As an 18-year-old factory worker, I spent my summer learning why I was indisputably better suited for college. I also had a crash course on what my co-workers delicately called ‘fucking the dog.’
One of the company’s lifers, René Muckleson, was a scrawny, greasy-haired slacker with a florid, vein-crossed nose. ‘Mucker’ was a legend in the factory for his unparalleled ability to avoid doing actual work. I would often see him slowly walking through the factory carrying one two-by-four, and then passing the other way 20 minutes later empty-handed. Another 20 after that, Mucker would retrace his first path, holding another two-by-four. This could go on all day, except for scheduled breaks and the work-avoiding procedures that preceded them. The pre-break ritual commenced 15 minutes before the contracted break time, because it wouldn’t be fair if the workers wasted valuable break time playing the coffee game, an elaborate number-choosing contest to see who would pay for everyone’s coffee. The coffee game could only be played during scheduled work hours.
While the factory workers, and Mucker in particular, devised creative ways to steal time from their employer, head office focussed on worker safety. To be avoided at all times was a ‘lost time accident,’ a work-related injury requiring someone to miss their next shift. This was a management obsession, almost as severe as their need to also record the number of injury-free hours, and plan elaborate celebrations of injury-free milestones. An enormous illuminated sign fixed to a trailer was parked in front of the factory, scrolling through the cumulative number of man-hours without a lost time accident. Long before the total reached one million hours, preparations had started for awards presentations, speeches by politicians and other dignitaries, a parade, and a party with elaborate gifts for all one thousand workers, as soon as the sign hit six zeroes.
One of Mucker’s least-original work-avoiding techniques was enjoying a long and comfortable, twice-daily stay in what was affectionately known as ‘Mucker’s Palace,’ the wheelchair-access washroom stall. Mucker didn’t use a wheelchair, but needed the larger stall space for reading materials. One Friday, as Mucker visited the Palace for his morning constitutional, factory activities reached a fevered pitch; it had been calculated that the one million hour safety mark would be reached at noon that day. No one questioned the strange coincidence that this milestone would conveniently be reached on a Friday, at lunchtime, allowing for an all-afternoon party without too much disruption to the work week. The local television station was also grateful that the timing was favourable to reporting the celebration on that day’s evening news. Food was prepared, cakes were decorated, musicians warmed up, politicians reviewed their speeches, balloons were heliumized. A lot of nines were slowly turning on the big light board. As he settled onto his throne, Mucker was oblivious to the flurry of activity outside of the washroom. He skimmed some articles in Reader’s Digest, did the New York Times crossword and a Word Search, and reviewed the annual Gear Guide in Sailing Magazine. Now drowsy, Mucker’s head started to bob a bit, and he gently drifted off into a well-deserved slumber. Only to be rudely awakened when he slipped off the toilet, crashed onto the urine-slicked floor, and promptly broke his arm.
The party was cancelled and the giant numbers were reset to zero, thanks to Mucker’s ‘on-the-job’ accident.
