My Job Will Kill Me (Literally)

Most people would consider their place of employment to be a safe, non- threatening location, where they are forced to go to earn a living. I am not one of these delusional people. I do schlep my way to work everyday for the green god we call the dollar, but the place I work at will, and I quote, " Cause cancer, birth defects, lung damage, and do things to your central nervous system that will make you wish you never had one." (Mind you, this is according to the state of California, whose governor has probably put more deadly chemicals in his body than Keith Richards.) You may ask, why would I go to a place like this everyday for almost ten years? Well, I'm starting to ask myself that same question.

I work at an automotive paint company. When you smash your car up in an accident that wasn't your fault, the crook, oops, I mean distinguished body shop that fixes it, is probably using our glorious products. One would never realize the science that goes behind simple things like bondo, primers, paint and all the other poisons, I mean products, that are used to get you back on the open road. There are actually secret labs on exotic islands that I can't spell, which are devoted to creating better and more efficient chemicals for you and your car.

The actual location of my warehouse is located in crime free, suburban Paterson, a vibrant city, which is known for its Chinese restaurants and street corner pharmacists. When one walks in to the building there is an immediate urge to vomit, unless the pungent odor of jet fuel is your kind of thing. There is a small counter area where the degenerates (they call themselves customers) come to pick up their products. On most occasions, these "customers" drag a stench into the building that would remind me of rancid meat with a touch of curry sprinkled on top. Many times my coworkers and I will take bets on who will smell the most foul and try to guess when they will actually bathe themselves.

Being the manager of this particular cesspool, involves getting screamed at a lot by grown men who have the intelligence of a corkscrew. (No offense to any corkscrews reading this.) As the main representative of this fine corporation, I am forced to slap that plastic smile on and simply say, "you are correct sir but I do believe my mother was a virtuous woman." There's also the adventure of negotiating with rats over your lunch. They're a lot worse in the colder months, when you can actually hear them scurrying over your head in the ceiling. Everyday one of my men go hungry, and it's usually the new guy who hasn't developed the skills to outwit the rats. All in all I have a great crew that works for me, but I can't wait to finish school so I can leave the corkscrews and rats behind.