Becoming

Spindle, shuttle, weft.

Warp, woof, shaft.

It never stops, the relentless clacking clack of the shuttle sailing forth and back.

Factory work. The never ending weaving of tapestries on loom after loom as far down the mill as eyes may see.

Endlessly busy, we have job security with a bullet.

We start early and work our way down the line. The beginners, the newbies, called worms, are at one end. Old timers, OTs, tend the other. And then they’re gone. ‘Nuff said.

But it’s a fact we’re all worms.

Even the old timers don’t know what they’re doing. They dedicate their life of work, toward a future unknown. Does anyone know where they go? I don’t. Too busy, thank you.

At present, I’m stationed in the middle of the line with an army of others.  Each of us wears uniform green, identical down to our feet. Ours is a clean room. Any personality is confined within that disposable green zipped sack, sloughed off at day’s end. We’re told it is protection. But for us or from us? That’s left unstated.

Seems only yesterday, I was a worm, a beginner. Now, I’m a well-seasoned ‘expert’. I’ve survived. I offer advice. Scold the newbies. They’ll be OT in no time. I’ll be one before I know it if I survive this endless treadmill.

Time creeps by. And we fill our day feeding the unending hunger of the looms.

We call the newbies worms. Apprentices in fact. Seems they start soon as they can crawl. They keep the spindles refreshed so the looms can run without a hiccup. No downtime here.

We’ve all been there. It’s mainly affectionate, their nick name. We all started as worms. Truth be, we’re still all worms, you know? Eat to work. Work to eat. That is all we’ve ever known.

And no clue about the future, my friend. Future? That’s for old timers. I don’t have time for the future.

The key is attention to detail, which no one notices unless a thread pops. Then you’ll hear. But nary a word when perfection’s in sight.

When they unfold one of our beautiful, tapestries for display, they act as if it happened by accident. Beauty unfolding of itself. Of course. Spontaneous creation. Is there any other way?

And the criticism never comes with words that point up the path of improvement.

You should hear our foreman, Mr. Mulberry. “More so, faster, better, cheaper, be creative, who asked for creativity?  Read the pattern.”

It has ever been thus.

“We need it yesterday, show me something I’ve never seen, something like last month’s model.”

I curl up to sleep while I can. My next shift is soon. I’m safe within my womblike cocoon. While I dream of a different time, the relentless treadmill rolls on. The loom weaves endless blankets for old timers.

You never ask for O.T. It doesn’t mean ‘over-time’ but ‘old timer’. You ask for O.T. and they age you out.

Then you get your ‘Pie in the sky,’ whatever that means. Pie? Sky? Heard of them, never seen them. Worms wonder about what they’ve heard. Old timers speak with hope.

Another shift. That bright disk that marks the day stands still until you look away. It creeps. I never see its hands move –yet, in a blink, without effort, the time is gone.

Was I busier? Did time pass more slowly? The one constant, always feeding that voracious loom.

I eat lunch with Kat and Pilar whose loom shifts and clacks in constant staccato. It is a delicious pause, spinning stories and yarns for a change.

Mr. Mulberry stood over us. He likes a joke. He told Pilar, “You have such beautiful silken hair. Take care I don’t feed it to one of our looms.”

Pilar responded, “Oh, ho, ho… Is that a joke of a threat? Or a threat of a joke?” Every day the same script.

At the next table, a dispute arose over whether we use ‘thread’ or ‘strands’. Another says ‘filament’ is the best term. Sides were taken. We agreed to disagree. The need to fabricate some drama fills the time. It’s all the same to me.

Old timers. What happens to them? They age out. And I’ll soon discover to where, or not. The story goes that time flutters by. Some pretty confection for the eye. And then we’re promised pie in the sky. If only.

So where do the old timers go? Out to pasture? They say so.

The wise ones don’t stick around – they never return to share. They don’t come back at all. Because they’re wise? Or don’t they care? The whole idea makes me squirm. Why worry about it? Nothing changes either way.

Exhausted, I curl up to sleep. I awaken and the looms continue, never stopping. Will I be missed? Production never catches up with demand.

“What’s that?” Asks a young worm, looking up. Some outlandish winged thing flits from branch to branch. It doesn’t so much fly as flash. Making no progress at lightning speed. Everywhere at once. Here and there, up and down, here and gone.

Though it isn’t grotesque, it’s not like us. We’ve nothing in common. Who could invent such an odd thing? A floating spark, all movement and no substance. I cannot get a good look before it’s gone.

You always know where we will be, ever tending the loom.

It isn’t a bird. Birds attack. Or so I’ve heard. The bird stories terrorize us worms. No one wants to hear, but in quiet moments, everyone tells their tale. Each flight of fancy outdoing another.

No, this one is unlike any bird. Tracking its erratic airborne dance takes more effort than I can muster. I pull away from what feels a dream. I have work. The loom owns me.

I say, “Concentrate. The distracted never get aged out. Birds get them.” That stops him. “It’s not our concern. Nothing to do with us. We’re on the clock…”

I hate to be severe but… “Those things are the source of pie in the sky stories. Attend to your job. No future in all that fluff.”

He’s a worm. How could he know? I catch myself, seeing I’m an old timer now.

The old timers always said they found me under a leaf. Those OTs have nothing but stories. Everyone’s told the same old thing.

I’m near the end of the line. I guess it’s my time. Ready to rest, I’m aging out. Where to from here? I await my marching orders.

I used to joke about the old timers. And now the joke’s on me. I am one. How fast that creeping clock moves.

I slough off the drudgery along with my green uniform. Any day, as they say, I’ll fly away. Lead the way.

I move passed the conveyor into the shipping room. It’s quiet. A cute one, Mulberry’s assistant, offers three of the latest shrouds and tells me to pick my favorite. The middle one suits me.

She smiles. “Try it on.” And so I do.

She leads me by the hand to a quiet place. I can be alone. I make myself comfortable. My eyes feel heavy.

As I prepare to snooze, one of those winged creatures alights near-by. It’s close and not at all grotesque. Its wings move gracefully, fanning me as I doze.

A curious sense that we know each other wafts over me. I smile at this absurdity. I rest.

I sleep.