13. Beckett #2
I'd seen this exact problem at Crowe. In the sample room. Before we'd reorganized the flow.
I stood up.
"Kiana."
She looked over.
"If you moved those on a cart instead of carrying them individually?—"
A man's voice cut me off.
"Cart's got a busted wheel."
I turned.
He was older. Late forties, maybe. Wearing coveralls and holding a wrench. He was crouched beside one of the big industrial machines near the back.
He didn't look up.
"Stacking them puts weight on the bottom piece," he said. "Creases the fold. Hospital kicks it back if the crease doesn't come out in the first wash."
"You could stack them with cardboard separators," I said. "Or hang them."
Now he looked up.
He didn't say anything for a second.
Just looked at me.
Then he set the wrench down and stood.
Walked over.
"Ray Sowell," he said.
"Ben."
He nodded.
Looked at the woman carrying the blankets.
Looked back at me.
"Ben," he said. "You know why we do two hundred washes?"
"Hospital standard."
"You know who set that standard?"
I didn't answer.
"Rosalie Ivester," he said. "Nell's mother. Worked this floor for thirty-one years. When the hospital came asking for blankets that could survive a hundred fifty washes, she told them they could have two hundred for the same price."
"That's impressive."
"It is," he said. "You know how she did it?"
"Better thread?"
"Better everything," he said. "Better thread. Better stitch. Better fold. Every single step matters when you're talking two hundred washes."
"I understand."
"Do you?"
I didn't answer.
"Cardboard separators add weight," he said. "Weight compresses the fiber. Compressed fiber doesn't wash the same. Hospital tests every batch. They find compression damage, they send the whole lot back."
"And hanging them?"
"Cart's got a busted wheel," he said. "Has for three weeks. Part's on back order. Even if it wasn't, hanging puts stress on the seam. Different kind of damage. Same result."
He picked the wrench back up.
"She didn't do that by hanging things on a cart," he said.
He crouched back down and turned his attention to the machine.
"She did it by not creasing the fold," he said. "One at a time. Every time."
And that was it.
Conversation over.
I stood there for a second.
Then I went back to sweeping.
My face was burning.
Not from anger.
From humiliation.
Because he was right.
I'd looked at the problem for thirty seconds and thought I'd seen the answer. And I'd been wrong. Because I didn't know what the actual constraint was.
I didn't know the history.
I didn't know the work.
I didn't know anything.
Kiana was still watching me.
"You good?" she asked.
"Fine."
She went back to her machine.
I kept sweeping.
At midnight Hazel came through.
She didn't say anything at first. Just walked the floor. Checking machines. Talking quietly to the woman at the cutting table.
Then she stopped beside me.
I was boxing blankets. Folding them into the cardboard with the edges lined up the way Kiana had shown me.
"How are the hands?" Hazel asked.
"Fine."
She looked at them.
"They don't look fine."
"They'll hold."
"They'd better," she said. "I can't have you bleeding on the product."
"I won't."
She studied me for a second.
"Go sort the returned stock in the back," she said. "Bay three."
"All right."
"And wrap those fingers," she said. "There's a first aid kit on the wall."
I nodded.
She walked away.
I set the broom down and walked to the back.
Bay three was on the opposite side of the building from where I'd been working.
Away from the main floor.
Away from the front offices.
Away from the door Nell would use when she came in at six.
I didn't ask why.
The returned stock was a mess. Blankets that had failed inspection. Some with stitching errors. Some with stains that wouldn't come out.
I sorted them by defect type the way Hazel had shown me.
It took an hour.
At two in the morning she moved me again.
I was back on the main floor, boxing finished blankets, when she appeared beside me.
"Loading dock," she said. "There's a pallet that needs breaking down."
"Now?"
"Now."
"Is someone coming in?"
"No."
"Then why?—"
She looked at me.
I stopped.
"You got a problem with the loading dock?" she asked.
"No."
"Then go to the loading dock."
I went.
The loading dock was cold. The bay door was open and I could see my breath.
The pallet was stacked with cardboard boxes. Empty ones. They needed to be broken down and tied in bundles.
I worked in silence.
My hands were worse now. The splits had opened up on three fingers. Every time I gripped the cardboard it pulled at the skin.
I kept going.
At four Hazel found me again.
"Break room needs cleaning," she said.
I looked at her.
She looked back.
"Problem?" she asked.
"No."
I went to the break room.
It didn't need cleaning.
The counters were already wiped down. The floor was swept. The trash was empty.
I cleaned it anyway.
I was starting to see the pattern now.
Every time she moved me, it was right before the hour turned. Right before the shift would change.
She wasn't giving me work.
She was keeping me out of sight.
Keeping me away from the front door. Away from the offices.
Away from Nell.
I washed the counters that didn't need washing.
And I understood.
Nell was here during the day now. Six in the morning until eight at night.
Hazel had said she'd moved off the cot. That she was staying in town.
But she was still coming in at six.
The same time my shift ended.
And Hazel was making sure we never crossed paths.
Not by accident.
Not on purpose.
Not at all.
I dried the counters and put the towel away.
Then I went back to the floor.
Kiana found me in the break room just before five.
The shift was almost over.
My hands were a mess. The splits had bled through the rough cotton work gloves Hazel had given me halfway through the night.
I was washing them in the sink when she came in.
"You can take ten," she said.
I nodded.
She leaned against the counter and pulled a granola bar out of her jacket pocket.
Unwrapped it.
Took a bite.
"So what's your deal?" she asked.
I turned off the faucet.
"My deal?"