't want to do it that way. So when it needed to be done, and A and L and K were all deep in their own headphones/twinkie shouting, I sashayed myself over to the massive, rusted, farm equipment paper cutter and proceeded to do it my way.
  I folded the box in half and began to hack through the cardboard, feeling like a butcher in Jersey who is agitated after he's had to pay off the protection guys. I was humming along to my boys "SABOTAGE!"
  Within a minute, L was at my side, smiling that huge beautiful smile of hers. She reached for the rusty blade slowly, like taking a ...blade from a crazy person and said  "Let me do it, OK?"
  "I'm fine, I got it, why won't you let me play?"
  She continued to smile, as a good leader will, and shook her head. "I got this."
  "Why do you hate me?" I laughed and stomped back to my place on the line.
  It is exchanges like these that explain why I will never be allowed anywhere near a forklift.

  K does these awesome ballet stretches throughout the day, and even though I can read an analog clock, he tells me every day when it's break time. I appreciate his desire to make sure I get my breaks, but I wonder if he thinks I'm "special".

  They let me have a drill on occasion, and I get to drill in four teeny tiny microscopic screws seven thousand times. When I started doing it, L said to listen for the stripping sound on the screw, that is how you know it's in all the way. I disagree, but again, she's the boss. So I screw them in until I can hear the screw stripping. K stopped me and said "You're stripping the screw, you don't have to do that." Again...not my circus, not my monkeys, not my screws. Thankfully, I can get them all the way in without stripping the screw, and nobody has given me any notes on my performance.

  I did have to be shown how to pack the single brackets. I'd been building and packing the triple brackets, and had not packed the single ones. So I began doing it the way we do the triple ones, and L appeared at my side with her big smile. I took out my headphones and said "I'm doing it wrong, huh?" She smiled and showed me how to pack 50 of them in the box and walked away. Whatever she's listening to on her headphones requires that she respond occasionally. At first I thought she was on the phone, but who's on the phone for eight hours? I realized she's listening to something she agrees with, and needs to reaffirm her support. But sometimes I still think she's on the phone.

  A speaks limited English and is so shy he can barely function. On his breaks, he sits back in the boxes and takes a nap. I like him a lot, but there is little opportunity to chat on the line, and I seem like a pushy teacher when I do talk to them, because I'm always asking about their lives. I found out K dropped out of massage therapy school because he couldn't afford it, and L is engaged to B across the aisle in printing. There are a few couples in the warehouse and they take their breaks together and it makes me stupid happy. Two young ladies bring their leftovers, and they may just be roommates but I like to believe they are a couple. They only speak Spanish to one another, though, and I don't so I can't eavesdrop. The Vietnamese ladies in production fill the giant jugs of wonderful smelling Fiji soaps and lotions, and bring food in Tupperware that looks wonderful. The shipping supervisor, who also oversees the whole warehouse, has a Kevin Hart thing going for him in many ways: he is African American, he is funny, he is positive and upbeat and he is short. He high fives me every day and tells jokes and in general, is someone I would call a "leader", not a "boss".

  I am not long for this gig, as I am hoping to get hired part time at Barnes and Noble or King Soopers down the street. Something much closer to home that I can do during the school year. But I really don't hate it. These people are just trying to make it on $12 an hour. Which is impossible, as we all know, but they are collectively positive, friendly and nowhere near as mean and bitchy as I am. And I have a career, guys. I may not like it, but I have one. I have a home and two cars and I work these gigs to help my kids pay off their student loans because they are working shitty $12 an hour jobs or for a small business owner who is not scheduling them enough,trying to live their lives.

 So in conclusion, all in all, to sum up: I am not above working anywhere in the name of helping my girls with their bills. And I have stopped bitching about teaching. That is what the warehouse was for, instead of paying for therapy, I got paid to figure it out on my own.

  Scene.