WoW, someone is offended. u a crackhead, daddy? do u go by the name Dj scratch and sniff? lay off that crack before you endanger yourself with that reckless talk.
I spent the summer before my senior year in college working as a Spanish translator in a furniture factory in Indianapolis. They made knock together furniture for dorms and prisons.
The factory was an urban renewal project; not in the best part of town, but not horrible.
When I started working there, the population on the factory floor was 50% black/40% mexican/10% white. But, there were serious issues brewing, as all pay and bonuses were incentive based, and the black pop. had seen their bonuses declining as more Spanish speakers came in, and communication on the assembly line got more and more difficult. It wasn't too bad a situation, but there was some serious frustration on the floor; everyday two black workers would walk off the line, and four newly immigrated Mexicans would show up to take their place. From the end of May to the middle of August when I left, the work force numbers changed to: 75% mexican/20% black/5% white.
There were a few people at the factory, blacks and whites, who were smoking crack; they'd go out to Jerry's burned out minivan on their breaks and hit the pipe. You could always tell when they'd done it, because they'd smell bad, and be basically asleep on their feet about an hour or two afterward.
Jerry was definitely the floor crackhead. When I first started, he had a coveted position on one of the neumatic screwdrivers, installing drawer rails on desks. As more of his coworkers quit, though, and his productivity lagged, he was moved to the boxing station, where he would just box up each desk that came off the line. That move down the assembly line lead straight to a much bigger pile of the rock. More and more of his friends were quitting, and he would come in some days after staying up all night huffing crack. He would just rock back and forth on his feet with his eyes closed in the ten minute intervals between desks arriving at his station, fighting sleep until the next break in the minivan.
He was rail thin; smelled; had one of the 4 sought after back braces that hadn't been stolen from the factory floor; and his veins were looking thicker than his arms as he lost weight throughout the summer. He was quiet; not particularly nice, but he liked talking to me, when he could talk at all.
After a while of sleeping on his feet at the end of the desk line, Jerry was replaced by a couple young Mexicans. He was the last black worker on the desk line left. It was an inevitable move, really, and it's a miracle that he lasted as long as he did. I guess it goes to show that 90% of life really is just showing up every day, based out or not.
There were two options for him left in the factory. He would either push a broom/clean the bathrooms or work the cardboard crusher. The first option was a disaster- as most of the Mexican workers were new to the country, they weren't accustomed to flushing their toilet paper. No matter how many signs and announcements we posted or made, no matter the fact there weren't garbage cans next to the stall, each day a pile of shitty toilet paper would pile up in the bathroom. Cleaning that bathroom was the worst job in the factory.
Lucky for Jerry, and I don't know how, as the floor supervisor hated him (with ok reason, I guess), he got placed at the cardboard crusher. It was a plum spot. Pile up the cardboard; hit the button; repeat until the palate is full; wrap a tie around the 500 lb. cube without whiping yourself or losing an eye; call for forklift; repeat. It was in the back of the factory, so you got some semblance of privacy. It was near the bathrooms, so it smelled like a sewer, but you could set up a radio and listen to whatever music you wanted, as opposed the ranchera that dominated the rest of the floor.
Jerry managed to last the entire summer. He was there when I left to go back for my senior year of college. That was pretty much a miracle. He just popped into my head yesterday; I wonder if he is still alive.
WoW, someone is offended. u a crackhead, daddy? do u go by the name Dj scratch and sniff? lay off that crack before you endanger yourself with that reckless talk.
You say slangled a little and your clientele was disgusting.So what does that make the provider?
WoW, someone is offended. u a crackhead, daddy? do u go by the name Dj scratch and sniff? lay off that crack before you endanger yourself with that reckless talk.
You say slangled a little and your clientele was disgusting.So what does that make the provider?
money. Now fall back less crackhead wants a crackedhead.
WoW, someone is offended. u a crackhead, daddy? do u go by the name Dj scratch and sniff? lay off that crack before you endanger yourself with that reckless talk.
You say slangled a little and your clientele was disgusting.So what does that make the provider?
money. Now fall back less crackhead wants a crackedhead.
WoW, someone is offended. u a crackhead, daddy? do u go by the name Dj scratch and sniff? lay off that crack before you endanger yourself with that reckless talk.
You say slangled a little and your clientele was disgusting.So what does that make the provider?
money. Now fall back less crackhead wants a crackedhead.
2007: THE YEAR SOULSTRUT OFFICIALLY BECAME A TOYBOX
Comments
Taking crack? Is that like taking marijuana?
The factory was an urban renewal project; not in the best part of town, but not horrible.
When I started working there, the population on the factory floor was 50% black/40% mexican/10% white. But, there were serious issues brewing, as all pay and bonuses were incentive based, and the black pop. had seen their bonuses declining as more Spanish speakers came in, and communication on the assembly line got more and more difficult. It wasn't too bad a situation, but there was some serious frustration on the floor; everyday two black workers would walk off the line, and four newly immigrated Mexicans would show up to take their place. From the end of May to the middle of August when I left, the work force numbers changed to: 75% mexican/20% black/5% white.
There were a few people at the factory, blacks and whites, who were smoking crack; they'd go out to Jerry's burned out minivan on their breaks and hit the pipe. You could always tell when they'd done it, because they'd smell bad, and be basically asleep on their feet about an hour or two afterward.
Jerry was definitely the floor crackhead. When I first started, he had a coveted position on one of the neumatic screwdrivers, installing drawer rails on desks. As more of his coworkers quit, though, and his productivity lagged, he was moved to the boxing station, where he would just box up each desk that came off the line. That move down the assembly line lead straight to a much bigger pile of the rock. More and more of his friends were quitting, and he would come in some days after staying up all night huffing crack. He would just rock back and forth on his feet with his eyes closed in the ten minute intervals between desks arriving at his station, fighting sleep until the next break in the minivan.
He was rail thin; smelled; had one of the 4 sought after back braces that hadn't been stolen from the factory floor; and his veins were looking thicker than his arms as he lost weight throughout the summer. He was quiet; not particularly nice, but he liked talking to me, when he could talk at all.
After a while of sleeping on his feet at the end of the desk line, Jerry was replaced by a couple young Mexicans. He was the last black worker on the desk line left. It was an inevitable move, really, and it's a miracle that he lasted as long as he did. I guess it goes to show that 90% of life really is just showing up every day, based out or not.
There were two options for him left in the factory. He would either push a broom/clean the bathrooms or work the cardboard crusher. The first option was a disaster- as most of the Mexican workers were new to the country, they weren't accustomed to flushing their toilet paper. No matter how many signs and announcements we posted or made, no matter the fact there weren't garbage cans next to the stall, each day a pile of shitty toilet paper would pile up in the bathroom. Cleaning that bathroom was the worst job in the factory.
Lucky for Jerry, and I don't know how, as the floor supervisor hated him (with ok reason, I guess), he got placed at the cardboard crusher. It was a plum spot. Pile up the cardboard; hit the button; repeat until the palate is full; wrap a tie around the 500 lb. cube without whiping yourself or losing an eye; call for forklift; repeat. It was in the back of the factory, so you got some semblance of privacy. It was near the bathrooms, so it smelled like a sewer, but you could set up a radio and listen to whatever music you wanted, as opposed the ranchera that dominated the rest of the floor.
Jerry managed to last the entire summer. He was there when I left to go back for my senior year of college. That was pretty much a miracle. He just popped into my head yesterday; I wonder if he is still alive.
You say slangled a little and your clientele was disgusting.So what does that make the provider?
money. Now fall back less crackhead wants a crackedhead.
Classic scourge talk.
I can cosign this.....(never having been there but having watched many hours of Dawg the Bounty Hunter).
2007: THE YEAR SOULSTRUT OFFICIALLY BECAME A TOYBOX