tenchi muyo 
race against the machine
So I was working at this printed circuit board (or PCBs, for the initiated) fabrication plant three months ago. Working night shifts, twelve hours a day, four days a week. 7pm to 7am. It was great. I was in my element, being the nocturnal insomniac that I am. Too bad the fucking job sucked.
No thought processes needed. No neurons need click excitedly with electricity with one another. No iota of creativity allowed. Hell, they should have put a "Check Your Brain At The Door" sign at the entrance. Just as a reminder that working at that place too long will surely lower your I.Q. and maybe make you look ten years older too.
A typical work day involves strapping your cotton gloves on in preparation for the inevitable mind-numbing inactivity that lies ahead. Key in the desired settings to the Orbotech machine -- this massive beast humming with power, looking like it could eat you whole and deconstruct your atoms into usable energy and a pile of steaming, digested meat -- and you're set. Now grab a PCB, one of thousands you're gonna plough through for the day so might as well take your time if you could afford to, and place it carefully now into the slot in the machine. Push the right buttons, one on either side of the machine to make sure your hands won't get caught inside, and that baby will slide right in. Now repeat.
That's it. That's your job as a factory machine operator. Not sure why you were sent here, being a Diploma in Aerospace Electronics student and all you gotta have some brains in you, but now that you're here might as well do what you're told to do. You don't have much of a choice, anyway. I'm just doing my job as the pain-in-the-ass supervisor, doing nothing but look important all day, walking around telling everyone else to do their jobs, 'cos that's my job. Now you do your job and stop complaining. And, heh, it's kinda fun watching you squirm under these oppressive fluorescent lights doing your lamebrain work. Who knows, maybe we could kill your youthful enthusiasm after a few weeks. I'll be upstairs sipping a martini and you better be done with this when I get back so I can give you more work to do.
So that's it. Insert the circuit board for the machine to scan for defects while you load up another one. Remove the circuit board and insert another. And another. And another. And another. Insert, Scan, Remove. Insert, Scan, Remove. Insert, Scan, Remove. Oh, what fun! Cigarette breaks were the only things to look forward to most nights. Some of the ladies flirted with you occasionally, but hey, you don't belong in this place so keep to yourself. Keep your hands to yourself. I wanted to keep my hands to myself; it wasn't like they were chicks to die for, to put it bluntly.
No way, nuh-unh. Only relationship I'm having is with my machine. She was like my mistress in some ways. Beholden to me to work things just right. Insert a stiff one into her, push all the right buttons and she'll gladly accept. I push in too hard sometimes, sorry about that, but you know how I get over-zealous sometimes, and you like it like that sometimes, too; only way you would respond when it gets too hot in there. Push in, pull out. It was easy, really. She'll reject you if you had too many flaws, as though the proliferation of the species depended on it, but that rarely happened to me. I could have enjoyed our pointless affair, really, if not for that dumbass supervisor looking over my shoulder all the time. What's his problem, anyway? Maybe he was jealous. I knew how to work you, and perhaps he envied my deft ability to treat you just right. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.
The only way I could entertain myself was to imagine something as bull-shitty as that. That, and singing to myself amidst the humming of the machines and the fucked-up supervisor ordering me to do my work, "Faster, faster, faster!" (I'm not going to spell out anymore sexual allusions to that, but it's beginning to dawn on me that maybe he really was a voyeuristic pervert getting a natural high from ordering people around with his pseudo-supervisor status to compensate for being a short, dinky shrimp. Our foreman frequently called him "small boy", for obvious reasons).
Mostly I'd croon to a slow George Michael or Robbie Williams tune, and sometimes a Jewel melody would sneak into my head and I'd sing to that too. Just to pass the time and keep my brain functioning at least. After twelve hours of doing the same shit, I'd be on a two-hour journey home. And the next day, another two hours of traveling to work, and everyday in the company bus I would pass the Lamborghini showroom, staring at the cars in a multitude of shimmering colors, chuckling at myself as I calculated the number of years I would have to work at the factory making printed circuited boards just to own one of those cool, impressive vehicles to indulge myself in.
Then I realize there were people who have been working at the factory for years now, earning peanuts in a dead-end job with nothing to look forward to except coming home and going to work the next day, perhaps for the rest of their lives just to pay their bills and raise their children. It stops being funny. I'm just glad I got out of there.
No thought processes needed. No neurons need click excitedly with electricity with one another. No iota of creativity allowed. Hell, they should have put a "Check Your Brain At The Door" sign at the entrance. Just as a reminder that working at that place too long will surely lower your I.Q. and maybe make you look ten years older too.
A typical work day involves strapping your cotton gloves on in preparation for the inevitable mind-numbing inactivity that lies ahead. Key in the desired settings to the Orbotech machine -- this massive beast humming with power, looking like it could eat you whole and deconstruct your atoms into usable energy and a pile of steaming, digested meat -- and you're set. Now grab a PCB, one of thousands you're gonna plough through for the day so might as well take your time if you could afford to, and place it carefully now into the slot in the machine. Push the right buttons, one on either side of the machine to make sure your hands won't get caught inside, and that baby will slide right in. Now repeat.
That's it. That's your job as a factory machine operator. Not sure why you were sent here, being a Diploma in Aerospace Electronics student and all you gotta have some brains in you, but now that you're here might as well do what you're told to do. You don't have much of a choice, anyway. I'm just doing my job as the pain-in-the-ass supervisor, doing nothing but look important all day, walking around telling everyone else to do their jobs, 'cos that's my job. Now you do your job and stop complaining. And, heh, it's kinda fun watching you squirm under these oppressive fluorescent lights doing your lamebrain work. Who knows, maybe we could kill your youthful enthusiasm after a few weeks. I'll be upstairs sipping a martini and you better be done with this when I get back so I can give you more work to do.
So that's it. Insert the circuit board for the machine to scan for defects while you load up another one. Remove the circuit board and insert another. And another. And another. And another. Insert, Scan, Remove. Insert, Scan, Remove. Insert, Scan, Remove. Oh, what fun! Cigarette breaks were the only things to look forward to most nights. Some of the ladies flirted with you occasionally, but hey, you don't belong in this place so keep to yourself. Keep your hands to yourself. I wanted to keep my hands to myself; it wasn't like they were chicks to die for, to put it bluntly.
No way, nuh-unh. Only relationship I'm having is with my machine. She was like my mistress in some ways. Beholden to me to work things just right. Insert a stiff one into her, push all the right buttons and she'll gladly accept. I push in too hard sometimes, sorry about that, but you know how I get over-zealous sometimes, and you like it like that sometimes, too; only way you would respond when it gets too hot in there. Push in, pull out. It was easy, really. She'll reject you if you had too many flaws, as though the proliferation of the species depended on it, but that rarely happened to me. I could have enjoyed our pointless affair, really, if not for that dumbass supervisor looking over my shoulder all the time. What's his problem, anyway? Maybe he was jealous. I knew how to work you, and perhaps he envied my deft ability to treat you just right. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.
The only way I could entertain myself was to imagine something as bull-shitty as that. That, and singing to myself amidst the humming of the machines and the fucked-up supervisor ordering me to do my work, "Faster, faster, faster!" (I'm not going to spell out anymore sexual allusions to that, but it's beginning to dawn on me that maybe he really was a voyeuristic pervert getting a natural high from ordering people around with his pseudo-supervisor status to compensate for being a short, dinky shrimp. Our foreman frequently called him "small boy", for obvious reasons).
Mostly I'd croon to a slow George Michael or Robbie Williams tune, and sometimes a Jewel melody would sneak into my head and I'd sing to that too. Just to pass the time and keep my brain functioning at least. After twelve hours of doing the same shit, I'd be on a two-hour journey home. And the next day, another two hours of traveling to work, and everyday in the company bus I would pass the Lamborghini showroom, staring at the cars in a multitude of shimmering colors, chuckling at myself as I calculated the number of years I would have to work at the factory making printed circuited boards just to own one of those cool, impressive vehicles to indulge myself in.
Then I realize there were people who have been working at the factory for years now, earning peanuts in a dead-end job with nothing to look forward to except coming home and going to work the next day, perhaps for the rest of their lives just to pay their bills and raise their children. It stops being funny. I'm just glad I got out of there.
PLAYLIST
B.Y.O.B. -- System Of A Down
Holla Back Girl -- Gwen Stefani
Speed Of Sound -- Coldplay
Feel Good Inc. -- Gorillaz
Best Of You -- Foo Fighters
*
posted by the narcissist at 4:53:00 am
4 comments
