Time Flies

The Lie

Time in the factory ain't reliable. What I mean by that is, five minutes on the clock can be an hour's weight in blood, sweat, and tears. Greenhorns is always complaining about this, which I never did understand. The factory has always been like that, for as long as I . . . I can . . . remember . . . .

What were I saying?

Anyway, there's this new Hoss we just hired, real green, first week on the job. I decided to show him a bit of the ropes, you foller me? After I taught him the proper way to unjam the stirrers, I ain't really too sure how he handled it, so I figured I should take it upon myself to educate the little greenhoss on the makin's of time. One afternoon, I went over to his table where he was busy foldin' and sortin' -- nothing I love more than the sound of a factory full of busy, hard-workin' employees all foldin' and sortin' -- and told him to foller me. His eyes got real huge like big ol' lug nuts. Maybe he thought it was gonna be something like what I showed him with unjammin' the stirrers. Weren't anythin' like that, though. This were regular stuff.

I took him down to the room where it all gets made, all the time. To get there, we had to go down through the three levels of the factory. I have the Masterkey, which I used to let us in through the airlocks. The first airlock hissed open, and we walked through hallways with green potted ferns on every shelf. Some greenhorns have asked what those is good for, but how else are we supposed to hide the chameleons?

We got to the elevator and took it down to the next floor, where I let us through the airlock again. This floor is where we have the scales that measure the blood, sweat and tears. All that comes from the employees, and it seeps down here through pipes, then they weigh it and decide how to pay those hardworkin' Hosses.

The last level is where it gets made. Time. I gave little Hoss a Zoot suit to protect himself, then put on one myself and opened the door. With a puff of gas the airlock hissed open, and there they were. The time flies. They was zippin' around, weaving little green strings behind them. We collect those strings and spin 'em up into balls of fabric and sell them in different increments. It's only one of the ways to make time for things, but it's a good 'un. People call it the string theory of time.

Like I say, we sell them balls in different increments. Say a company comes to us and wants to order a certain amount of time. They can order it in anything from hours to minutes to seconds. Of course, enough hours adds up to days which become weeks and months and years and so-on, but we don't sell it like that. Hours is as high as we go.

The little green Hoss pointed to the pipes juttin' from the ceiling of the fly room.

"What do those do?" he asked me.

"Why Hoss, that's where the waste comes down."

"Waste?"

"Sure. That's what we feed the flies on. Wasted time, wasted lives, wasted dreams." I nudged a pile of somethin' brown and splotchy with my foot. Looked like a deflated soccer ball that'd started to melt. "This right here was made by a parent who didn't go to her daughter's game. What a waste. But the flies love it."

Right as I said it, a whole swarm of the little critters buzzed over and started feastin.'

"So . . . what was all the soap for?" greenhorn asked. "The soap that the gnomes were stirrin'? I mean, stirring."

"Why Hoss, you don't expect people to make use of this time just as it is, do you? It comes outa flies and waste, boy! Naw, all this time has gotta be cleansed. Made new. Time redeemed, if ya speak like that."

Little greenhorn nodded, eyes still huge. What is it with these kids? Anyhow, I took him back up and sent him back to work.

An you know, it hadn't even been a minute since we'd gone down. I guess time don't always fly.

The Truth

This was a fun one to write. Work on Thursday seemed to drag exceptionally slowly, and so I wrote a bit of this in my head over the course of the ten-hour shift.

Factory Mother

The Lie

Mom and I walked through the big front doors of the factory. Well, I guess we didn't technically walk through them. That would be weird, like we were ghosts or something. But we walked inside. Together.

It was really warm in there, and there was this smell . . . a funny kind of smell. A bald man greeted us with a really big smile, which I guess is what happens when you're the daughter and wife of another foreman. I smiled back, although I felt shy, but Mom just nodded.

"Meredith and daughter," she said. "We had an agreement to work today."

The bald man's smile slipped a little, and his lips looked kind of stiff like when people are fake smiling for a picture. You know? But anyway, he guided us past tables to a big machine that kind of smelled like rubber, and showed us how to tug the lever, then press the button, then tug the lever, then press the button. That's how that machine worked, I guess.

He said it took two people - one to tug the lever and press the button and the other to count how many lever-tugs and button-presses the other one made. He gave Mom and notebook and a pencil for the recording. He brought both of us chairs.

"Comfortable, Misses?" he asked. "Alrighty, then. Now, just like I showed you."

I pulled the lever for the first time, and he gave me a smile before wandering away to swear at some workers. People really do swear a lot in factories. Mom put her phone on the chair arm and just sat there, slightly behind and beside me, making a scratch mark in her notebook every time I pulled the lever.

I guess we didn't really fit in. With the swearing, I mean, but also other stuff. Like we were both wearing gray company anniversary shorts and with black leggings, while all the other workers around us had on baggy jeans and uniforms with grease stains, stuff like that. One young man walked by, he kind of jutted out his neck to look at us -- it made me feel weird, for some reason -- and he had long blonde hair in braids, and blue-jeans that sagged down to here! You could see a wide patch of his underwear. It was gray. Mom gave me her look when she saw me noticing.

It didn't matter that we didn't fit in, though. Or that the boy with dreadlocks stared at us in such a funny way. I was there and Mom was there, and she'd come because of my idea. I couldn't believe it when she said yes. All she really thinks about now is money and how tight it is -- which I know I can't blame her for, she's just being responsible, but sometimes I really do with she would talk to me more or not be frowning when I try to tell her things. But that's one reason I had the idea and she agreed, because Daddy mentioned that one of his coworkers had his daughter do the same thing, that they pay you for coming in to help for a little bit. So when I suggested it, Mom really thought it was a good idea.

We worked there for, I don't know, maybe three hours. Then Mom said she was thirsty and it was hot in there and she needed a drink. So we stopped what we were doing -- I wonder if we were technically allowed to? -- and went to find the water fountain.

Well, it turned out there wasn't any water fountain, and when we finally got back, Mom was really frowning. It was that frown. And I felt a little bit bad, and after everything had been going so well! We hadn't actually been talking, but we'd been sitting together for three hours, which was really, really nice.

Then Mom gasped. She was staring at her seat -- especially at the arm of it. Her phone was gone.

"Thief!" she shrieked. It was really loud; everyone could hear. The Foreman froze where he was walking between the lines of machines and cranked his head around to look at us.

"There's a thief here!" Mom said. "Someone stole my phone! Check everyone."

"Now Mrs. Hursey," the bald man started to say, but Mom said "No, check everyone. I am not paying for a new phone."

My face grew warm, not just from the factory heat. He scratched his bald head and looked like he wanted to say something, but finally swore at the workers and called them all to stop what they were doing and stand in a line.

Mom marched up and down in front of them, demanding her phone. The foreman stood behind her, with a look on his face that wasn't sure whether to laugh or be irritated. I stayed back by the machine.

I kept my eyes low, trying not to watch, nudging around the cloths that'd fallen on the floor with the toe of my sneaker. Then I bumped something hard. From out of the pile, I pushed Mom's phone. It must've fallen.

"Mom . . . ." I said.

"Not now, Lisa." She whirled around to glare at me.

"Well . . . ." I said. Then I saw her face, all red and sweating. "It was nothing, anyway."

And I nudged Mom's phone back under the cloths.

The Truth

A mother and daughter did come in to work at the factory today, but none of what I just said happened. I tried for a slightly different style today. I've lately been interested in diverse viewpoints. As before, I haven't had time to edit.

Boss Hoss and the Jammin' Stirrers

The Lie

I stood in the factory workroom, a small cog in the healthy bustle of activity: hissing hydraulics, ringing bells, carts clattering as workers wheeled them to and fro. The whole place smelled like cloth, and oil, and all those other factory-ish smells.

Somewhere off in the building, an buzzer sounded. About seven seconds later, it was followed by a droning voice over the intercom.

"Luke Wildman to the main office, Luke Wildman, please report to the main office." I looked up from the table where I'd been working and headed off with a shrug.

Clint, one of the big bosses, was waiting for me when I arrived. "Hey there, Hoss! Come on, then -- we're gonna teach you how to unjam the soap stirrers!"

I followed him back through the workroom, winding between tables and around a forklift that beeped as it backed up. We eventually reached a wooden paneled of wall, but when I looked for a door handle, he shook his head and pointed to a small cubbyhole door. It was about 2x2 feet large.

"They're in there," Clint said.

I raised my eyebrows as he pulled a thin chain from around his neck, on the end of which swung a huge, brass key. It was all knobby on the end, like a key of old.

I raised my eyebrows even higher when Clint bent down on hands and knees, unlocked the door, and crawled in.

"Come on, Hoss!" his voice echoed back. "Why ya so slow today?"

I crawled through after his disappearing sneakers. They were white, and glowed luminous in the grime of the little service tunnel.

We crawled past pipes and wires. At one point Clint paused as a vent belted steam directly ahead of us. Even from where I crouched, I could feel the heat off it. Finally, the room widened into a slightly larger chamber, though still not large. Five different hose openings led downward from the floor. And twirling around the hoses, there were . . . gnomes. And they were dancing.

Each wore a pair of blue worker's overalls and a red cap low over the ears. One of them had a tiny guitar, made of a matchbox, toothpicks, and some frayed rubber-bands. Another gnome sat at a tiny drum-set, hammering away on bottle-cap symbols. I think I also saw a macaroni saxophone in there, too.

"Hoss, I hate it when the stirrers start jammin'! Here they are, supposed to be mixin' the soap, and instead they're dancin' and merrymakin'! But there's a trick, I'll show ya. When they get like this, ya just gotta show 'em who's boss."

He reached down and plucked the tiny needle off a tiny record swirling on its tiny record-player. The music scratched and then stopped as the musicians stopped playing and the dancing trailed off.

"Hey, what's the big idea!" said the miniature guitarist.

"Now little Hoss, you know you ain't supposed to be jammin' durin' work hours! Who's gonna stir the soap and pour it down them pipes?"

The gnomes hung their heads.

"I ain't mad at'cha," Clint said. "Just so as we understand each other."

He thrust his thumb over his shoulder without looking at me, and I squeezed around in the tight space and crawled back out. Hoss, I mean Clint, followed me. He slapped the dust from his knees.

"So that's watcha do, when the stirrers start jammin'. Think ya can remember that?"

I nodded. "How could I forget?"

He gave me and odd look and turned away. "Now, get yerself back to work, Hoss. What you so slow today for?"

The Truth

The generic factory setting and boss named Clint are both true. The gnomes probably are not. I did have a boss who constantly referred to underlings as "Hoss," though that was at the painting job I worked last summer.

Also, I really don't have time to edit, these days. I apologize for and ask you to please, please forget any errors.

Good Morning, Psychopath

It's a short one, today. Gotta get ready for bed. The morning comes too early.

The Lie

I yawned as I walked to my minivan, windshield glinting in the yellow light spilling from the garage. Five o'clock comes too early. But now that I have a summer job, that's when I have to leave for work.

The car locks all opened with a hard, mechanical click when I twisted the key. I tossed my lunch cooler onto the floor and clambered in.

I sat there for a few moments into the darkness, fiddling with the GPS. First morning on the job. I didn't know the route there very well.

Outside the car, everything was dark. Pitch black. The only light shone from those garage windows; above and around me, the already-black sky was blocked from sight by the thick oak trees overshadowing the driveway. Back here in the woods, there's nothing. Little sound, little light. Only my Aunt and Uncle's solitary house.

Someone knocked on the car window.

I won't pretend I didn't stiffen, or that my eyes didn't flick up. I scare easily. But still, I figured it was my Aunt, maybe come out to say goodbye. She'd already woken early to help me off, Lord love her.

It wasn't. It wasn't my Aunt's face pressing against the glass.

I yelped. I actually fell back in my chair, enough to make the seatbelt jerk, and you would've done the same. I swear you would've. I didn't get a good look at the face before falling, only a black profile and white eyes. But when I looked back up again, it was gone.

A trick of the light? A fantasy of my tired, overly-imaginative mind? Maybe.

Or maybe I'll find out, the next morning I leave for work.

The Truth

Work really does start at that sinfully early hour, and my lovely Aunt really did wake up, but no, there was no face. There can't have been. That had to have been my imagination . . . .

Sorry if there are errors in this one; I don't have time to edit.