Love Your Job

Julie could feel him watching her. For eight years of endless toil she had only been a number.

78.

That was her number. It was printed on a tiny square of paper and inserted into every garment she produced.
Her latest assignment was sewing "Made in the U.S.A." labels onto the elastic waistbands of men's underwear.

She had asked her boss, Mrs. Boyle, how the shorts could be
made in the USA when the crates they came in were marked "Made in China".

Mrs. Boyle told her that it was only the crates that were made in China and that if she liked her job, she'd better shut up. Julie loved her job , but sometimes it seemed to her as if Mrs. Boyle didn't recognize that dedication. After all, it had been two years since her last raise. She decided that she would work harder.

It was in this state of heightened productivity that she started noticing the "irregulars". There were more 'irregulars' than 'regulars'- in fact, hardly one single pair of the no-name jockeys seemed to be stitched together quite right.

Some of the briefs had the flies sewn shut. Others had loose seams clumsily reinforced with pointy-edged metal staples.

One crate contained a thriving nest of live rats.

By the time her shift was over Julie was exhausted. She'd run out of yellow 'I-irregular' tags nearly an hour ago and Boyle had forced her to 'pass' the rest. She tried to argue, but she was tired and her English was not quite up to the task. Boyle had adequate Spanish, but went no hable when it was in her own interest to do so.

Boyle was one of Julie's favorite English words. Boyle was a bitch.

Boyle was also an ass-kisser. On the rare occasions that the factory floor was visited by a male supervisor ,Boyle made sure to monopolize his time, taking credit for the girls' work and blaming any mistakes on whichever senorita had the least seniority.

Now Boyle was talking to a tall white man wearing an expensive suit and a cheap hardhat. The man's dark eyes scanned the room , where, guided by Boyle's pointing finger, they came to rest squarely on Julie's thin, stooped figure.
He stared.
Beneath his unnaturally copper tan, he was turning a furious red.

Boyle beckoned with crooked finger. Julie felt a wave a of panic as she switched off her machine and walked across the concrete floor.

The man was yelling at Boyle in English and looking at Julie- he expected Boyle to translate. He needn't have bothered, thought Julie. The man was using mostly profanity and Julie was fluent in profanity- it was the first English she had learned. She picked it up from missionaries in Honduras as a child. One mischievous Peace Corp volunteer had briefly convinced her that "fuck you" was an affirmative, English for si. Hilarious.

The man was yelling as Julie approached.

"...tell this stupid fucking cow that we don't allow goddamn fucking irregulars anymore. This isn't Fruit-of -the Motherfuckin' Loom for christ's sake!"

Boyle nodded, looked at Julie.

"Ceño."

Julie frowned.

" Vergüenza"

Julie blushed.

The man continued.

" Tell this stupid bitch that I'm going to dock her check every time I have to send another batch of irregulars back here for re-tagging."

He picked up a pair of white shorts from the conveyor belt, waving it back and forth as he bellowed. A pink newborn rat dislodged from the undergarment and was hurled across the room where it landed, stunned but unharmed, in a pile of spuriously regular irregulars.

A moment later an adult rat scurried out of the darkness and retrieved the squealing pup; whether it's intent was to nurse or to devour remains unknown.

The man turned away in disgust and walked towards the exit.

Julie barely noticed the rats. She was waiting for Boyle to translate.

"Same old shit," said Boyle.