An Unusual Job Offer (April 2026)

I get thrown in with no introductions. It’s an assembly plant for automobile radiators. First thing on the factory floor, I pop in the earplugs. You could go deaf in a day without them. Even so, I feel the hammering of the stamping machines that surround the station where I've been assigned. I try to locate the supervisor, but every time I see the little bald guy—the one they call Li’l Boss—perambulating about, he disappears off in a different direction before I can find out what I’m supposed to be doing.

I manage to get the foreman’s attention instead—the guy who’s giving the directions.

“Pick up the scrap aluminum, the cardboard and the strapping.”

“Where’s it go?”

He points to the huge door near the loading dock.

Shoulder shrug.

“Scrap metal over to the blue steel bin out back and cardboard in the green one.”

“That’s it?”

“Yep. Make sure you keep the walkways free and make sure you clean up any spills pronto.”

All around me, the people are heads down in synchronized motion with the machines. Now and then, a begoggled head pops up and someone steals a look at the large red numbers on the digital clock high up on the plant wall. Three o’clock is the magical hour for this shift. There isn’t much talking. Nothing you can make out unless you’re in someone’s face. People sign with one another and do a lot of pointing. The mechanics have the larger vocabulary, but only they understood one another.

No one is idle. I get the hint when standing around looking for something to do, an old guy, looking to be in his late 60s, points to me and then to the broom nearby. I'd been in places like this before so I knew that it’s all important to stay busy if you want to come back the next day.

These aren’t the kind of jobs you want to talk about once you punch out. I mean, who's going to brag about temping in a factory? What do you say, when someone asks, "So, where do you work?" You have to be careful, because you know the next question is "And what do you do there?"

But, it's a job. And there aren't many good ones around. Lots of folks will tell you otherwise, but ask them if they’ve looked recently. And it's an honest living, but over the years you get pretty bummed out working for an honest living. Polite folks look away when you mention silly words like integrity. Others laugh or shake their heads.

The most difficult conversations come in the break rooms. People are curious. They want to know what brought you there. You want to talk about your writing, but you know it’s dangerous. You tell them that you write fictional stories some of which are drawn from your own experience in the world of work, and you mention high tech, university, government, manufacturing, retail, but no banks. You stress FICTION. Back in your early days when you were still stupid, you once said, “I’m a writer and I’m doing research for a book.” Word got around and the assignment ended at 3:00 p.m.

At the word ‘fiction,’ eyes begin to roll. People clear their throats. Interest disappears. Until a jokester, and every shift has at least one, decides to address the entire group, "Hey everybody. We got ourselves a writer here." That'll be the point when you finish swallowing what's left of your pride. But you can't let it show. "It ain't no big thing," you might say, or something like that, which is true enough and it doesn't make you out to be a trumped-up fool and most importantly you come across as too naïve to be a corporate spy or investigate reporter.

Sometimes, I do get awfully tempted to work an angle to land a cushy, respectable sales or management job. I do have THE college degree, and my sister-in-law IS a rich bitch whose family owns several factories and warehouses. It's within reach, and my former girlfriend, who agreed with too much enthusiasm that my sister-in-law is a bitch, kept telling me “Just Do It.”

I don't know. Cause once in a while, a guy like Edsel, the ‘go to’ mechanic from my last gig, a six-monther, comes up to you and asks, "So, you write about shitholes like this, huh?"

And you answer, "Yeah, I try to."

“Well, I’ll tell you what. I can't write for a damn, but I can tell you stories. The ones that don’t never get told."

That night, I couldn’t sleep. It felt like a new job offer had just fallen in my lap. Writing the stories of people who have the stories to tell. But, stories that too few care to read let alone buy. I’ll never be a Studs Terkel, but . . . wouldn't it solve MY biggest problems?

The shift’s coming to an end. The reinforcements—the afternoon shift—arrive, and for the next ten minutes, the A shift catches the B shift up. They’re basically shouting at each other from two feet away, because the machines, they never stop. Mostly the guys (we’re unisex here) are chatting about whatever they fancy, weather, sports, kids. It’s a rare occasion during the eight-hour grind.

Once the whistle sounds, it takes less than a minute for us, the A shift, to be gone. The door doesn’t hit anyone on the backside.

B shift’s magical hour is 11:00 p.m. One or two have already taken in the red numbers on the digital clock.