By Zachery S. Beauvais
I work in a sloppy land for a sloppy man. His name is McPherson.
Fifteen years ago, I left home to go and find the world. I thought I was a musician. I left for a fantasy land, a bohemian paradise, but all I found was goo.
Twelve hours a day, six days a week, I mix the slop--a steaming concoction not dissimilar to gravel and afterbirth. I was starving and needed work. The Factory was my only choice.
The slop pours out of four tubes into the vat. Splish-splashing out onto the steel grate. There is where I stand--a man with his paddle. Alone. Mr. McPherson says it's crucial the goop is mixed evenly and constantly. Once a shift, a truck pulls up to the vat. A man in a plastic jumpsuit and winged-frame glasses nods up to me and attaches his hose to the vat. He leaves. I am relieved by a burly man with a cigar, and then return to my chambers. The same day--nine years.
I work in a sloppy land for a sloppy man. His name is McPherson.
Fifteen years ago, I left home to go and find the world. I thought I was a musician. I left for a fantasy land, a bohemian paradise, but all I found was goo.
Twelve hours a day, six days a week, I mix the slop--a steaming concoction not dissimilar to gravel and afterbirth. I was starving and needed work. The Factory was my only choice.
The slop pours out of four tubes into the vat. Splish-splashing out onto the steel grate. There is where I stand--a man with his paddle. Alone. Mr. McPherson says it's crucial the goop is mixed evenly and constantly. Once a shift, a truck pulls up to the vat. A man in a plastic jumpsuit and winged-frame glasses nods up to me and attaches his hose to the vat. He leaves. I am relieved by a burly man with a cigar, and then return to my chambers. The same day--nine years.
This morning I arrived at my station, relieved the burly man with the cigar, and started mixing. That steamy stench I crave and need daily filled my nostrils. Two hours in, the paddle is slipping. I keep adjusting my grip on it. The slop is too thick today. The paddle slips more and more.
Four hours in, the first slop node protrudes and punctures the skin of my arm. It happens again. And again. I am frightened. My stomach starts wrenching as if it were in a vice. I am sick. A stream not dissimilar to gravel and afterbirth pours from my mouth. I fall on the grate, screaming. Mr. McPherson walks out, nods his head, and returns to his office.
I start dripping and filtering down through the grate and into the vat. Midday I realize I will die here. I am not afraid, but I am in pain. Horrible, excruciating pain. My legs have fully slopped now.
Ten hours in, the truck arrives.
The driver's jumpsuit was red today.
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