“You’ll never guess where you’re going next week,” Harley chortled, smug in his possession of information that he knew would be as unwelcome to me as the flashing lights of a cop car would be to a hard working guy; the kind of everyday joe who had stopped for a few beers on a Friday evening and might now be looking at a DUI.
By his shit-eating grin and his mocking tone of voice, I had a pretty good idea where I
was being detailed to. Turkey Ridge.
“The Ridge?” I moaned disgustedly.
Harley’s snicker at the grimace on my face confirmed my fear. Just another case of “no sympathy in a packing house.” We labor in an environment where a disability becomes
a derisive nickname, or a run-in with the law elicits laughter instead of pity. In fact, the
usual callous packing house response is…”Don’t come to me looking for any sympathy.
Look it up in the dictionary. You’ll find it tucked in there somewhere between ‘shit’ and
‘syphilis.’”
“Yeah,” Harley gloated, savoring my situation as though it was a tumbler of Jack and Coke. “You’re on the night shift, too. You really got screwed over, dude.”
His obvious pleasure at my predicament grated on my mood, which had instantly plunged
to an anti-establishment attitude worthy of the most radical member of the Michigan
Militia. I gave him a look of utter contempt and growled “How’s your love life, you pathetic turd?”
Militia. I gave him a look of utter contempt and growled “How’s your love life, you pathetic turd?”
He walked away smiling. His quest to find his ideal soul-mate, (I mean, we’re talking
a submissive and docile young lady with huge hooters and nymphomaniac tendencies who also just happens to be a superb cook and housekeeper) had been unsuccessful up to this point. In fact, his latest object of adoration had recently spurned him to enter into a lesbian relationship. Normally his lack of success with women was a sensitive subject that could plunge him into depression and morose responses of grunts and monosyllables. It was a pretty cheap shot on my part, but it had glanced off the obese biker as though it was an arrow tipped with a rubber suction cup. He realized that my response was just a spear thrust compared to the tac-nuke news of the Turkey Ridge detail that he had just dropped on me.
Turkey Ridge is a decrepit little river town, a community built on a swamp, a river rat sanctuary devoid enough of beauty to actually deserve to have a packing plant as its major industry. If you walk into one of the town’s restaurants, an appetite-killing exercise in itself, you’ll soon discover that the main topics of conversation always revolve around guns and “dawgs” and women, the only variable being the order in which they’re brought up. During my second night detail there, I finally, in exasperation, asked one of the gut-pullers what people did for entertainment in Turkey Ridge.
“Drink,” was his succinct reply.
My experiences have since proven him right. Turkey Ridge is worse than hell; it’s a hemorrhoid on the ass of the universe.
I’m not really certain if it’s the water or just generations of inbreeding, but even the USDA inspection crew at Turkey Ridge borders on the sociopathic. Especially the women. Don’t take me wrong. There are a lot of fine women working in the USDA, and Dorothy Collins is still the benchmark that I measure all slaughter inspectors by. Turkey Ridge, however, has spawned its own unique breed of womanhood. I mean, these charmers are just out and out “psycho-babes.” You know the type; the “Fatal Attraction” broad on steroids and amphetamines. Downright scary to have to work next to.
I was sitting in the break room at the Turkey Ridge plant on Monday afternoon, when Dr. Dorkman walked in. Dr. D. is our regional supervisor. He’s an up and coming young suck-ass with his gaze firmly fastened on one of the cushy Washington DC Washington Potomac .
Dr. Dorkman and the supervisor at the Turkey Ridge plant have a good working relationship though. The supervisor, Dr. Asskissir, is a little Pakistani fascist who detests everything about Western civilization but the paychecks. He’s got both his hands attached firmly to the rungs of the promotion ladder as well. Needless to say, he’s also got his lips as firmly attached to Dr. D’s ass as a Cardinal’s are to the ring of the Pope. The first thing these two Washington wannabes do when they hook up is to lock themselves in the office for awhile to plot how to put one over on us. We expected no good when they emerged in typical buddy-buddy form just before the night shift was to begin.
“I’ve called in three intermittents tonight,” Dr. Asskissir announced, looking to Dr. Dorkman for his approval. “Dr. Dorkman and I will be taking you off the line, three at a time, to give you a course on Wellness Training.”
“Wellness Training,” I muttered sarcastically. “What’s the government going to waste money trying to teach us next? Fiscal responsibility?”
I suppose that I should know by now that I ought to keep my mouth shut. I detest bureaucratic phonies though, and the contemplation of those two assholes attempting to shovel some bullshit government course like that at us pissed me off as much as a matador’s red cape would a bull.
Drs. Dorkman and Asskissir both poured sour looks my way, but otherwise ignored me. It was just Vanderbilt waxing cynical again. They’d become used to it.
I didn’t draw the first opportunity to sit in the office, slug down massive amounts of caffeine and listen to their banal presentation. My turn would come later. Right now I was working on the viscera table across from Jeff Paniagua, one of the intermittents, and next to “The Amazon,” one of the USDA’s most infamous “psycho babes.” She was in a foul mood because she’d lost the draw too and now would have to wait for her Wellness Training until after supper. Wanting to flaunt her foul mood for everyone to notice, she moved down the line away from us to sulk in silence. The Amazon wasn’t to be trifled with when she was wearing a chip on her shoulder, which was most of the time, so her voluntary choice to shun us didn’t bother me in the least. I mean, this is the psycho-babe who once volunteered to clean her sister-in-law’s house while she was being hospitalized after a caesarian delivery. During the course of her housecleaning, she got it into her mind that the family’s new baby would be better off without their two cats around. She bragged later in the office of how she thrust each of the family pets into an empty potato sack. One at a time she carried each agitated, caterwauling sack out to the highway. Then she’d wait for an approach of a semi. As it neared she gleefully hurled the bag into the air in front of the oncoming truck, then took off and ran into the woods. To have done this, not once, but twice, is an indication that I’d better be wary of this individual when she’s working with a knife next to me. I mean, we’re obviously not talking about a mentally well-adjusted human being here.
“Where’s Lady tonight?” I asked Jeff. “Our Lady of the Perpetual Illness” was another reason that we had to be grateful for the Government’s gender hiring quotas. She’d earned her nickname due to the many illnesses she’s used as excuses to miss work. From beriberi to a reaction to a brown recluse spider’s bite, to work-related mental stress, her sick leave documentation has ranged from the imaginative to downright ludicrous. Last time I’d been in Turkey Ridge, she’d called in unable to make it to work because the oil light in her car had come on, and she didn’t have enough money to buy a quart of oil. I was curious to find out why she was missing today.
“You mean you haven’t heard?” Jeff laughed bitterly. “She was gone all last week. Sounds like she’ll be gone for awhile.”
“What’s wrong with that flighty broad now?” I asked disgustedly.
“You’ve heard, of course, that’s she’s pregnant,” he began. I nodded. USDA employees are supposed to distance themselves from company personnel so as in theory not to compromise enforcement of the regulations. Our Lady though, had gotten herself a bellyful of child by one of the bung-droppers.
“So,” I responded. “She’s not due for a few months yet.”
“Let’s pretend that I’m Paul Harvey providing you with ‘The Rest of the Story’,” Jeff laughed. “It seems that she’d scratched a winning lottery ticket, so she decided to invest in another tattoo. Something really tasteful. A strand of a barbed wire fence around her left tit to match the one already wrapped around her right one.”
“That’s a set of breastworks that you’d have to be one brave soldier to storm,” I observed. “I mean, that kind of an artful image has about as much sex appeal as a pig with the dry heaves.”
I firmly believe that nothing defaces a beautiful female more than a tattoo. It’s like spraying gang graffiti on the Venus de Milo. Given Our Lady’s emaciated looks and Marlboro-honed voice however, the image of the tattooed breasts that I had conjured up in my mind was more gut wrenchingly repulsive than aesthetically offensive.
“Now she’s come down with hepatitis,” Jeff continued, after a short pause for effect. “The tattoo artist’s needle was tainted, probably.”
“Jesus Christ!” I gasped, shuddering. “That shit can be contagious. Have you guys been tested yet? How long has she been working with the product since she’s been infected?”
“Who knows,” Jeff shrugged, rolling his eyes disgustedly. “The Little Fascist won’t tell us anything.”
"Think Doctor Dorkman knows?"
“Yeah,” Jeff replied, in the same bitter disgusted voice. “We jumped his ass about it earlier this week and he got real defensive. He assured us that he was aware of the problem and would handle it.”
“What has he done?”
“Far as I know… nothing.”
“Any of you guys been tested yet?” I asked him. “If it’s Hepatitis A, that shit can ravage your liver, your kidneys; it can even kill you.”
“As far as we know, our fearless leaders are trying to keep a lid on the problem. Dorkman doesn’t want a story to break about a Hepatitis scare in a plant in his region. Not only would the publicity be devastating for the plant’s potential sales, but it might possibly have an adverse effect on Dorkman’s promotion chances. You know that’s what he’s most concerned about.”’
“I’ll bet,” I agreed. “But if the disease spreads from the plant here, it could be his career on the line. Especially if the word got out and he didn’t do anything about it.”
“It’s got everyone scared,” Jeff continued, having looked over his shoulder before he commenced speaking again. “Mike, on the day shift, he’s got a youngster with kidney problems already. He went out and got himself inoculated after work yesterday. He was that afraid of bringing anything home. So did Davey Fillmore. His wife just had a baby and when she heard about Lady, she ordered him to go to the doctor, NOW! Lady gets to wallow at home in front of the TV while all this is brewing, which doesn’t help our morale any.” He looked around again to make certain that none of the company employees had come within earshot, and then continued.
“I guess we’ll just wait to see what happens,” he sighed dejectedly. “Maybe we’ll find out more when we get our turn to do the Wellness Training.”
Our time arrived later that evening. Jeff, the Amazon, Whitey McConnell and I were reminded that we needed to remain in the office after lunch. I mouthed another sarcastic comment about the absurdity of the government wasting money on a “Wellness” course.
“I’ll bet it did wonders for Ted Kennedy.” I was ignored, as usual, so I shrugged and went over to pour myself another cup of coffee. It was going to be a long, boring evening.
Dr. Dorkman and Dr. Asskissir came into the break room and gazed down upon us with the patronizing looks that supervisors bestow upon underlings.
“Are you ready to learn how to live a more satisfying and healthful life?” Dr. Asskissir asked. It was obviously the lead-in question from the teaching program. It had the phony aura of faked spontaneity that only a clueless bureaucrat would attempt to pass off with feigned enthusiasm as his own words.
“Before we get started, perhaps we’d better address the issue of Our Lady’s hepatitis,” Jeff Paniagua broke in abruptly.
“It’s under control,” Dr. Dorkman insisted defensively, glaring at Jeff for daring to bring up the subject. “It’s not the dangerous hepatitis. None of you have anything to worry about.”
“That’s what they told the peasants during the Black Plague,” I muttered. Then the absurdity of the scene registered in my mind and I broke in with a Monty Python routine.
“Bring out your dead. Bring out your dead.”
My attempt at humor was lost on both Asskissir and Dorkman. They looked at me as though I was a leper.
“Let’s get down to business,” Dr. Dorkman finally sighed. “Open your notebook to page one.”
Dr. Asskissir was passing out expensive-looking binders that no doubt cost the USDA $15-$20 apiece. Expensive clothing for a doll made of garbage, I mused to myself. Then I spoke my next thought aloud.
“I’ll bet one of Dubya's Texas
Whitey McConnell brought us back to Our Lady’s hepatitis when he asked, “As Union Rep, may I have some written assurance that we employees and that the company product are at no risk from hepatitis?”
“That’s enough,” said Dr. Dorkman sternly. “I don’t want to hear any more speculation about a supposed hepatitis panic.”
“That’s enough,” chimed in Dr. Asskissir, attempting to sound just as authoritative. “We have everything under control.”
“That’s what Captain Smith, the master of the Titanic said,” I observed, brandishing my wit again. “Can we say, ‘Iceberg ahead?”
“Can we say ‘insubordination?’ countered Dr. Dorkman, looking at me in exasperation. “Dr. Asskissir and I have a course to teach.”
I mouthed an obscenity under my breath that addressed his relationship with his mother,
but I realized that I’d pushed the two sanctimonious assholes to the limit of their patience. Recognizing my silence as submission to their authority, the Gods condescended to smile upon us peasants again.
“Now, as Dr. Dorkman suggested a few moments ago, let’s turn to page one in our Wellness Training manual,” Dr. Asskissir intoned in his irritatingly officious voice. “How you choose to live your life and what hazards and abuses you choose to subject your body to can drastically alter your physical and mental well-being.”
He paused…. for dramatic effect I assume; then resumed reading from his handbook. “Let’s start with Chapter One. ‘Coping with Stress in the Workplace.’”
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