The Handyman

I have been here before. This always begins the same.

There is already one line at the factory gate, two if you count the trucks hugging the farther wall. The morning chill has begun to bleach my bones, and the sun is a good hour from making its appearance. A dull yellow light seeps out from inside the security cabin, while around us, the fluorescent on the high mast has blanketed a pale blue mist. Twenty or so of us have found a place ahead of me, just outside visitor entry, stuffed into varying layers of winter wear. Not one making eye contact, or even small talk. Mist huffing from under their hoodies and beanies, hands dug deep into their pockets desperately seeking warmth, some with earmuffs, one wrapped in a blanket, all hunched down. Like one of those jacketed steam pipes that snake around the production area. Today I hitched a ride on a milk delivery van thinking I would be first in line, and yet!

There is a makeshift tea shop down the road, probably open now. But no one dares to step away. The finders-keepers rule applies to your place in the queue. You could fight to retake your place, but then that would be such a fatal mistake. See, the rule well understood and respected is that it’s your place as long as you hold it. You step away, and you have let the next one ahead. No questions. If you insist on retaking a place you had let go, then don’t expect any resistance. No one fights to take, no one fights to hold on. Here even a bit of shouting could send both or even all parties home. As in, no work, no pay, and if the goons manning the gate further deem so, no return either. Maybe that tea shop would employ you. But not before the rest of us find you and let a dozen bare knuckles leave their mark.

We are handymen fighting for scraps the factory supervisors deign to throw our way. A few hours of labor, whatever that might be. If we are all on our best behavior, some of us might get to earn their keep. And if you’re early enough, you give yourself a chance. Remember, not all in line are let in, not all who are let in are allocated jobs, not all who are allocated jobs are paid in full. On occasion, not all who are allocated jobs come out alive. Those unfortunate ones do not even make it to the Factory Safety scoreboard; “days since last accident” is not a metric intended for temps.

The guards at the gate take a special delight in herding us around. I sometimes think that if they had their way, we’d be in shackles with them holding whips. A shabby costume matching the skies outside seems to darken their souls, at least for some of them. Every day they let in a certain number of us, a quick ID check and visitor tag later, we’re off to work. The ones left out are promptly shooed away. There are no arguments. Being in their good graces promises us another day.

Did I hear a creak? The line immediately turns taut, heads up and still, even the puffs of vapor disappear. A shadow moves across the cabin, and the gate swings inwards. The first ones in line shuffle in, as the rest break into a sprint, like cops storming a building. Not once breaking formation. The gate is still open as I hop clear, and then suddenly I hear a loud bark from the PA system. I feel a shudder run through me as the gate is unceremoniously pushed into place, squeezing out the ones who barely missed out. I’m in. I am the last but one to have made it beyond the threshold. The uniforms are already busy swinging their batons at those who clung on a bit longer.

There are a few looks, smiles even. That lasted a moment, and we instinctively fall into formation, all abreast. Formalities begin without any ceremony, Supervisors taking their pick and dispatching with instructions. Lucky if you get Payroll. Paperwork and eight hours, and they pay as promised, and often tip. The factory floor is what we are trained for but then one could even end up with a crew cleaning out toilets. There are indeed worse jobs here no one speaks of. The kind that could put awful maladies in you not long after. These are the stories we seldom talk about, and their central characters are never heard from again.

A guard tails along with each work crew, seeing them off till their workplace. The one ahead of me got the scrap yard, back-breaking work lugging cardboard and plastic, but away from whatever poison this place often spits out. He did not seem to mind at all, bowed, collected his badge and hard hat and began to eagerly hurry off. That is until his minder ordered him to slow down, or else.

My turn. A Supe and two guards walk up. He looks up from his clipboard, and mutters “It is the ETP”.

I try and keep a steady gaze, and nod.

It is supposed to be the Effluent Treatment Plant, but it is common knowledge that very little of said Treatment is ever administered. The job would most likely be to wade in knee-deep sludge and sweep it past the grates into the world beneath. Where even the machines fail, the disposable amongst us are put to it. Somebody once said it was akin to being bathed in vinegar.

This might cost me though I couldn't be sure. I can’t afford to get sick, and this kind of gig could wipe out another week’s worth of wages. But then, they pay in full. Despair is only meant for those who could afford self-preservation.

“You will do it, or should I..?” his voice trailed away.

“Yes, sir. I will, sir”, I sputter.

Any sign of reluctance, and I would be marched out of here. Promptly replaced with one of the souls still lingering outside, nursing their welt marks.

“Don’t come complaining of watery eyes and such. By the way, they are paying full shift”.

“Here, take this”. It’s a cloth mask.

There are also a pair of gumboots a few sizes too large, gloves and assorted floor mops and wipers. I don't see a safety suit. 

I lift up my kit and walk on.

There would be no security detail escorting me. They know better to keep away.

I haven’t been here before. This will not end the same.