Beige Boxes

Twirl twirl twirl. Snap.

Twirl twirl twirl.                                                  

She tucked her hair behind her ear and heaved a deep sigh. Nine more hours and the night would be over. All these cold long stretches of darkness, the same thing on repeat but with different size boxes and similar situations in different straight rows, the same songs on repeat but in a different order, the same people, over and over and over again.

"Hey, sorry to bother you," the voice from behind her triggered her to jump, "but I have no idea where this goes."

She beamed her red-lipped smile and cheerfully invited, "Let's go for a walk!" as she used a little too much force to push herself out of the rolling chair.

The aisles. The lines and rows of beige box, light brown box, black box, black box, beiger box with black stamps, dark brown box. This aisle, that aisle, all repeating with the same dull shades and overused font and questionable quality inside, all lined up in neat rows. They walked down yet another monotonous corridor as she clicked her pen rapidly, non-stop.

"There you go. Right here."

"Thanks."

Ugh, that same song again. Hadn't she heard this already? Hadn't they played this song already tonight? Or was that last night when they played the song about the sunshine, summer, sandals and sipping spirits by the sea? How she longed to be out in daylight hours, toes nestled in the golden sand. The scent of the trees meandering playfully on the wind, an inviting crystal lake flirting innocently with the overhead rays, birds chirping in circles in an azure sky, the freedom of being in the bright, round sun.

How were they going to get this done tonight? What was the point? She surveyed the back and started counting the boxes. So many endless boxes, boxes upon boxes stacked on flat beams, piled up on the floor, some shrink-wrapped, some being sorted onto lifeless black carts. Eight thousand new boxes tonight. She lifted up her red smile and asked the men in the brown shirts how it was going as she started clicking her pen again. The forklift emitted it's high-pitched beep as one guy shrugged and the other said something she didn't quite catch over the racket.

I don't know how I let myself get into this, she wondered for the umpteenth time as she started absent-mindedly tapping her chest, aching to inhale. Why was she doing this? There had been days of warm grass caressing her soles, long curvy drives along quiet rivers flowing along purple painted hills, gasps of awe at turkeys casually crossing the road, the fragrance of vibrant pink stargazer lilies and orange blossoms drifting over the friendly neighbouring wooden fence. She inhaled again and only a chemical haze hit her nostrils, snapping her back to the windowless interior.

"What's leaking?" she demanded. "I can smell it. Did something get hit? What are you sorting?" Click-click. Click-click. Click-click-click-click-click-click-click. "Did anybody touch this with their bare hands?"

Yet another beige box, it's predictable black font saturated in some oozing substance, probably unsafe to touch, creating yet another square shape as it tried to make it's escape. Oh no. Now she would have to investigate. Look up the safety information. Question the men to see if they knew what happened, be hopeful they would tell the truth but still have to scrutinize their statements, check the cameras. See what the impact was. How dangerous was this? How to dispose of it? How much would it cost? Why did she have to be in charge right now? What would they say?

Gloves on, glasses on, face covered, knife out. She hated having to do things like this. What was it? Cancerous? Corrosive? Explosive? How toxic? How much plastic would she have to use and what other plastic would she have to put it in?

"Hey, do you know where I can find this?"

"Oh, hey. Hey, have you seen these around anywhere?"

Crowded in and cringing, she forced the smile on and winced at her synthetically covered finger creeping its way to her hair, "Just give me a minute guys, I'll be right out there."

Boxes. Safety. Aisles. Questions. Click click click click click click click. Safety first. No, questions first. What happened? What aisle? What chemicals? How to dispose of all of this? It was moving so slow and yet so cunningly.

A blur of black and beige and plastic and boxes and nods and this goes exactly here and that goes precisely there, walk this straight line and down that straight track, make a turn to the right and now it's all clean and okay - safe. But really, how safe was it?

She tried not to breathe too deep and put her hand on her breast. Just remember the pretty pathways. The friendly boughs of emerald trees hiding a great sparkling treasure behind their bountiful expressions, the delicate yellow butterflies going where nature intended. An unspoken adventure beckoning her forward to experience the natural rush. A gentle calling this way, then a chattering brown squirrel noticing her presence and scampering forward, leading her around the next crescent of fiery greens blessed with tiny white flowers. A little twig snapped beneath her bare foot and she offered a tender apology. She could sense the excitement reaching out to her face, the call of a deep heartbeat pulsing to the anciently present stones, the signs of life wet in their glory. Oh, how she missed that waterfall. How clean.

What time was it? Were they making good time? More than half-way through, how many boxes? Click click click click click, why were they slowing down? What was the hold-up? Was everyone okay? Surveying once, then again, doing okay, less than three thousand boxes. Boxes of rust, boxes of unusable devices, boxes of packaging and plastic, box within box within box. She put her hands up to her eyebrows and spread them apart, pulling on her face, eyes closed tight but wishing they were released to witness the light she used to know so well.

She opened them to look at the cardboard, all those empty beige boxes now piling high, the never-ending boxes, ninety-degrees here and ninety-degrees there. Break down the boxes, big boxes, little boxes, put them in the other big metal box and press down to hear the mechanical hum, as the forklift flashes its unnatural light in the background and shrills it's warning song.

I need to go home, she anguished as she sat down at her angled desk, raising her hand to her soft hair again. Twirl twirl twirl. Snap.