by April Clemens
The etching factory exists on the outskirts of boredom. It’s a place nobody thinks about. If you’ve ever received a trophy or a personalized coffee mug it has matriculated through the etching factory first. It is the twilight zone of nothingness and the dullest ring of hell. I worked in packing. I should know.
I packed the mugs, the trophies, the plaques. I listened to the other ladies, who scoffed at my sloth-slow packing skills, ramble on about, um, I don’t remember. I was asleep. It was probably about tuna sandwiches.
With repetition I became quicker. Perceiving my possible potential, I was bumped up to stickering. The stickers looked like pink, fruit-roll-up stencils. The trick was to slap them on straight. After items were stickered they went to the etching department. Margarita, a large, gentle Mexican woman who looked upon me with motherly kindness, worked in the etching department. She stuck her hands into long gloves mounted in a clear plastic box and sprayed sand against the stencils until the message was blasted in place. She let me try it once and shook her head sadly when I couldn’t do it right. It was an art, I suppose. Etching was not my forte.
But the boss thought I was bright and ready for yet another position. I became the person who guided the glass blocks along the moving water trough. I’m not sure what else to call it. I wasn’t really paying attention when it was explained to me. But the boss liked me; I was invited to come to a convention with him and some of his relations.
Were the ladies in packing ever jealous! Why hadn’t they been invited to the convention? It was their world. They had been born etching, packing, putting the glass blocks on the water trough. God willing, they’ll have their funerals there someday, too; have their tombstones stickered and etched and the other ladies in packing will wrap their bodies up and give them to their relatives. It’s in the retirement plan. Or they can be cremated and their ashes sprinkled in the water trough. If they have been extra good, the boss may do their eulogy. Sniffling, he will read,
“She was a great worker
And it is my deepest regret
I could not take her
To the convention.”
April Clemens is a writer, musician, single-mother, and rough-shod rider of all life's got.
The etching factory exists on the outskirts of boredom. It’s a place nobody thinks about. If you’ve ever received a trophy or a personalized coffee mug it has matriculated through the etching factory first. It is the twilight zone of nothingness and the dullest ring of hell. I worked in packing. I should know.
I packed the mugs, the trophies, the plaques. I listened to the other ladies, who scoffed at my sloth-slow packing skills, ramble on about, um, I don’t remember. I was asleep. It was probably about tuna sandwiches.
With repetition I became quicker. Perceiving my possible potential, I was bumped up to stickering. The stickers looked like pink, fruit-roll-up stencils. The trick was to slap them on straight. After items were stickered they went to the etching department. Margarita, a large, gentle Mexican woman who looked upon me with motherly kindness, worked in the etching department. She stuck her hands into long gloves mounted in a clear plastic box and sprayed sand against the stencils until the message was blasted in place. She let me try it once and shook her head sadly when I couldn’t do it right. It was an art, I suppose. Etching was not my forte.
But the boss thought I was bright and ready for yet another position. I became the person who guided the glass blocks along the moving water trough. I’m not sure what else to call it. I wasn’t really paying attention when it was explained to me. But the boss liked me; I was invited to come to a convention with him and some of his relations.
Were the ladies in packing ever jealous! Why hadn’t they been invited to the convention? It was their world. They had been born etching, packing, putting the glass blocks on the water trough. God willing, they’ll have their funerals there someday, too; have their tombstones stickered and etched and the other ladies in packing will wrap their bodies up and give them to their relatives. It’s in the retirement plan. Or they can be cremated and their ashes sprinkled in the water trough. If they have been extra good, the boss may do their eulogy. Sniffling, he will read,
“She was a great worker
And it is my deepest regret
I could not take her
To the convention.”
April Clemens is a writer, musician, single-mother, and rough-shod rider of all life's got.
