Work Cover

It is distantly removed from my place of comfort, the smell of ink and Xerox ozone replaced by processed chicken faeces, the still warmth of the reading room replaced by cyclone ducting systems and conveyor belts roaring overhead.

Allen, the warehouse foreman, looks on over my shoulder. I bag another twenty kilograms of organic fertiliser, protected by respirator and eye wear from the dust that kicks up when the bag is dropped by the hydraulic clasp onto the conveyor belt. I take the lip of the bag and fold it back the way Allen instructed, leaning in closer than I should so I can see through the dirty goggles. The goggles offer a welcome sense of detachment, these could be someone else's hands, aligning the lips, making the fold and feeding the machines presser foot.

During smoko Allen asks, “What do you usually do for work, mate?”

“I’m a library technician, a Librarian. So this is a bit different.”

“I’ll say it is.” he says.

“This is okay though, fucking dirty, but okay” My arms are caked in chicken shit sweat.

Gregg says, “What’s the pay for a librarian?”

“About thirty an hour.”

“Shit, that’s alright, for sittin’ at a desk all day. I wouldn’t mind that.” says Allen.

“Yeah, not bad, and air conditioned. It’s a two year TAFE course.”

“Ah, fuck that than. I have had enough of TAFE. It puts me in lock-up. I’m too much of a bad-ass.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, I don’t take shit from no one. It’s what I do, smash cunts. Life’s not worth livin’ without knocking cunts out.”

Gregg and Allen are in their thirties. I had shook both their hands, and both hands felt moulded out of fired brick when compared to mine, like sodden tissue paper.

On the bagging line I feed the machine like Allen said to. The bag drops to the conveyor when the weight counter reaches twenty, then I fold the lips before the bag trips the switch that activates the sewing machine. It contacts a spring sticking out the conveyor backing plate, starting the machine, teeth shuddering vibrations, and I feed the lips in to be sealed with thick white string.

“Let the machine do the work,” says Allen, “Just guide it through.”

The machine takes the lip of the bag, the feed dog draws it along with tank-track-teeth, and the needle bar rapidly draws a neat row of stitches. The cold force of the machine hammering at frightening speed takes is unnerving at first, but I’m barely bothered by it soon enough. Both Gregg and Allen have worked here for months, perhaps that is why they have lost all fear of the machine.

The next bag I send through is chewed up, string spewing from the monsters teeth. Gregg slaps the stop spring. He uses one hand to cut the string and with the other tosses the bag behind us. He backs out of the confined workspace to allow Allen in to inspect the fault, Allen barking curses.

The processing line cannot stop. There are two tons of the chicken shit fertiliser heading for us, through a complicated system of production, a pelleter, dryer, mixers and conveyors. He takes down a smaller sewing machine off of a hook on the back wall, it hangs on a chain above the conveyor, but it to is nonoperational. He dashes the ancient looking hand held sewing machine against the wall, still barking madly. The weight counter in the bagging reservoir is still rising. It only takes a few seconds for it to hit twenty kilograms, and it must be emptied into a bag. Allen signals me to keep loading the bags and toss them aside.

I load the bags and dump them. They are going to keep stacking up on the floor until the machine is re-threaded.

Gregg has the casing off of the machine, revealing a complex arrangement of spin wheels and pulleys matted with white string. He works inside with both hands, pulling at the mess, digging under pistons.

As I keep bagging, Allen takes this time to teach. He watches me and then says, "Here, let me show you how," and he takes my spot.

“Keep your fingers here,” he yells over the noise, “That way when the bag drops you don’t have to do much, just a quick fold. Don’t over-handle the bags, you just screw it up.” He demonstrates.

The machine bursts into action. Gregg booms out a cry of surprise and anger, an exclamation, “FUCK.”

Allen has let the bag run along the conveyor too far and the spring switch has been activated. Gregg has pulled his hands away, and aggressively he slaps the off spring.

“Damn, I’m so sorry, mate,” says Allen, with only his eyes visible while wearing the respirator, he is looking past Gregg, in some middle distance, and it must be dawning on him, what a silly thing he has just done.

Gregg inspects his hand. I have to raise the goggles to get a better understanding of what it is I am seeing. Gregg’s index finger has gone all wrong. The string has acted like cheese wire and has severed all of the skin from Gregg’s middle knuckle. The thick white skin remaining is bunched up over his fingernail, like a sport sock half off of a foot. Very little blood. Pinks, reds, and whites. Bone, maybe.

He points in the direction of the office with his mutilated finger, and on Allen's approval, he walks off. He isn't holding his hand like I would, I would cradle the wound, he just walks, as if he is off for a smoko, with Allen in tow.

I keep bagging.

When Allen returns he shouts over the noise, “Gregg is driving himself to emergency.” He faces up to the machine and begins to unravel the string. He will fix it now. The power still hasn’t been shut off.