I sat in my car.... looking at the old red brick building that my Grandpa had helped construct when his was a young carpenter. I was the third shift Foreman of the plastics factory. I was parked under Saint Mary's bridge that was only about ten yards from the south factory wall. I could hear the creaks and thumps of the cars going overhead. I reached in the cooler that was sitting cockeyed on the back seat and took out a Shoenlings Little Kings beer. I had just enough Colombian Gold to roll a pin joint.
I popped open the little green bottle and chugged about a third of it down. As I rolled the joint, I thought to myself,"Why in the hell did they make me a Foreman...I'm 19 years old and totally irresponsible....somebody in management must not really know me." I chuckled and said out loud,"Larkin Williamson...Foreman...a young man on his way to the top...I shall be the king of Plastic Factory Foremans....I shall rule with a plastic fist!"
As I lit the joint, George....the hopper guy came running out to my car. He grinned and said,"Tom...we're getting low on virgin stock...can I have a hit?" I laughed, handed him the joint and told him to have the operator get the re-grind chart from my tool box...tear it down..change the screens and leave it for first shift to f**k with." George had taken a huge hit and squeaked out back to me,"Cool...yeah...f**k first shift!"
George ran back in the factory and left the huge wooden sliding door open. I knew George couldn't hear me but I shouted out the window anyway,"George...you left the damn door open....it's gonna let all of the fumes out....those are the very fumes that will shorten our lives....guaranteeing that we die before we can retire...f**K George....think about the economics dammit!"
I laughed and took another hit of my joint...burning my finger..knocking off the ember. I dug my roach clip out of the glove box and clipped what was left and lit it again. I looked at the old red brick walls and wondered which part my Grandpa worked on? My mom had worked there before too...she was an extruder operator like I was in the beginning. I wondered if she hated the smell of a factory as much as I did?
Three generations working in the same building. I sat there, half stoned and thought about it all. Somebody has to make the shovels....somebody has to sell the shovels and somebody has to shovel the shit. My drug induced epiphany made me feel weak and sad. Nobody wants to be a shit shoveler but most of us wind up doing exactly that...for most of our lives. We are at the mercy of the makers and sellers....that's just the way it is.
I finished my beer and went back in the factory. I had George take up a beer collection...go up to the Village Bar and get a couple of twelve packs. That summer night in 1974 was the first time I had ever felt lost in my life. I wondered about my own worth...why I was even there? Something broke inside of me that night. I just didn't care anymore...I didn't care about production, quality, or anything that had to do with my job. I became a rebel against the shovel making machine.
My career as a Foreman was short lived. I was soon replaced by a boss's son who was later fired for hitting on the girls in the trimming department. A Union came in..I didn't care for it...got my tires slashed on my new Chevrolet Nova and was handed every shit job that management could find because I finally gave in to the Union. I quit that job and went on to shovel shit at a new job for a while. It took me a while to become self employed but even then....the shovel was still in my hands.
I remember my Grandpa shoveling manure from his wheel barrow on to his garden. I remember when we use to pick fresh green peppers and cucumbers from his garden and he always told me to eat all I wanted. He would carry a salt shaker in his pocket and sprinkle it on the foods we ate. I guess what I am trying to say is everyone has a shovel..rich or poor...we all have to move the shit..... to the gardens of life.
