Thirst

I was late to work, again. I’m always paranoid about being late, even though nothing bad really happens. At least, as long as Mr. Milton doesn’t find out. Rather than exploding with anxiety, I took a breath and started my usual pre-work self-talk, minus the power poses. I’m a tiny little lesbian, but when I walk into that production room I carry myself like I’m the boss. Because I am. I’m just somehow the only one who needs convincing of it.

The production room at the Milton Bottling Plant is centered around one big conveyor belt. This is where most of what people imagine we do happens. The empty bottles come through, get filled, get labeled. Employees facilitate the process, and I oversee it. We all wear the same plain blue jumpsuit. Hot, right?

On this particular day, I clocked in and hurried to position. My coworkers barely gave me a glance. They couldn’t care less if I’m on time. Unfortunately I looked up and spotted Milton, that jaded Mr. Moneybags, walking across the catwalk above. As I cursed under my breath, my most insufferable friend Meg snickered and I shot her a glare. Meg’s 30-ish years old and has the biggest mouth of anyone I know. She can be fun sometimes but God can she be annoying. To my relief, Milton seemed focused on wherever he was headed and paid me no mind.

The familiar rhythms of the machines and the work day were just setting in when Meg got in one of her gossipy moods. Sometimes she just can’t shut up about other peoples’ business. She was going on about our coworker Kate, who works in a different part of the building. Kate makes a lot more money than us because you have to have a biology degree to do her job. Sometimes folks in the main production room start to resent the scientists. Not that the scientists have done anything wrong… there are just major disparities in compensation. There’s no better illustration of these differences than the factory parking lot. I’m a manager and drive to work in my beat up pickup, meanwhile someone like Kate drives a Kia hybrid. Sometimes it’s hard not to be resentful, even though we’re the ones who didn’t pursue science.

On this day, Meg chose Jake, a scrawny 20-something, to unload her rumors onto. “So apparently Kate showed up at the robotics expo,” she started. “And she walked around like she was some sort of genius. But all the boys knew she just wanted to sleep with a scientist.”

Jake looked pained. “Meg…” he pleaded.

She ignored him, saying, “ever since her smarty pants husband died she’s just wanted to ride a rocket scientist. Those poor boys, having to deal with a cougar.”

Jake pushed back: “I really don’t think she’s a cougar.”

“What, you buddy buddy with her? Definitely not a cougar move.”

Just then, Mr. Milton appeared on the catwalk with a tour of executives. They started down the stairs to get a closer look as Milton explained, “This is our main production room, where the actual bottling happens.” Then he turned to me and said, “Shellie, why don’t you tell them a little about the process?”

So this is what he was so distracted with this morning. I describe them as executives, but to be honest they were just men in suits. Could they have been inspecting the worksite? Discussing a partnership? A purchase?

I smoke a little on my way in. Marijuana. I had a really hard day and was upset and I needed to take the edge off. Launching into my spiel, I think I overcompensated and opened my stoned eyes a bit too wide. Still, none of them seemed to notice.

I stumbled through: “Well, uh, that’s me… Hi. The water has just gone through quality check, and the bottles were created in the last room. I suppose you just saw all that.”

Mr. Milton looked at me unhappily. The pressure was just enough to sober me up a bit. I continued, “Here we actually fill the bottles. And then they get capped and sent through the labeler. That’s what these giant rolls are. Labels.”

We all watched for a moment as bottles moved through the labeling machine. It’s hard not to get hypnotized in a place like this. The constant rhythm steals your focus and you can get lost in it if you aren’t careful.

An executive broke the trance with everyone’s least favorite observation. “This place is so automated,” he said. “Seems like you barely need workers.”

Mr. Milton chimed in cheerfully, “I suppose that’s the way the world’s going. We’ll adjust as the world does. Modern innovation makes our lives easier, remember that.”

He gave his signature smile—one that reads charming to some and threatening to others—before leading the executives out of the room.

Meg was quickly back on her bullshit: “I heard something about Stan, too.” She waited for us to beckon her on. When nobody bit, she continued anyway. “You know, stan used to be married but his wife left him because he’s a brute,” she said.

Everyone continued working quietly. Nobody had the energy for this conversation except Meg. She kept pushing the subject, telling us that someone told her once that they think he’s a “repressed queer” but she doesn’t believe it. “I mean, he does have long hair so I guess he could be a homo but I think he is probably just native,” she pondered aloud.

I know I called her my friend, but I mean it lightly. She has her okay moments, but times like this piss me off. If we weren’t at work I would have lost it.

As if on cue, Stan walked in. Stan is an older man, around 60, with long grey hair and a hunched posture. He rolled a maintenance cart in front of him and explained he got a request to fix the heater.

I thanked him perhaps too graciously. It was a spiteful kindness, meant in part for Stan and in part for Meg. I turned to her after and said, “So what’s that you were telling us?”

Her face turned a bright red. “I was saying I was thinking I’d start wearing my coat but now I won’t have to. Thanks, Stan.”

After Stan left we all kept on business as usual, when a bunch of phone alerts went off at once. Odd but nothing entirely unusual—could be severe weather, or an Amber alert. Nobody’s allowed their phones except me so I went to see what was going on.

As I read, I could feel the blood run from my face. I hesitated, then read aloud, “Ballistic missile threats inbound to contiguous United States. Seek immediate shelter. This is not a drill.” I looked up at my coworkers: “This can’t be real. In Missouri?”

The rules didn’t matter anymore. Without asking, everyone checked their phones. Panicked stillness quickly devolved into panicked frenzy.

The roar of worry was deafening as it echoed off the concrete floor. “We’ll close up early,” I said rather stupidly. Everyone was already on their way out. As they hurried blindly toward the break room, water bottles big and small fell, flooding the room. I stood, dumbfounded. I needed to find Alicia.