Chapter 3 - Dax
DAX
The line to enter the parking lot for the Cheyenne, Wyoming, Arrow Mart distribution warehouse is backed up onto the main road. Red lights shine like pairs of demon eyes squinting at me through the pre-dawn darkness.
I sit in the driver’s seat of my idling pickup truck and fiddle with the radio in search of a station that isn’t playing a commercial. Somewhere under the hood, a clanking overpowers the old-school country crooning I finally settle on. Johnny Cash. The classic of all classics.
My truck is no spring chicken. A clunker I bought for cash from an online marketplace listing two years ago. I don’t have the money for new, and I don’t have the kind of credit necessary for a lease or even pre-owned through a dealership.
That also means I don’t have the luxury of a dealership discount or pocket change to pay for repairs.
My autobody knowledge is zilch, and my solution for all repairs—automotive or otherwise—is duct tape.
A single roll from the dollar store has held my remote together after the battery door on the back broke off, covered a hole in my bathroom that roaches had been squeezing their filthy bodies through, and reattached my rearview mirror when it got sideswiped in the warehouse parking lot.
I’m economical. I’ve got to be when I walk a little ole tightrope called the poverty line.
I sip the weak coffee my at-home pot makes from a tumbler with Santa Claus printed on it.
It’s way out of season, considering it’s only September, but I won it in a game at the warehouse worker holiday party.
Using it is much cheaper than swinging by the gas station on the way to work and paying a dollar and change for the slop they serve out of canisters that I doubt they ever clean.
The car line for entry inches up. A little too eager, I jolt forward and then brake quickly, causing my coffee to slosh back on me. My lap scalds, and I fire off a string of curses that would make a nun drop dead if she overheard.
From the glove compartment, I whip out my emergency collection of napkins from various fast-food joints, where I buy exclusively from the dollar menu. Wendy’s sops up the bulk of the spill. Culver’s cleans up the thermos. Arby’s finishes the job.
When I look up again, a few of the cars in front of me have turned out of the line and parked in the dirt along the far side entrance lane.
I initially assume the lot is full, even though it never has been in my five years working here.
Maybe there’s been a glitch in the scheduling system, and they called more people in than needed.
Please God, don’t let me be one of the errors. I budget my paycheck down to the cent. Nobody would know it by looking at me, but I’m methodically minded. I’m very at home in the columns and rows of a color-coded spreadsheet.
The drivers of the cars that turned off get out of their vehicles.
Two of my coworkers—a tall brown-skinned man named Raj and a younger Black woman named Dina—start what appears to be an argument.
Did they have a little fender-bender? As I roll closer and get a better view of their expressions, I can tell they’re not upset with each other, but they are upset.
Dina’s shaking her head repeatedly and Raj’s mouth is turned down in a scowl.
I shut off Johnny Cash and roll down my window, but I’m still too far away to hear. The drone of the cars boxing me in muddles their conversation.
Confusion climbs around my chest like my ribs are a jungle gym.
More and more cars get turned away from the gate.
By the time I reach the front of the line, there’s a bevy of my fellow packagers fussing on the side of the road, wearing their yellow Arrow Mart vests and matching concerned expressions.
“What’s happening?” I ask Leon, the main weekday security guard, who scans our employee badges to get us access to the employee lot.
“Dunnknow,” he says, taking my badge through the open window. When he scans it, the system beeps in a register I haven’t heard before and a light on a monitor blinks red. The automatic gate doesn’t go up.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
“Could be the system. Buncha badges aren’t scanning,” he says. “Sorry, but I got this huge line to get through. Can you pull off to the side with the others? Promise I’ll try to be quick to get you guys in.”
The time on my dashboard reads fifteen minutes until the start of my shift.
I usually get in at least thirty minutes early so I can stow my bagged lunch in my locker, finish my coffee, and get out on the floor before the others.
Productivity is huge with Arrow Mart, so I try to keep my packaging numbers up.
I’ve been vying for a more managerial position.
My rent keeps going up, and my dwindling bank account’s not something I can fix with duct tape.
My landlord is already angling for reasons to kick me out after a handful of noise complaints due to my, uh, enthusiastic bed partners.
“Could you just try one more time?” I ask, really not wanting to get thrown off my schedule.
Like a true pal, Leon rescans my badge. Beep. Red blink. “Sorry, bro.”
The sun is just starting to peek out, giving the majestic mountains in the distance an orange glow.
Whatever Wyoming’s misgivings, it’s always been beautiful.
I can’t knock it for that. Nothing but untouched land, pure in its vastness, surrounds the warehouse.
I soak in the sight, take a deep breath, and zip over to join my coworkers.
Raj is the first person to catch my gaze.
I’ve been here longer than almost everybody gathered, so they often look to me for guidance.
My six-foot-two frame, my rugged dark-brown beard streaked through with distinguished gray, and my beefy tattooed body have earned me the unofficial title of Floor Daddy.
I’d be more welcoming of the nickname if it came with a raise, or frankly, if a hot guy were grunting out the nickname into a pillow while I had my way with him.
But, hey, you can’t always get what you want.
“What’s the word?” Raj asks, cutting through the crowd of ten or more to get to me.
“No idea.” I pull out my phone and glance at the cracked screen.
I’ve got no messages from my supervisors.
Nothing is waiting for me in the Arrow Mart app that tracks our schedules, breaks, and time off.
It uses your GPS location to see where you are when you clock in.
It has a widget for telehealth visits if you need it—and most of us do, since the health insurance is shit—and a group messaging area to swap shifts or share kudos for a job well done with your manager.
I never post in the chat because I’m certain it’s being monitored by high-up personnel, and anyway, I’m not the kudos-giving kind of guy. I reserve praise for my submissives.
I show up, shut up, do my work, and go home.
Clockwork. It’s monotonous, but it’s how I get by.
Dina stops chewing on a pink-painted fingernail to say, “Do you think this has to do with the presentation from a few months ago? I saw rumors about this on the forums. Anonymous posters said something like this could be happening at warehouses across the country. I didn’t give it much credibility when I read it. ”
“What could be happening?” Raj asks.
“Mass firings. Entire teams getting locked out of buildings without notice,” she says, husky smoker’s voice cracking.
Raj looks at me as if I can dispel this rumor. As if there isn’t a massive fucking boulder lodged in my stomach from hearing what Dina said.
“I bet it’s just a system glitch,” I say.
Some of my coworkers seem relieved by my words, even though I know I’m talking out of my ass, trying to assuage my own fast-rising worry before it consumes me. Before it morphs into a more unwieldy emotion that I have a harder time controlling.
There’s a lot of turnover at Arrow Mart warehouses. The hours are long, and the repetitive work can be hard on your body if you’re not capable of carrying fifty-plus pounds at rigorous speeds to meet mandated quotas, especially around the holidays.
I’ve had coworkers get injured, need surgery, and get denied disability when they can’t work.
Some have lost their cars, their homes, and in one instance, their life.
It’s a fucked-up system that makes me want to light a match and burn the building down regardless of who needs their phone cases, kitchen utensils, cheap sneakers, or throw pillows overnighted.
But that’s the world, I guess. People smarter than me would have to change it.
The idea of my entire team getting fired whirs me to red alert. Not only because many have families relying on them, but also because not many places hire men like me. Men with checkered pasts. Men with records.
I hate being a cog in a capitalist pig’s machine, but if it keeps a roof over my head and food in my fridge, then I’ve got to accept the hand I’ve been dealt.
I’ve made mistakes, and those mistakes have sent most of my career paths to the slaughterhouse. Pig squeals echo in my mind. I cringe from the thought of losing everything.
“Uh-oh,” Dina says.
The head of HR, a man named Samuel wearing a striped tie and crooked glasses, marches toward us with a small crew in tow, including our direct supervisor Emmet and an Asian woman carrying a briefcase.
“Good morning,” Samuel says, discomfort written all over his face. Remnants of a croissant cling to the corners of his chapped lips and the lapel of his ill-fitting blue blazer. “It’s come to our attention that there is a malfunction with the Arrow Mart app.”
Some around me sigh their relief. I hold my breath. There’s more coming. Like a change in the wind, I can feel it. I have a huntsman’s instincts, even if I haven’t taken down big game in over twenty years.
“Is that why we can’t get in with our badges?” Raj asks, voice more hopeful than before.