I Got a Job in a Factory

Hi friends (and casual readers),

This is a brief account of what I’ve been doing the last month. Hopefully you’ll find it entertaining.

A few weeks ago, I got a job in an auto parts factory in Elora, about half an hour outside of Guelph. I got the position through a temp agency, one of many I applied to. The job paid minimum wage, alternating between two shifts: morning (6:30am to 3pm) and afternoon (4pm to 1am). These shifts cycled in periods of two weeks. The plant was basically in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by empty fields and snowbound backroads. For the first two days, I was on the morning shift. I woke up at 5:15, made myself breakfast and packed a lunch, then drove through the deserted countryside to work. The rising sun would just be visible in my rearview mirror, the skyline turning a deep magenta as I pulled into the parking lot. I would join the stream of people passing through the front doors, the footsteps of their steel-toed boots heavy; their voices muted as the cusp of daybreak broke the horizon.

Maybe you’re wondering at this point, why would I – a bilingual university graduate who’d just spent a year teaching English – take a blue-collar job like this? It was certainly a question my new colleagues asked me. The answer was simple: I only had a month to work before I left for the summer. I needed something short term that could bolster my finances. This was the best thing I could find. Borrowing from my parents always makes me hate myself (a little bit), giving them one more reasons to exert financial control over me like some invisible weapon of guilt and shame. There are times when I loath my philosophy degree…

Ghostbusters intern

At the plant, I am asked to sign in at the front desk. I am given a locker and a bump cap, then told to find a uniform that fits me. All the suits are off-white, worn out from years of use. Ostensibly they are laundered each day, but I wonder how thorough the process is… It takes five minutes to find pants and a shirt that fit. I put them on, stuff my civies in a locker and proceed to the cafeteria. There I’m instructed to read a safety manual, while I wait for my new supervisor. Next to me is an older man with greying hair and a scraggly beard. He looks like he’s just walked straight out of the bush and (as I discover later) he has. In silence, we read through page after page of WHIMS protocol, filling out the simple quiz at the back of the booklet.

My supervisor arrives a few minutes after we finish. He’s short, in his mid-forties, and wears glasses. His name is Mohammad, but everyone seems to call him ‘Mo’. He gives us the usual ‘scare-talk’, going over past accidents and impressing the need to be safe on the warehouse floor. The older guy looks bored. I pretend to be bored as well, to hide my nervousness. We put on kevlar gloves and earplugs, then head out into the factory. The plant looks exactly like you’d imagine: like the droid factory from Attack of the Clones. The floor is a sea of giant robotic arms, flailing in perpetual motion. They are fenced into units and set in a grid of aisles for the plant’s fleet of forklifts. The sound of welding is a incessant din in the background and sparks fly as high as the ceiling or right across the aisles, at regular intervals.

Mo leads us down the aisle to the back of the factory, where we’re going to be working in the Quality Assurance hold. Our section of the floor is divided from the rest of the factory by a half-wall. Beside us is the stamping press, a giant machine whose rhythmic boom is clearly audible, even through our earplugs. An overhead crane operates along the side aisle and we’re told to keep a careful eye out for the thing, which regularly transports loads of 1-5 tons.

“You don’t want to be underneath that if one of the cables breaks,” Mo explains. “It could be fatal.”

As we walk, I think how unnecessary this advice is: my head is whipping around every five seconds to check for speeding forklifts. Unfortunately, the excitement of walking through the factory quickly disappears once we reach the QA hold. Boxes upon boxes of metal parts sit waiting for us to sort, and all of it requires paperwork. For the first morning, we sit for hours checking the thread conditions on palm-sized pieces of metal, which resemble the face of the eponymous robot in the Pixar film Wall-E. I try vainly to meditate over the bolt-holes I’m checking for defects, imagining they are blank robotic eyes. I measure my breath to each piece, inhaling as I pick it up and examine it, exhaling as I toss it into the next crate. The voices of my co-workers are a dull buzz in the background.

The robots

At the QA Hold, my fellow trainee and I join another guy called Nigel, who reminds me in equal parts of the Artful Dodge from Oliver and Vinnie Jones’ character from Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. Nigel is from West London and speaks with a singular twang that I can place even through the earplugs. I quickly discover he’s a Manchester United fan and we discuss their former manager (and suspected Scottish mob boss) Sir Alex Ferguson, who Nigel speaks of with a mixture of respect and fear; as if the old Scot’s reach extends even to our little corner of nowhere. I humor him. I understand approximately 10% of what he says. Once he gets into a story he starts mumbling and gesticulating, until he’s barely audible over the beat of the stamping press. I just nod and try to laugh at the appropriate moments.

After a few days, Nigel is sent to work on the line and it’s just Frank (the other trainee) and I left to sort parts. Frank’s a funny character: old, lanky and instantly friendly, with a cheerful grin and a quiet confidence that it takes me a while to figure out. He starts talking to me about gold prospecting on the first day – one of his many obsessions. He’s a survivalist and hunter, who repeatedly claims he could survive in the wilderness if you dropped him out of a plane with a hunting knife.

“Drop me anywhere in the bush,” he tells me. “I’d be fine.”

He tells me his old man was paratrooper and saboteur during WWII, so I’m inclined to believe some of his wilder claims. He likes to talk about guns and his ability to make various explosives. He’s a wood carver too, although apparently he mainly sells his creations to a local chapter of the Hell’s Angels. The disconnect between his immediate persona and his stories is baffling at times, as if he’s reliving the glory days of younger, wilder version of himself. I listen to him ramble on, making a mental note to stay friendly with him and avoid getting blown up. We frequently discuss the impending collapse of society and Frank assures me that he will be the last man standing. I don’t doubt it. When I ask him what he’s doing working at the factory, he explains that he’s living in Guelph to look after his mother. He doesn’t need the money, but he needs something to do in his spare time.

“As soon as she dies, I’ll be off into the bush,” he says. I am momentarily jealous.

For weeks, I go to work and Frank regales me with insane stories of bikers, drug dealers, and his old collection of exotic animals. He used to own a several gallon saltwater fish tank (apparently) containing lion fish, poisonous urchins, clownfish and anemones, along with god knows what else. He used to sell and train parrots, and dreams of owning an elephant. He tells me to never buy a monkey. Dogs are his favorite animals. In fact, I get the overall impression that Frank likes dogs more than he likes people.

The spirit man

Finally, the day comes when there are no parts to check. I am sent to the line, to run one of their welding robots. Frank goes home, refusing to work anything other than quality. It’s the last time I see him, being lead off into the sea of robots by Mo. The week before I leave, Frank gives me one of his carving, something he calls a ‘spirit man’. It’s the face of a bearded old guy, carved into a thin piece of wood. The old man’s eyes are closed and he’s smiling serenely. The carving reminds me, strangely, of Frank himself. Frank tells me the spirit man will bring me good luck. I leave it in my room, as a memento of my bizarre factory job.

A week later, I’m done too. I’m relieved that the job is over, but strangely disappointed. The departure feels premature. My focus immediately switches to the summer job, to figuring out accommodation for the fall. The spirit man sits on my dresser and continues to bring me good luck. Another experience to remember as I move forward.