- FISH -
Factory. Jesus jesus jesus save
the over-automated. Twenty-five minutes on
bottles, then another twenty-five on cans, then back to bottles. The clock
moves in only twenty-five minute intervals. Every three intervals means one
hour and an uneven number of swings on bottles and cans. Grab them off the
conveyor when they are impure or riddled with defects—toss them into huge
plastic boxes, still hot, waiting to be remolded and made better. Every minute
there are 372 new bottles made. Every minute there are 345 new cans made. It is
slightly easier to work the cans swing. They call us quality control
bottling workers, and we make $16 an hour. The checks that come in
the mail to my apartment have the logo of the company imprinted onto them. It’s
a blacked-out figure of a pteranodon, underneath reading Pteranodon Bottling
Co, and then there is even smaller print
under that, which I can’t read with my naked eye. I have looked at the small
print with a magnifying glass, an old one that I stole from my grandmother’s
house when I was little, the one she got from Africa that has the illegal ivory
handle, and the words are nightmarish. Sometimes they print the exact date when
I will be terminated. Other times they mention how much money has been stolen
from my paycheck that month. Every fifteen minutes Floor Supervisor Austin
Ackyooclad passes behind me, and Wallace, too, my coworker. Wallace and I trade
between bottles and cans every twenty-five minutes. Floor Supervisor Ackyooclad
makes sure we aren’t distracted. When I first started I was trained by Wallace.
He told me against the noise of the factory: “You get used to wearin them
headphones after a while! Nice thing is they let us pipe in news or music
through em, but I ain’t suggest doin that till you’ve got used to the work
environment! Ya gotta pay so much attention, and some of the new hires get
dizzy to the point of throwin up!” I never vomited, but I still get dizzy
sometimes. Bottles file through the metal chute in front of me and I inspect
each one quickly, having to shoot my fin out into the lolling constant tongue
of fresh plastic to pick out the defected ones. So many of them, no matter how
diligent I am, escape my careful monitoring—this task would be automated too,
if there was yet a way to do it at a cost less than $16 an hour—and the ones
that escape, that aren’t thrown into the bins to later be remolded, they make
it into general distribution, first packed into suffocating palettes lifted by
forklifts, then trucked across the country to be stocked and shelved, finally
neglected by customers who would rather have a less idiosyncratic soda
container. Down the conveyor line, past Wallace and I’s station, the bottles
and cans are filled with Terradon Plus, which started out as a lighter
sugarfree substitute for the original Terradon flavor, but the popularity of
Terradon Plus ended up vastly exceeding its predecessor. Now people only drink
the Plus. The cans and bottles have the blacked-out figure of a pteranodon
against a flat orange background. The name of the soda isn’t on the label
because it doesn’t need to be, people know what it is just by the logo. Behind
us is the INNOCUFILL machine, the machine that makes it necessary for us to
have to wear noise deletion headphones. It is contained by a giant glass cage,
the mechanical creature inside undulates with thousands of proboscises that
extend their tubular mouths towards the aperture where each newly-made bottle
or can is sent, sucking them into its convoluted process. The INNOCUFILL is
built to be much more elaborate and impressive than necessary because above,
through a large square window, tour groups come to observe how Terradon Plus is
made, one of the birthplaces of their favorite everyday beverage. From where
the tour groups look, the many different movements of the machine, working all
in conjunction, are entrancing. Ackyooclad makes twice as many rounds on the
days when tour groups come through. I’m unable to hear him when he walks behind
me because of the headphones, so I often worry that he’s hovering just over my
back, looking on with his sweaty red face, even his eyebrows red, measuring my
performance on a chart attached to a clipboard with the Pteranodon logo printed
on the back of it, also printed onto his cap and shirt and belt buckle, not to
mention my own shirt, my own cap, my own belt buckle. A black pteranodon
against an orange background. Sometimes I convince myself he’s hovering behind
me, spraying gaseous forms of Ultram or Fentanyl into my breathing space, or
seeing if he can lift away my headphone and move his pen into my ear without me
feeling so he can covertly puncture my eardrum, and finally I have to look,
make sure he’s not there, and I know that when I do this maybe three or four
defected bottles or cans make it through the chute to the filling station. He’s
almost never there when I look. The way we know to switch swings is that a
little beep is sounded into our headphones, signaling Wallace and I to get up
from the stools where we’ve been sitting and walk past each other on our way to
the other guy’s stool. When we pass sometimes we wave or shake our heads in
mutual misery, or sometimes we just walk by each other like we’re both
invisible, and in some ways we are. Wallace is a fairly good coworker, though
there’s something about him I don’t trust. I’ve seen the conspiratorial looks
he exchanges with Ackyooclad, looks that signify my exclusion from something
substantial and terrifying. I can see Wallace behind me, framed and surrounded
by the same machines that frame and surround me, working the can swing with
impeccable skill. He invites me almost daily after work to a nearby bar, and I
can make out the developing craggy skin underneath his eyes that indicates a
long-time heavy drinker. I’ve never accompanied him because I know it’s the
perfect place to drug or poison a person, to slip something into their drink
and meanwhile toast to the future. I refuse to be tricked.
I’ve been working bottles for
nearly ten minutes. There are sixteen more swings left in the workday, plus
lunch. I’m listening to a public address by Randy Mobyle being piped into my
headphones that’s just starting over the howl of the INNOCUFILL. Tiny claps and
cheers, along with networks of echoes, create an audible space I can somehow
picture very clearly as Randy Mobyle begins speaking—
“Good evening, good evening ladies
and gentlemen. Thank you. Yes, thank you very much. Thank you. Please, sit. Thank
you very much. I’d like to pay welcome and respects to the Grid city council
joining us here today. Also to the governor of our great state, Governor
Brackett, just recently back from Washington. Finally Senator Warlick and House
Representative Vidal joining us via satellite. Gentlemen, I’m honored to have
you all in attendance.
“[Meaningful sigh as device for
transition:] Citizens of Grid. Last night a water protest took place in the
shopping district, specifically along Notation Street in the 9000 block between
Axiom and Finite. At around roughly ten-thirty pm the protest broke into a
riot. The GPD, a contingent of which had been dispatched there to oversee the
protest, was able to quickly get the mob under control. A local restaurant was
destroyed during the incident, and rioters rushed to loot the business. Luckily
they were deterred. However several officers were injured in the struggle, and
upwards of ten rioters had to be forcefully subdued. We know the protest was
meant to be peaceful, and that it was the irresponsible and dangerous actions
of a select few from a radical group who caused such destruction and violence
to occur.”
I’m struck by the fear Ackyooclad
is behind me, monitoring my work and reaching out to grab me by the mouth. I
spin around in my stool for half a second—nothing is there. When I turn to face
the metal chute again, I catch a glimpse of two defected bottles passing
through my station, now on their way to be filled and distributed.
“Every avenue will be pursued in
order to prevent such unnecessary atrocities from occurring again, and I have
been promised support by Governor Brackett, Senator Warlick and Representative
Vidal in combating riot violence here in Grid.
“Now it simply must be stated that
the city has taken strategic steps to ensure all citizens living within the
city limits are being provided with suitable resources to live. Before the
Dispersal Act passed in ’19 there were over two thousand families living in the
hardware tract unable to get enough water, and now, five years later, we’ve
solved a significant piece of that problem through government-initiative living
programs which enable these suffering individuals to live healthy lives.
“Make no mistake, ladies and
gentlemen, we are nearing a dire situation that violence will neither prevent
nor alleviate. In fact, those who believe violent measures will help achieve
their goals are not only incorrect, but are in fact falling into the same
ineffective behaviors that we’ve observed for countless years. It’s my belief that
the citizens of Grid deserve something new
from their fellow man, something better. Namely: understanding and camaraderie. Solidarity. Empathy, ladies and gentlemen. Those of us in positions to
help must do so. Some of us will have to accept that the road will be hard for
the time being, that some of the ways of life we’ve come to love must be
altered, tinkered with, and made more sustainable.”
My phone receives a text, but I
won’t be able to check it until my swing is over, and even then it will be difficult
to read, much less make a response in the short time it takes for me to pass
Wallace on my way to the cans station. The message is from Camillia, my
girlfriend, who found my number through a set of alternative art message
boards. We’ve known each other a year, but have never seen each other or spoken
over the phone. I agreed with her early on that it would be best to maintain
contact through text and email until the time was right to meet so we could
properly encode ourselves and throw off whatever monitoring systems were likely
tracking our phone activity. Especially mine, considering the inflammatory
nature of my artistic work, which more than a few corporate and government
entities have vested interest in never allowing to get released to the public.
In fact, I’ve been under extensive surveillance for a little over five years
now. This was revealed to me when I found a microcam hidden in the ceiling of
my old apartment, directly over the area I had cleared out to draw and paint. I
had been detaching some of the more suspiciously-placed light fixtures with
just such a fear in mind, and sure enough, there tangled among the wires in the
narrow cobwebbed orifice had been a miniscule black camera attached to
ultrathin optical fiber. Instead of destroying the camera, I allowed it to
remain there, keeping vigil over a decoy group of still-life drawings and
watercolors innocuous in their content. My new apartment has been bugged in
more sophisticated ways because I’ve yet to uncover any devices.
“Which of course brings me back to
the point I’ve been campaigning for for almost two years now, three depending
on who you ask”—there’s a short pause in the audio feed, but why? does it have
something to do with what I was just thinking, is it relaying my thoughts?—“and
it’s a simple point, one I’ll continue to make, that information in Grid is not
sufficiently organized. And what we’re left with instead of order is confusion
and indecision. That’s why I’m pleased to announce that InfoZebra, a company
synonymous with its groundbreaking ZChase info-adaptation software, has chosen
Grid to be the home for its new corporate headquarters. The effort to attract
InfoZebra to Grid was headed up by myself, the mayor, the city manager of Grid,
and of course none of it would have been possible without the vision and
cooperation of the city council. [Long applause.] So before I go on for too
long up here, rambling away and making you all stampede the coffee machine
[laughter] I’d like to introduce Mr. Flint Vedge, CEO of InfoZebra.”
Bottle, bottle,
bottle, bottle, bottle, bottle, bottle, bottle…
“Thanks very much Councilman Mobyle
for the warm introduction, and again, I welcome the esteemed guests joining us
here today, in-person and otherwise. I’d like to say some brief words about our
company and what we can offer the citizens of Grid.”
The clock is perched over the
INNOCUFILL’s glass cage, huge and digital, and I look up just as the minute
display changes from 25 to 26, the single-digit change both silent and totally
profound. A beep—somewhat delayed—is sounded in my headphones. I get up from
the stool and take my phone from my pocket, deciding to ignore Wallace on my
way past so I can read Camillia’s message instead. I feel him looking at me,
maybe even trying to get my attention to make some short commentary on how the
workday feels, but I keep my eyes trained downward at my phone, disregarding
him. Camillia’s message says, I hate it when you’re at work and we can’t
talk. I miss you during the day. I want to
reply, doing a quick scan for Ackyooclad who happens to be walking around the
corner from the nearest Supervisor’s Station and so I have to repocket my phone
and accept the fact that I’ll have to wait until lunch. The cans begin to
avalanche through the chute.
“We here at InfoZebra have been
dedicated to the places we’ve called home in the past, and we plan to bring
that same philosophy with us to Grid when we officially move into our largest
corporate headquarters to date. Mr. Mobyle has been very outspoken on behalf of
the citizens of Grid and their need for better information organization. As CEO
of InfoZebra, we want to be a part of that project, which is why we’ve put
together the idea for InfoStructure, a city-wide functioning info-adaptation
system. Public works has always been an aspect of government we’ve rallied
behind, and I assure you that factor will remain a constant here in this fine
city as well.”
Ackyooclad is behind me, this time
for real, and my focus becomes fanatical, almost angry in its seriousness. This
is how he wants me to act, so I do. The equation is simple. Floor Supervisors
only trust you when they can monitor your every movement and account for every
mistake that transpires. Instantly I feel him lean down behind me, approaching
slow, his neck and head disembodied in my mind’s eye, and the headphone on my
right ear is lifted away so I can hear him whisper to me: “Lunch after this
swing, Kleene.”
I nod slightly. Yessir, whatever
you say.
Terradon Plus cans fly past me for
twenty-five minutes, and the swing is so easy I could probably read a book at
the same time and never screw up once, but my back feels withered, trellised
with unique and repetitive pains. There are no backrests on our stools. I yawn
all-day, every-day at work.
Finally there’s the beep so I raise
both my hands in the air for ten seconds so the Manager of Production can see
me from his station above the INNOCUFILL, then I press two buttons directly
underneath the metal chute so the cans will stop shivering across the conveyor.
Everything, including the INNOCUFILL, comes to a halt with a bone-rattling
whine. Once it’s over I take the headphones off and make my way towards the
break room at the far end of the factory along with everyone else who’s working
the floor, which is actually not many except for me, Wallace, and a handful of
Floor Supervisors. Most of them monitor machines all day. Wallace falls in
stride beside me and starts in with the usual routine.
“Nother long day, Fish?”
“Yeah.” He’s the only one here who
calls me by that name.
“What’s the plan after work?” He’s
looking at me sheepish, like a little kid who wants their friend to come play.
It’s an act, though. I don’t trust him any more than I’d trust a shark.
“Same as always. Home. Long day
again tomorrow.”
“Right,” he says, accepting it,
pretending his spirit has fallen.
We enter the break room and I grab
my lunch from my locker. We sit at our normal table, away from the supervisors.
I’ve eaten the same thing for lunch every day this week. It’s Saturday. Now I
can text Camillia, so I type, I miss you too. How is your day going?
Wallace is staring into space,
biting at a sandwich. I notice his water ration is low. Mine is too. “Was at
the bar last night,” he pronounces, still staring into space. “Pretty good
time.”
“Uh-huh.”
It’s going all right. Just the
usual stuff, nothing interesting. I’m attempting not to steal money out of the
register and make a break for it. She works
as a cashier at some store, like a convenience store. We’re careful with
specifics.
“You should come by tonight if you
can. I always tell Nicole’s friend Jasmine about you. Tell her that you never
got the energy to come out and do anything.” He’s just chewing, and I look at
him. He looks well on his way to becoming old, the youth in the eyes and cheeks
fraying, eyebrows growing shaggier, lips starting to suck into his face like a
tiny vacuum within his mouth has been turned on at 1/1000000000th
the normal speed. The rings underneath his eyes are sallow from not having
enough water to cleanse his system of the unceasing stream of alcohol he feeds
into it. I look back at my phone.
Do it. Just steal it all and get
out of there. No other course of action is sensible.
“And you know what she says to me?
She says, ‘Why he ain’t ever got any energy to come out?’ And I’m like, ‘Got
me. Dude’s just like that, y’know? Some people are.’ And you know what she says
then?”
I will. Then I could come get
you and we could afford to move to San Diego and not die of thirst. You know
what I read in the news?
“She says to me, ‘That’s sad.’ ”
What?
I say to Wallace through a mouthful
of food in a deliberate and measured tone, “I would come out, really, but I’ve
got some things I honestly have to finish tonight. Otherwise I’d be right there
with you.” Nice try, Wallace, but I’m not biting. Cast the line out as many
times as you want, but I won’t be fooled. You can count on that.
“Your choice.” We eat in silence.
I heard the desalinization plant
down there got bombed. The whole thing was destroyed.
A small sweat breaks on my
forehead. It’s not safe to discuss these kinds of things, not even on the
secure numbers we use.
A whole bunch of workers were
killed.
I type, Maybe we shouldn’t talk
about this. For purposes of security.
After a while: I’m sorry.
It’s not your fault, I’m just
not comfortable. If it happened recently they’re probably doing a lot of active
scans. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.
Maybe you’re right. There’s no
use in compromising this number. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about
something.
“Will you do me a favor, Fish?”
Wallace stops chewing his sandwich and looks at me.
I’m slow to answer, unnerved by
Camillia’s message. “What is it?”
“Would you mind stayin on cans one
more swing? I’m tireder’n hell and bottles tends to wake me up. Just the
stimulation is all.”
I can’t tell whether the sincerity
in his voice is real or not.
I have an idea that will
maximize our security.
“That okay with you, Fish?”
“Um…”
“I mean, if it ain’t too much
trouble. If you ain’t gotten enough bottles yet today.”
The sweat on my forehead isn’t
receding. I check to see if he notices; I can’t tell if he does or not.
“Fish?”
“Sure, you can have bottles this
swing. I don’t mind cans at all.” I have to convince myself there’s nothing
ulterior going on here.
“Well I appreciate it. You all
right, man?”
“Fine. Just wrapped up in
conversation.” I hold up my phone and shake it.
“You got some kinda girlfriend I
don’t know nothin about?” he smiles.
“No.”
The smile eventually drops, and
when I’m satisfied he’s no longer paying attention, I respond, What is it?
Time passes and I get no response
from Camillia. This happens sometimes—she’ll get busy with work and be unable
to talk. But I want to know what her idea is, and so the longer I have to wait
the more distressed I get. There’s another beep to indicate the end of the
lunch break, Ackyooclad appearing from nowhere, standing over our table saying,
“Back to work, boys.”
I look up and see his stare—it’s
hollow, zealous, not weary in the least.
“Me and Kleene are switchin swings,
sir,” Wallace tells Ackyooclad while I pack up my lunch and put the containers
back in my locker. “He’s on cans and I’m on bottles.”
Ackyooclad agrees, not really
caring an ounce, hurrying us out to the floor. Just before we part ways,
Wallace tells me, “Don’t worry bout them bottles, Fish. I’ll keep an eye on em
for ya.” He heads towards his stool, and I reapply the noise deletion
headphones just as the INNOCUFILL vents
a high-pitched complaint and thunders back to life.
In the car after work I check
the news radio for any interesting updates, but the only thing going on
is a full replay of Mobyle’s address earlier today. I wait to see if I can hear
the same break in the audio feed I heard through the noise deletion headphones
at work, and my eyes grow wide when I discover that the break is still there.
I slide the volume graphic to mute with a fin. My head reels with implications
while I wait for a stoplight to turn green, then after a while it does turn
green and I push the gas pedal. Something is happening here. I don’t know
what yet, but something is definitely—
And then a hot red bullet of silence plows
through my right ear, then my brain, then my left ear, and I feel the side of
my face impact with the glass of the driver’s side window and my fin smashes
against the steering wheel and then there’s a sickening inertia that when it
finally stops I’m hanging halfway out the door of my car, suspended above the
asphalt by the seatbelt strap pulled across my chest, breathing hard with my
eyes closed. A few strands of bloody spit drip slow from my mouth. I stay like
this. A few minutes pass and now there are the sounds of people getting closer,
a few of them crowding around me and the car, gasping, and I don’t want them
here, I don’t want them looking into my car or having the chance to steal
anything. I try to do a quick run-through in my head of important items in the
glovebox and on my person so I can take inventory later, make sure nothing’s
missing, but it’s impossible to remember right now. In the corner of my vision,
through the glassless passenger side window of my car, I can see the hulking
face of a bus, its eyes lit up in the darkness, beaming across the length of my
front seat, causing me to squint. Even more people crowd around. I can’t help
but wonder if they’re making those sounds because of my injuries or because I’m
a fish.
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