WHEN I GET HOME, I’M GONNA GET WASTED AND THINK ABOUT SLICING MY WRISTS OPEN WITH A RAZOR. I won’t do it; I’ll just think about it. I’ll take a fresh blade and hold it up to one of my more supple veins. A dramatic gesture. I’ll park my carcass in the corner of my shower and bleed out. Leave a real fucking mess for the slumlord’s LLC to deal with. I take another package off the conveyor belt and shove it onto the stowing rack.
I keep thinking about all the things that led me to this exact point, for hours, for my entire shift. Oh, I squandered whatever education I’ve had – sure. I can’t stop dwelling on the past. A terminal drop out. Like a lot of my peers I’ve been floating from job to job with no concrete, fixed experience. I’ve ghosted a few jobs. I’ve invented half of my resume. I scan a box of McCafe Keurig cups and hoist it from a good height above my shoulders, trudge it down to its sortation cubby. I’ve already clocked it in, another data point fed into the system. Soon, a picker will come around and heave this shit over to the packer.
One hopeful thing I keep coming back to is slashing my supervisor’s tires. It’s a lot more practical than, say, the one where I chuck a hefty, small box at the back of his bald head and kick his skull in when he’s lying on the shop floor. He’s got this very jowly face and two beady little eyes that are too close to each other, accentuated by his prescription eyeglasses. I’m also pretty sure he’s military, or something close to it, which would make three out of five supervisors who’ve been troops. Overall, I’m pretty sure it’s a split between those types and the “good workers,” those “associates” who make a name for themselves by sucking up to the supervisors, by hitting certain productivity rates, or whatever. Anyway, I just haven’t been able to find a real opportunity to do so – slashing his tires, I mean. That motherfucker keeps parking his new Kia Soul directly under one of the surveillance cameras outside. Just two spots to the right and I’d be in business.