Employee Feedback by John Beechem

Nine minutes late. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Taking up my valuable time. I’ve earned more this nine minutes than he will the whole year, yet already he’s coming into this negotiation in a position of dominance. Damn him.

The seconds tick by.

There he is. Wearing the tee-shirt with my company’s name on it. JanTek. Stained grey and riddled with tiny holes. My blue jeans probably cost more than his weekly salary. My blazer certainly does.

Let me take a moment to explain exactly what kind of company this is, what kind of machines we make.

They were actually invented by my father, but a few of them are made by our competitors now. They’re shaped like an L. On the bottom part of the L is a wide turntable that spins like a record player. A pallet, a wooden square piled high with a cubic volume of a customer’s product (tissue boxes for example) is turned by the turntable. The top part of the L releases stretch wrap, similar to Saran wrap. It wraps around the pallet until the pallet is sealed tight to keep the load from jostling as it’s moved by a truck to wherever it’s going. And then unloaded by a forklift into the receiving area of a grocery store or a warehouse. Then the stretch wrap is cut open and the product can be placed onto the grocery shelves or someplace else.

If you’ve ever worked in a warehouse or a manufacturing facility, you’ve probably seen them. We have hundreds, maybe thousands of domestic and international customers.

“Sam, good to see you!” My smile hurts. “Thanks for taking time out of your Thursday to talk to me. I promise, this won’t take long.” 

“Good to see you too, Mr. Jankowski. Philip. Can I call you Philip?”

“Please, it’s Phil.” I shake his hands. Sam’s sleeves are almost black with welder’s dust, but his forearms are as clean as they are hairy. I can feel his callouses rub me like tiny dimples of sandpaper.

“Well, Phil, what can I do ya for?”

Sam’s white teeth sparkle through his midnight beard. I swear, the dumber they are, the longer their beard gets. It’s some immutable law.

“It’s this union vote, Sam, it has me worried. My father and I have put a lot of goodwill into this company, and we’d hate to see it ruined. Our quarterly profit sharing bonuses, for example, might go up in smoke. Hard to write something like that into a contract.”

“I get that, Phil, I really do. My grandpa had a pension, you know?”

“Your grandpa? What’s he got to do with this? Looking for a job?” I force a chuckle.

“Grandpa’s pension put a down-payment on my childhood home. Meanwhile, I got a 401(k) that’s so thin, I can barely see the ink on the page. You know why that is?”

“Tell me.” My smile vanishes.

“Grandpa was in the union.”

“That was a long time ago, Sam. I guarantee you, our compensation is very competitive.”

“You say that.” Sam absentmindedly rubs his trucker cap against his scalp and a few flurries of dandruff fall on my Gucci loafers. I’d like to knock his front teeth out for that.

“What’ll happen if the shop votes to unionize?” he asks.

I sigh through my teeth. “In that eventuality, we have a Chinese firm that’s quite interested in our assets. But I hope it won’t come to that.”

“Was afraid you’d say that.”

Quicker than a cat, Sam’s arm moves in a wide arc on my right side like a boxer throwing a hay-maker. I turn to look and see a socket wrench coming toward my face. My vision turns red. And then everything fades to black.

* * * * *

I wake up unable to move. My mouth tastes like copper.

Blood.

I spit out a thick glob of it, but it ends up dribbling down my shirt like a scarlet worm. I see the blood and saliva stain the white of my Oxford, spreading through it like an invading army.

My vision doubles, then comes back into focus. Sam stands in front of me, a grim look on his face. His smile has vanished.

“Phil, do you understand where you are?”

I look around. There’s the cell for the film delivery system. I can see the mainline a little further away. “I’m in run-out.” Run-out is the first area for quality assurance. I finally realize I’m tied to a chair on one of the turntables.

“What exactly are you planning on doing?” I ask.

“Well, you see, I’m about to quit this job and disappear into the shadows. It’s just not worth it any more. But first, I’m going to get a little revenge.”

“Sam, let me go and I’ll write you a cashier’s check for $10,000 dollars.”

“It’s past that, Phil.” His smile is back. He presses a button on the machine, and I can feel the turntable move ever so slightly.

“Never understood why we have this speed setting, but it’s about to come in real handy.”

Millimeter by millimeter, I see the stretch wrap begin to move around my ankles. “This isn’t funny anymore.”

“It ain’t meant to be funny. I figure you got about an hour left until the wrap stretches over your nose and mouth. By the time they find you tomorrow morning, you’ll have been dead about twelve hours. And I’ll be two states away.”

“$100,000. You’ll have a new lifestyle. And I promise, no one will ever find out,” I lie.

Sam shows me a pistol he has tucked into his waistband. “I could shoot you right now. But that’d be too easy. Ya ought to suffer. Like we have. Toiling for breadcrumbs while you grow fat. See you later, boss.” He turns and walks away.

“$200,000!” I yell after him. He doesn’t even look back. I hear the door to the factory shut behind him.

By this time, I’ve turned about fifteen degrees counter-clockwise. The pressure from the stretch wrap gently squeezes the bottom of my calf. I figure I have about sixty revolutions before I’m suffocated. But I’m bound all over by the belts we use for counter-weights inside the machine. They’re the same material used for seat-belts, only these seem to be fastened by at least half a dozen strong knots. I can barely move no matter how much I strain against them.

“Help! Anybody!” Seconds drag by. “Please, I need help!” Good God, this must be some kind of sick joke. Who could do this to another human being? No, it must be some kind of cruel prank, something meant to break my spirit. Those cowards. Can’t even negotiate like gentleman. “Alright, alright, joke’s over. Now come on, let me out and we can settle this like mature adults.” Dust motes dance in front of me, as indifferent to my words as anyone else.

“God damn it, I said let me out! This won’t get any easier for you the longer you keep me tied up like this!” This shit was really getting out of hand. These employees, these underlings really need to understand their place. My predicament is upsetting the natural order. “I SAID LET ME OUT! YOU COCK-SUCKING MOTHERFUCKERS!” I begin to pant, so angry I’m on the verge of hyper-ventilating.

I continue to scream this kind of filthy invective for what feels like an eternity, but is more likely a matter of minutes. If there were any stragglers, I could be saved. But of course there aren’t. Or maybe there are, and they’re in on the whole damn plot. By the time I stop yelling, my throat is raw.

Minutes tick by. Each one feels like an hour. By the time the tops of my calves are wrapped, I’ve traveled five revolutions. Through the windows, the evening sun glows on the factory floor.

The gravity of my predicament finally sets in. I’m actually going to die this way.

I feel warmth spread through my lap and the top of my pants. The scent of urine fills my nose as I realize I’ve pissed myself. Within moments, it has cooled, and I’m drenched in the chill of my humiliation. God damn it.

I begin to struggle with my bonds. Half a dozen zip ties are wrapped around my wrists, bound behind the chair. First, I struggle to pull the zip ties apart, even though I know the effort’s futile. I begin to rub my wrists back and forth, hoping against hope that my Rolex can create enough friction to wear through the cheap plastic. But I soon realize my watch is gone. Sam must have stolen it. Of course he did.

I feel blood begin to drip down my wrists. The pain becomes excruciating.

It’s up to my knees now. A prickly heat beads sweat onto my brow. An anxious burn, one cloaked in pins and needles that cascade down my body. I feel my heart beat. Really feel it, not only in my chest but in my ear drums. A dull thumping, keeping time with the turntable like the seconds ticking on a clock.

The sweat’s in my eyes now. It burns salty. I close my eyes and move them beneath my lids like someone dreaming. Like someone in a nightmare. It eases the pain somewhat.

I breathe through my nose. A slow exhale. That helps. Then another.

A prayer creeps out of my memories. Hail Mary, full of grace. The smell of incense at St. Raphael’s. The Lord is with thee. My mother beside me, a rosary wrapped around her hands. Blessed art thou among women. She smiles as her fingers trace the beads. And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Her eyes are closed as her mouth whispers each prayer. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners. I can smell her perfume. Now and at the hour of our deaths. And see the soft cotton of her cardigan swell with each breath. Amen.

I find a soft calmness. A toehold of sanity in this cliff of madness.

Please God, please help me find a way out of this. I’ll do anything. I’ll raise wages fifty percent, give a fortune to charity. Start one of those foundations, something that gives money to end world hunger or help inner city school children. Empty the coffers.

I feel the cool metal of my wedding ring, snug against the swelling from the zip ties. I’ll be better to Carol. I’ll be faithful, and kind. Attentive. Be the kind of man she deserves. I’ll make things up to Brad, be there for him and his own children like I should have been for him when he was younger. Their faces flash before me in my mind’s eye. Instead of seeing love, I see judgment.

Please, let me live so I can be a better man.

I feel the wrap begin to tighten around my chest. God’s answer is a stony silence, one so heavy I can feel it weighing me down. Of course He would judge me and find me lacking.  

I’m going to die this way. Not so bad, really. It’ll be like holding my breath. Forever. Eventually, I’ll pass out. And then what? Well, then who knows. I doubt it’ll be lakes of fire. Or pearly gates high among the clouds. Probably a vast nothingness.

Or maybe I’ll be reincarnated. That would be a tricky one.

I’ve been greedy. Unfaithful to my wife. Neglectful of my son, even abusive. Cold and unkind to my employees. I lie to myself, tell myself I’m a good man, giving jobs to people who need them.

I even give money to politicians who start wars, who oppress the oppressed just so I can get lower taxes. Even I despise them, but my greed doesn’t stop me from voting for them, for helping them get elected. I wonder what will happen to them after they die and imagine they’ll share my fate.

With my karma, maybe I’d be born in a slum. The lowest of the low. Humbled. Or even come back a few rungs lower on the evolutionary ladder. A dog. A flea. A tick.

Let’s hope it’s the nothingness. That’s the best chance I’ve got.

Quite a neat little cocoon I have now. It’s wrapping around my neck. So gentle. Snug, but not constricting. Death is the ultimate transformation. I almost look forward to what I will become. The hum of the machine will become my funeral dirge. One last song to see me along on my journey into the vast beyond.

I wonder how I’ll be remembered. Probably not as some kind of brilliant entrepreneur. No, that would be my father. His shadow cast even over my own doom. They’ll think of me as the mediocre son of a successful man. As one who fulfilled his station in life, but did not earn it. And Lord knows I’m no saint. Philanderer. Degenerate. That’s what’ll be whispered above my coffin. I always thought of myself as someone who didn’t care what other people said about them.

But as I stare down my own mortality, I realize I do care very much. Especially what people think once they’ve discovered my body. It’s obvious I’ve made many enemies. But to develop the kind of enmity where one would kill me in such a way. It’s humiliating.

God damn me, I’m getting what I deserve. I work these men and women to the bone, and what I ask in return was their undying loyalty. And no complaints. Any whiners get kicked to the curb. Any agitators. All to line my pockets and generate the wealth that will go to my child and his children. At what price? At this price. Being suffocated by one of my own machines. The degree of poetic justice involved in all of this is absurd.

I hear the booming  thud of a distant door being opened.

Is it Sam, unable to resist being witness to the savagery he’s begun? I don’t care. Whoever it is, I don’t want to die alone.

“HELP! HELP ME!” I scream. “HELP MF MMF…” My words are cut off by the stretch wrap that’s finally reached my mouth, like some kind of grim mask. I take a deep breath through my nose. One of my last? Then I begin to grunt and moan as loud as I can, hoping that someone will hear something.

Then I’m greeted by the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard in my entire life. Footsteps approaching. Good God, keep coming. And then he rounds the bend. My savior.

“Mr. Jankowski? Sweet Jesus, what have they done to you?”

It’s Mike Dobbs, one of the foremen on S-Line. Lord knows what he’s doing here this time of day. But at this point, I don’t care.

He hits the emergency stop on the machine, and I lurch to a stop. A finger jabs into my mouth through the stretch wrap, and I can breathe fully. Dobbs pushes his thumb down on the box cutter he pulls from the tool belt he wears, and begins to claw through the wrap that’s enveloped me. I feel like I’m being born again, a sweaty, piss-soaked mess.

“I’ll have to get some wire cutters to get through the belts. Be right back.”

I take more deep breaths as he cuts through my bonds one by one. I rub the numbness out of my joints until the pins and needles are gone. Even in my humiliation, I am not humble.

“Thank you, Dobbs. You’ll be rewarded for this. As long as you don’t speak a word about it.”

Then I take my phone from my pocket and hit one of my contacts. I’ve a man that needs killing.