Tag Archives: warehouse

The Teamster Dump-&-Run

4 Dec

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For the record: it will always be too early in the morning to deal with Bio-hazard waste, but even more so before you have had your coffee.

This morning started much as most did, with paperwork printing and report updates. I was head-down-nose-to-the-grindstone for twenty minutes before calling out to the lobby at (who I thought was) the WHS Pimp.

…It was an easy mistake, as whoever was out there, was making coffee.

…And Boss not only doesn’t know how, but was busy at the moment…arguing over Christmas purchases for the kids on the phone with his ex-wife in his office.

Getting no response to my call, I popped up from the desk with papers in-hand and marched to the lobby in hopes of gaining info on a product drop-date. But, there standing over the coffee maker…scoop in-hand…was NOT the WHS Pimp. It was a tiny man in a beanie hat who looked as if he hadn’t showered or shaved in about a week and a half.

“Must be a Teamster,” I thought to myself as I smiled at him with a blink, then turned on-heel towards the Warehouse. Following the sounds of the forklift, the WHS Pimp was found, my stocking question answered, as I pointed to the truck.

Me: That one of our usual guys? I don’t remember seeing him before.

WHS Pimp: The driver? No. He’s new.

Me: I thought he was you, in the lobby.

WHS Pimp: Thanks?

Me: No…I mean: he was making coffee.

WHS Pimp: Making coffee?

Me: Yeah.

WHS Pimp: Okay.

Me: I was just wondering…does he do this often?

WHS Pimp: I dunno. Not here, anyway.

Me: Okay. So…not to be mean or anything but…

WHS Pimp: Yeah?

Me: Maybe don’t drink the coffee?

WHS Pimp: (Pshaw.) No. It’s fine.

Me: Okay. Well…you drink it first.

WHS Pimp: Lemme finish the truck and I’m on it.

…To which I nodded my head and headed back into the office, where — I kid you not –the second I opened the door I was hit with a warm wall of rotting death.

…Which meant that, clearly, said Teamster had just completed one of the Union’s favorite past-times of taking a giant dump in your office facilities.

I get it:

It’s warm.

It’s clean.

It isn’t a truck-stop, or a Denny’s with another dude sitting in the next stall.

…But for whatever reason that I am NOT sure of, the ways of the road seem to creep into the habits of these dudes…”cleanliness next to Godliness,” being the least favored theme on which to build their hygiene habits, and maybe also: their noses are all broken. Because it seems to me, that they are never conscious of the smell which follows their deed…what’s more, might even be rather proud of it…marching around the lobby afterward, with the bathroom door left wide-open and zero attempts at aerosoling the atmosphere, or washing their hands or (in a lot of cases) even flushing.

…So Mr. Teamster Beanie, was found. In his hand: a fresh (?) pot of water, being taken with him from said stench-way, directly to the coffee pot, where he loaded it, and pressed the brewing button.

Eyes tearing from poisoned gas, I tried to be civil, as I rounded the corner to my office, and waited for Mr. Teamster Beanie to exit…which he did…to join the fellas out in the Warehouse.

…Which is immediately when I shot into action, beating it for the bathroom door…where remains of a new potty-training individual would be the ONLY excuse for what I found. Which I will not describe. But sufficient to say: it took two flushes, three Clorox wipes, and a shit-ton of Lysol spray to repair.

After detoxing myself with harsh chemicals and five or ten handwashings, I eventually emerged back into the lobby, where the bubble and fart-burp of newly brewing coffee greeted me. Along with, soon-after, Boss.

Boss: Hey. I’m gonna run to 7-11, want anything?

Me: Coffee.

(Boss looks at coffee maker, and points.)

Me: After what I had to just clean up in there, I would lick the Warehouse ground, before I would touch whatever is cooking over there.

Boss: A bad one, huh?

Me: Could you not SMELL it?!

(Boss shrugs. My face, holding a total look of disgust.)

Me: God, I hope whatever is in “that,” gets somehow killed by the heat. We may even need a new coffee maker…

Boss: You are just way too germ-a-phobe-ee.

Me: Poop on the seat! ON. THE. SEAT!

Boss: So a large coffee.

Me: YES!

Boss: Got it.

(And he exits, as enters WHS Pimp. I all but throw my body as a buffer, directly at him.)

Me: Don’t. Drink. The coffee.

…And he could tell by my face that this time: I really meant it.

~D

Rocket-Shipping In The Warehouse

2 Nov

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We are one less Employee in population today, here at the ol’ Brothel.

…The WHS Mgr walked in this morning on enough pot, canned CO2, and empty beer bottles to launch an Apollo mission.  The company truck was missing, the forklift: naked in the yard with the key still in it, the gates wide open, and the only clue to go on, being from his WHS lackey at 10:30 PM last night…calling in “sick” for today.

…And now we know why.

A stellar employee, he never was…this is fact.  But that is to be expected from a grown man still living with his parents, who smelled of alcohol poisoning and organ damage, perpetually…never bathed, and had a penchant for hitting on everything with an “X” chromosome.  Even the AM/PM tellers across the street were creeped out in his presence.

“How did he get the job to begin with then,” you may ask?

Because Boss has a “thing” for “second chances” in life. Because he was cheap. And because he answered the ad.

…In that order.

Sure, he had to pass a drug screen et al upon hire, and he did…though at least two of us (in retrospect), have no idea how. It was obvious to us, within a week, that this guy had “issues”…and grounding him from whipping the forklift and trucks around was about the maximum power that either the WHS Mgr (or I) had in this. 

…Which, then, leaves a fairly useless employee, wandering around, making piles of stuff in the yard, then reorganizing them into new piles, over and over and over again.  Occasionally he would paint, or repair something. Sometimes he would shelve some stuff, but by and large his specialty seemed to be off-the-clock drinking, tweaking out on any number of alternate-controlled substances, showing up two hours late, and stacking things, while bitching.

He will not be missed.

Now…every time a layoff occurs here, there is this whole “procedure” we have to undertake directly afterward. Because anyone who has ever worked here knows every weakness in the system of his place…and they know the hours we keep, that the alarm pads are purely for “show” and that if they want something it takes very little effort to get in here and take it. Not that we have much of any worth, outside of product…which weights a literal shit-ton, but with a forklift and a truck in-hand, this place is easy pickings really…and everyone knows it.

…So, instead of doing his average Friday of usual fix-its, the WHS Mgr has been flying around changing locks and bolts and combos and passwords on everything all morning long. Though we know that these things only work enough to keep an honest person honest, and that any pissed-off, drugged-up, drunken asshole who might want to get in, to say…deface every piece of property we own…could very easily do just that, with only a pair of bolt cutters and a 2 x 4.

…We KNOW this…

…And of all the layoffs, THIS is the one that verily PROMISES a return payment. We totally expect it. We just don’t know exactly what it’ll be, or when, or how.

…Which is sorta terrifying, really.

…So today, we are each of us, boxing up and relocating materials and things so that when (not “if”) the inevitable occurs, the damage might not be so bad. But it probably will. And we’ll have to deal with it. Most likely, on Monday.

…Which it totally great, cuz that’s exactly what we NEED! I often say that, in fact: “Geeze I wish we had more crap-happy calamities on Mondays! I feel there just isn’t enough of that in general, around here!”

~D

Sometimes, It’s Just Not Funny

9 Oct

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When the Whs dudes get pissed, they have this little system. 

…It involves demolishing things: product that is already compromised, trucks in the yard that no longer run…I’ve heard tell of it more than I’ve seen it in action, but I have to say, the enticement it offers, far surpasses most anything else.  Great feats in their past include forking a diesel one-ton into the air at its top-most height, than shoving it off, busting tires, shocks, struts, engine pieces and windows at random.  Another (ongoing) is to run into same said truck, with forks primed, and skewer it repeatedly like it is no more than a tin can or something made from aluminum foil.

…They will, upon occasion, shoot nail guns at the dead product pile, annihilating it further as it spews splinters in mini explosions like a machine gun in War.  I’m told that shattering cracked glass is also edifying in accomplishment, or putting a fist through a wood panel…in which case, I will just have to take their word for it.

…All I know is that in the fucked up lunatic asylum that is the “office,”  I don’t have anything to take my frustrations out on but people.  Believe me, nothing would make me happier than to slam my stapler through my office window, bursting it like a bomb instantly.  I would be very content to kick the absolute shit out of the file drawers until they are nothing but dented safes of paper that no one would be able to gain access to, ever again.  I’ve has fantasies of pitching the phone up in the air, and whacking it with a 2 x 4 for a shattering Home Run.  There were less sadistic evil tortures done during the Dark Ages, than I’d like to commit daily, to my computer.  Very few Politicians I hate get me angrier than my Boss on any given day of the week, and when I have HAD it, there is almost not a prop or piece of office equipment…right down to a paperclip, post-it, or a pen, that I could not easily forsee committing homicide with. And this all happens at LEAST once per day without fail.

…Which is NOT a good environment to be in 40 +  hours per week.

I know I am no alone in this. Plenty of people loath their jobs…but they also (most of them) seem to at some point (apparently) come to peace about it, deal accordingly and move on.  I, however, being an exceedingly stubborn person in which “fairness” and “competency” rates higher most days than breathing, absolutely CANNOT come to grips with the hand I’ve been dealt.  Some days are worse than others.  Yes.  But even the not-so-bad days, make jesting about the environment more than I can manage until I’ve put a day between me and whatever it is THIS time, that has royally pissed me off.

…And sure, I’ve had plenty of people say, “well, why don’t you just quit?” And I’ve asked myself that question too, only every twenty minutes in every day.  But the point is: I can’t.  I’m a grown up, with bills to pay, and another career to tend to.  I can’t afford to leave.  Because I can’t afford to drop in pay for 90 days, and any position higher will require me to be on salary with my time at someone else’s beck and call.

…So instead, I implode about crap, give it air time, throw it up in a blog, and try to make light of it, to take away from the power it holds over me.  But it knows it.  I don’t know who I’m really kidding, frankly.  But it seems like the more positive thing to do.  So I do it.

…And I’m doing it now, from my car (again), taking a lunch minus food…just me with my computer and some Netflix, jerry-rigging a sort of drive-in theatre environment for a half hour or whatever, just to cool me down a bit so I don’t go on a rampage shooting staples at the Boss’s face.

It’s all I could think of.

…Well, that and setting the whole place on fire.

But being in jail on arson charges doesn’t fit in my rehearsal schedule, really.

I checked.

~D

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