A twelve hour shift feels like forever when you’re waiting on bad news. If you’re busy, the time might pass easily enough. Otherwise, it’s a relentless crawl. Even the most mundane tasks feel insurmountably hard.

The phone in my pocket weighs down my slacks enough that I’m glad for my belt. Phones aren’t allowed on the production line; though management and maintenance are somehow exempt from the rule. Apparently the people who operate the machinery can’t be trusted with an additional device without fear of everything else going to hell.

Today I don’t care. Today, my phone is on full volume, and I’ll still be lucky if I hear it over the steady roar of the mill and clatter of pipes overhead when plasticizing liquid pumps through.

The factory alternates between a furnace and a fridge. The chilly October air blows in through a vent in the wall, but I don’t bother closing it. It’s a nice counterbalance to the 120 degree heat of the mill I stand in front of, watching the plastic roll and curve across it like waves on a beach.

Normally, I make an effort to look around, to see who’s passing by. Call a greeting. Tell a joke. It doesn’t take long for my team to figure out I’m not leading the cheer factor today. Only my supervisor dares ask me if everything is alright.

Apparently his check in is a test of my self control, because the enquiry forces me to think of everything I’m trying not to think about. I feel my throat closing. My heart races. I suck in a quick breath. I struggle to get a grip.

There’s a whole mental tirade of “put on your big girl panties.” Because crying at work, in a factory, surrounded by guys who get uncomfortable if you so much as mention you’re craving chocolate, is a terrible idea. Even through tears, you can see the panic in their eyes. I don’t want it. I don’t want their relief when I duck out to the bathroom and wipe at my face. I don’t want the easy tasks ‘cause being emotional suddenly means I can’t lift anything over five pounds.

I just wanna do my job. And, ironically, it’s a job I’m good at. So I reign it all in. Stuff it way down in those big girl panties I told myself to wear, and manage a shake of my head.

“Not really. Family stuff.”

And that’s that. With a quick nod, maybe having sensed how close I stood to the precipice, he heads off to check on other members. Other areas. I honestly don’t mind because now I have half the line to myself. It’s valuable time to reseal every compartment inside me like a complicated lock box. By the time the mill is running the last bits of plastic off, I’m steady again. 

The new machines make cleaning between products tedious. Most days, I’m annoyed by the litany of tasks. Now I fall into them with quiet desperation. When the locking bolts (tightened by overzealous guys determined to establish their dominance over machinery) fail to budge, I fight the impulse to curse. Scream. I resist the mighty urge to kick it. Aside from the cameras, the thing will likely hurt me more than I can hurt it. The machines like to take turns having problems. Last week, the heater went out on A. This week, it’s a crooked die on B. Putting a dent in one with my steel toe seems a bad idea. If not a satisfying one.

“Need a hand?”

“No!” I snap, not for the first time thinking of the torque wrench I’ve asked for these past months and still been denied. “I can do it.”

“Doing it” involves a metal bar slipped around the end of the socket wrench, me swinging off it like it’s a play set in the park. Still, I get it open, all by myself and ignore the subtle glances of other employees as they go about their own cleaning tasks. Avoiding the emotional woman.

I rock an internal monologue the rest of the day. Reminding myself I’ve done it before. I don’t need help. I am the Lead Hand. I was promoted while still in training. I don’t need their approval, just their respect. After everything, I’ve earned it.

And the rant goes on.

Maybe I should thank them. It’s definitely enough of a distraction. I almost forget about the weight of my phone and the fact it hasn’t made a sound all day.

The next shift arrives. Half of them ignore me, and that’s great. But the other half expect something. That’s probably my fault. I’ve taught them to expect a wave or someone bubbly and upbeat. I’m not allowed bad days. I’m not allowed to be anything but a perky, cool chick. Did I do this to myself? The question rankles as one of the arrivals calls out to me.

“Smile!”

I look to him before I can stop myself, but I’m not smiling. Some reflexive part of me wants to, and I hate it. I hate that it’s not just society that’s conditioned me. I’ve conditioned myself. Be happy. Smile and wave. Live up to their aesthetic view of the world. Make sure they like you.

“Not really in the mood today.”

“But it’s a beautiful day!”

Sure, I think. In your world.

‘Spose I should be grateful he didn’t add “you look nicer when you smile.” Not sure how my supervisor would explain to a paramedic that I choked to death on a cliche.

 Instead, I don’t say anything. I shrug, turning away from the other team as they aimlessly drift out to assume control for the night. I tell myself I don’t care what they think. I could put it down to the grey shirt I earned that grants me authority and direction. But I’d be lying. Perspective is everything.

It takes the other Lead Hand five minutes longer to come out than the rest of his team. When he does finally arrive, it’s to ask questions he doesn’t let me finish answering. I’ve been running things too cold. If I turn everything up ten degrees, I’ll get better results. I’m not sure what’s better than perfectly cut product and no scrap coming off the temperamental machines, but I just listen instead of argue. It’s 6:59pm. I get paid by the hour.

By the time he’s walked the entire production line to confirm I haven’t, in fact, destroyed everything and made a mess, I’m already halfway off the floor. If I missed anything, I’m sure he’ll let me know in the morning.

The phone is still empty of envelope symbols or missed call notifs by the time I reach the change room. Above me, I can hear the rumble of male voices, the soft thunder of their steps as they laugh and joke and shower off the chemicals before heading home. My own locker room seems small and sterile by comparison. The heater kicks out a fresh wave of dusty warm air in the corner.

Now that I have the time to make the call, I can’t bring my fingers to dial. I don’t know what will happen if I hear it instead of read it. As if there are two different barriers in my head. The reading one lets me breathe and keep it together to get home. The audible one is made of tissue paper and crumples under the slightest weight; at the warble in a voice as they struggle with their emotions.

It makes the decision for me. Even as I tell myself I’m a coward.

[ME: Any updates? You okay? x]

I set the phone on the sink counter like it’s an explosive instead of an electronic. Taking off my uniform is an automated process, much like pulling my normal clothes back on. I don’t even bother with a shower. I’m slinging my backpack around my shoulders when the phone squeaks like a chew toy. Someone in the hall laughs, but I just grimace and snatch up the device, annoyed at myself for the same obnoxious message tone I’ve had for five years.

[TEXT: No change. She’s hanging in there.]

When I pause to stare at the screen, I realize I’m breathing again. A great, big exhale, and a nod of my head.

[ME: And you?]

The reply this time is more immediate. It lets me believe for one childish second I’m not almost 9000 miles away. That it’s her hands I’m holding, not the phone.

[TEXT: As good as can be expected I guess. How’re you holding up?]

My fingers stumble in the reply. Autocorrect fails me a few times, and I’m grateful for the still closed door as I curse and savagely delete one garbled line after another.

[ME: I’m fine. Just worried about you.]

It’s half a lie, but neither of us calls me on it. Leaving the change room, I somehow manage to avoid the incoming Supervisor and the rest of my shift leaving. By the time I’ve made it to my car I’ve sent another text that I’m heading home from work. She’s heading to the hospital.

There’s a promise to let me know if anything changes. My gratitude and anxiety are real things, tangible in the pit of my stomach. Sleep seems a far off concept, and I know my phone will stay on “loud” all night. Just in case I close my eyes.

Then tomorrow, I’ll do it again. The twelve hours. The crappy machinery. The waiting. The eggshells. I’ll do the job no problem.

So long as no one expects me to smile.

-Tanita Cree

Australian born and raised, it’s only in recent years that Tanita transitioned from the sunny shores of Tweed Heads to the seasonal beauty of Canada. Tanita has a BA in Creative Writing and Literature from Griffith University, and while earning her degree she worked as Production Manager to help create the arts television series “Put Some Colour In Your Life.” When not working, writing, or reading, Tanita indulges in FUNKO Pop figurines, tattoos, friends, and as much sushi as she can get.