The Loneliest Profession

She works in Pod 165, packing blankets, clothes and shoes for Desmond Outdoor Apparel. She's at the end, over 100 pods away from her friend Nicole, who she eats lunch with when they're fortunate enough to have the same break schedule.

She isn't allowed to wear a personal radio and the noise on the floor is grating. She used to wear earplugs but they compromised her ability to hear directions that were given over the loudspeaker to the employees. Some of the employees had the same problem, and so even though earplugs were still allowed, headphones were prohibited. She hated the noise except when she grew so bored she played counting games by listening to the 'chun-ching' noise the conveyor belt made and made bets with herself that it would make the noise a certain number of times. Usually over five thousand times a day.

She finds two of her co-workers attractive--Scott and Mark--but they seldom look at her. Scott says hello to her once in awhile, but he's pleasant that way, a sanguine young man. She would never admit to him that she's fantasized about dating him; she would never admit to Mark that she wishes he'd talk to her and acknowledge her.

Mark often sits at a table two over from her, always with a buddy of his, and he doesn't seem to know she exists and this kills her.

She wears red nail polish because it cheers her up when she puts the clothes into the plastic Desmond mailers, or when she slaps tape on a box containing the famous Desmond Hikers for Men, usually a size ten.

She's thought about getting a tattoo, especially lately and especially since she's seen Maura's. Maura looks no older than 12 in the face, all youth and innocence, but her cargo pants and tank tops betray that, the subtle variations of womanhood accenting the seams of her clothing. Maura got a star of some sort--Oriental, perhaps--tattooed across her lower back. Nobody at work ever saw it unless Maura were stretching or bending to get something and her shirt pulled up.

She likes the idea of getting a tattoo because it's not boring. Everything else is. Her supervisor talks in a monotone manner, although his eyes are happy and do a sort of dance as he looks from face to face during progress updates. He reminds her of her high school economics teacher, someone she'd rather forget.

She works in the Pod by herself. Everyone else is assigned a partner and the two work back to back with a distance less than ten feet between them. She has nobody. She has less chutes to pack out, but it is minimized by the fact that she is alone.

She gets up at five each morning, eats two bowls of corn flakes, showers, dresses and heads to work. She starts each day at seven. Her pod--she's asked to be relocated many times--is always 165. In addition to it being the only solo pod, it is also windowless and the furthest from the heat vent. In winter, it gets quite cool and she has to wear a sweater.

She's never had a boyfriend and that doesn't help the fact that she swoons every time Scott or Mark pass her pod on the way to the restroom. Mark with his hard biceps and Scott with the brown eyes. She is speechless when they are near here, not because they are demi-gods but because she is fearful.

Nicole is so many pods away and has dated several men, some of them from the Desmond pool of bachelors. There were rumors about Nicole and the supervisor.

She chose not to believe them.

She gets to work each morning at seven, slides her card, waves at Nicole and walks the long corridor to Pod 165. The noise gets louder the closer she gets. Nobody is unfriendly to her, nobody scoffs, but nobody tries to be her friend. She thinks it is because they feel guilty for not wanting to work at the end. She thought that maybe she wasn't pretty enough to merit the admiration or attention she wanted. Davia LeVecchio with her olive skin, exotic eyes and Italian accent was the prettiest girl at Desmond's, but she was an anomaly. Girls like Davia were supposed to be supermodels or at least some millionaires pool toy, living on the French Riviera or glued to his arm in Vegas.

She didn't despise Davia, only wished she had some of that attention. Davia, who had stares from the men and was esteemed by the women. Davia, the beautifully exotic Italian immigrant. Davia, whose father locked her in the cellar and whose deranged uncle shot her point blank in the stomach when she was eight. Davia, who kept secrets and unknowingly sparked erotic fantasies in the minds of many of her co-workers.

Working on Pod 165, she thought of Davia and figured life couldn't be better for her.

At lunch, she walks upstairs. She has to walk all the way past the other pods, slide her card again, use the restroom and go to the cafeteria where she must find a table. By the time she sits to eat, she has twenty minutes left. It will take her six minutes to get back to her pod because she stops on the way to brush her teeth, so that leaves fourteen minutes of lunchtime. That's on the days that she finds a table right away. Desmond's Outdoor Apparel has a 65000 square foot flagship store but the smallest employee cafeteria in town. The café at the flagship store is only slightly smaller.

She gets back to her pod and goes right back to work again. Count the items, compare them to the shipping order, put in a catalog, stick the items in the bag, label it and it goes on the conveyor belt. She does that a minimum of 40 times an hour, for eight hours.

No radio, nobody to talk to, nothing but her thoughts and the 'chun-ching' of the machinery.

She drives home in a sedan that is fifteen years old. It's cream colored and the paint is flaking off. She is conservative as she drives, having no real urgency to get to her one bedroom apartment eight miles away.

All that waits for her there are frozen entrees, the television, the computer and Sprinkles, her calico. On a good night, she'll unearth a frozen dinner that she'd forgotten about and find a movie on TV that she hasn't seen in awhile, Sprinkles at her feet--or better yet, on her lap. On a bad night, the frozen dinner is fish sticks and there's nothing on the TV. Those nights, depressed and hopeless, she'll spend two hours in Internet chat rooms telling men that her name is Amber and she's blonde, blue-eyed and built. She'll waste the last thirty minutes of those exchanges having a meaningless but erotic literary romp with one of them and she'll go to bed and cry.

The next morning it starts over.

She is not ugly. With makeup and self-confidence, she would get looked at. She has neither. Some men, the janitors mostly, are less discriminating and they will look at her from a distance, or even up close if she does not see them.

Alone in Pod 165, she counts the 'chun-ching's.

Her parents live halfway across the country and she speaks to them once a week, usually Saturday. She tells them how alone she feels and they tell her to make friends. She tries. She goes to a church but their concern for her is only as deep as hers is for them. She tried volunteering at the library but everyone there is so quiet. She doesn't know what else to do. Her parents tell her to keep her chin up, 'things will get better'. But they never do.

There are nights when even Sprinkles will reject her, sleeping on his fluffy bed and mewing in a distasteful manner when she tries to pick him up. She keeps a journal, most of the entries on warped pages, the paper wrinkled by the dried tears that fell on them.

Nicole doesn't cry, she said it herself. She's known heartache and has been dumped by men before, but instead of being mournful, she grows bitter.

But laying on the floor, crying, with Sprinkles sitting on top of her desk, she does not feel bitter. She feels sorry for herself, looks at pictures of herself as a ten year old and feels sorry for her, wonders why nobody played with her or asked her over to slumber parties.

Davia--she has it all!--was invited to a slumber party where her best friend, Maria, was raped at age sixteen. Davia, who smiles at everyone and is kind even to the ugliest men.

She goes to work another day, wondering if this will be different. Maybe this will be the day, she thinks, that Mark or Scott talk to me. She counts the 'chun-ching' noise, grits her teeth when the loudspeaker crackles directly above her head and walks quickly to lunch.

But Scott doesn't say hi and to Mark she is invisible. Mark, who is giving Maura a shoulder rub in the break room. Mark, who's biceps testify his addiction to fitness. Mark, the closet homosexual.

She sits alone. She brings a book many days so that people don't feel sorry for her sitting by herself with nobody to talk to, but wonders if letting people know she's alone would be better for her. Her mother telling her once that reading at the table is rude and people aren't likely to interrupt a rude person.

Today, Nicole takes her lunch later than she does, so she is alone. But Davia points at the chair opposite her. She nods. Davia sits and starts to eat and she can't help but think this is going to be good for her reputation to have Davia sitting with her.

Davia sliding the fries into her mouth almost seductively, not knowing it, and leaning on her elbows to address her now.

Davia asks why she sits alone and she tells her that nobody likes her, that's why.

"How do you know?"

She only says, "I can tell" and shrugs. Davia nods once and forces a smile but inside doesn't understand. She tries to start a conversation but gets nowhere because she is given one word answers. Eventually, Todd comes in to the break room and takes a table not far from them and Davia excuses herself, thinking this girl doesn't want friends. Todd and Davia sitting awfully close though Todd is married. Davia being raised in a more intimate culture doesn't mean anything by it but Todd enjoying it because his own wife isn't attracted to him.

A two day drive south, the CEO of Desmond Outdoor Apparel sips lemonade aboard his yacht which he spent nearly half a million dollars on. He doesn't know any of his employee's names and is grateful that someone else takes care of the hiring and firing. He sucks on an ice cube and leans back in the on deck chair, smiling against the sun.

And back at Pod 165 it's the same thing, the same routine of counting and gritting and worrying about what's in the freezer.