Jabberwocky Reprise

"I am the worker sold to the machine."-Langston Hughes
Many a night spent in solitude in this white noise. Many a night spent wishing for solitude in the traffic of human effluent and the communication smog. The damp musty laundry baskets of the cities, full to the brim with week-old wet towels and stained underwear that clogs the trains at night and lurks just beyond the beams of the lights of the street. Human would be too soft a term for this thing... the substance that oozes from the drains and flows down the gutters into the streams, into a place to hide; nature is where it seeks sanctuary, though sanctuary is too sacred a word for what it does there. It violates the water... It abuses the sky until it is bruised and scarlet; the blood: ozone red, as black as the chambers of Judas’ heart, blood black. A vile chameleon of the elements, a parasite, a germ: the apathy virus.
Lydia was a sewer. She worked eight hours a day, 8 a.m. till 4 p.m., except on Fridays when the company let their employees go home early at 1p.m. She was not a company drone. She had many talents. She was bright and articulate. Lydia’s career choice was made on the spur of the moment: she needed a job. The union provided her with a safety net. The girls at work were normal individuals; they all had their quirks.
Personally, Lydia was a very interesting woman. She was only young so perhaps woman is not the word. Lydia was not a communist but she read the fantastic stories of Mao and his red army, but then, Lydia read a lot of things. Her favorite book was ‘The silence of the Lambs’ by Thomas Harris. She dreamed of becoming an author...an author not an authoress as she had been instructed by someone along the way.
A clothing-manufacturing factory is like no other place on earth. An eerie, repetitive, mechanical, fashionable and humble place. The buzz of the machines becomes almost musical. It is not at all like a cold, sterile office, or a maniacally vibrant shopping mall; a factory is too human. The girls (there are male sewers too but only 1 in Lydia’s factory) add colour to the repetitive printed fluroescents of the garments and the overhead lights. In a factory you can look like you just crawled out from a cat’s ass: one of the perks of manufacturing. It may not be pretty but damn it, it’s colourful!
From the outside, the world looks upon a dreary corrugated iron roof and dry, cracked painted walls. Concrete surrounds the factory except in the courtyard where there is gravel. When the factory first opened, Julie, one of the girls, threw a passion fruit into the corner of the graveled courtyard. A year later a robust, voluptuous vine erupted from the rocks and still thrives on the excess heat and light that the factory throws off it’s metal walls. The courtyard is where the smokers sit for lunch. Lydia sat there the day that the factory closed down.
Lydia’s story is unlike Anton’s. It begins similarly though: a normal day in a normal life. This day began a year before the factory closed.
She was late for work. This was normal. Lydia lived only a kilometer away from work so when it was time for her to wake up she felt that she always had time for five more minutes sleep. Of course, when we say “five more minutes,” we all know that this never actually means five more minutes. She rushed in from the car park where she had been dropped off for the day by her next-door neighbor who also worked in the same industrial park as Lydia’s factory. She took her punch card out and clocked in at 8:09. She scurried into the manager’s office, apologised for being late and said that she would: “make it up during morning tea.”
“That’s Ok Lydia.” The manager said. “I know you always do.” Lydia thanked her boss for being so understanding and swished away into the finishing room.
Her machine waited for her. There was a whole day’s worth of work sitting on her table and Lydia dived straight into it. The “feed off the arm” machine is what some people in some factories called her machine. Some call it a twin or a triple needle, still others called it a “Damn, bloody, stupid, fucking thing,” often in frustration. The machine would fold two edges of fabric together and stitch them as they were fed through the folder, interlocking the pieces in a consensual, manufactured embrace; you could never force two pieces together...they had to want it. The kinds of stitching that you see down the sides of leg seams of jeans was what Lydia sewed. If you turn the jeans (and I know you will look for it) inside out, you will see that the threads are actually chained together, unless of course the jeans you own are cheaply manufactured in which case you will not have chain stitching. Don’t pull on the thread! If you do the whole row of stitching could unravel. This made Lydia’s job a breeze. If she made a mistake, she could simply pick at these threads, unravel the rows of stitching and do it all over again.
The factory was a lovely place to work but it had its bad side. In the middle of a tropical summer day, the temperature would rise to about 40 degrees Celsius and chances were that the factory would be producing something to import to a western country, higher up in the food chain than Lydia’s, who needed new winter fashions to hang on the racks. Not to down play the humidity, in fact the humidity was even worse. If there was wool on the line, some of the girls would have to go home on these humid days. But the boss was not without concern. Actually it was the unions who had the workers’ well being in mind when they made the law that when the temperature reached 41 degrees Celsius in the factory, the workers would either go home or take a break until the temperature dropped. During these breaks the manager would often bring the girls some ice cream or soft drinks (this wasn’t compulsory but the manager liked to look after the workers.) This was not a cheap expenditure; there were over 140 people employed in the factory. The cost of this extravagence was more than Lydia made in a week.
This day was nice though. The pleasant morning spring breeze wafted in through the double doors and kissed Lydia as she bustled with some weatherproof coats. “Hey Lydia...” Sharon from the Bar-tacker shouted over the familiar buzz of the machines. “Yeah?” Lydia said over her shoulder.
“Could you do me a favor?”
“Depends on what it is...”
“I need someone to put a seam into this strap. It’s for Kurt’s back pack.” Sharon referred to Kurt in the cutting room. Kurt was one of those dudes. He was often the whipping boy for many of the girls’ sexually harassing remarks but, being male and a dude, he was never offended by these remarks, maybe just a little embarrassed because most of the girls who made the remarks were much older than him. Lydia wasn’t really fussed over Kurt. He was good looking, she had to give him that, but she didn’t really find him attractive so she could have declined to sew the strap for his custom made backpack but in this working environment you help your coworkers. “Yeah Ok. Put it in my pile and I’ll do it after this.” These kinds of things are a regular request.
Another sleeve and a turn to the left. A sewer’s job is a lot of repetition, before you know it your sewing in your sleep, or asleep while you are sewing. This is why Lydia often drank several caffeinated drinks during the day. Another thing she learned to do was to “zone out.” The sewer’s “zone out” is a simple form of meditation that many yogis and martial arts gurus use to block out pain or concentrate or clear their thoughts. It requires a bit of focus and a bit of practice. Lydia acquired this skill by listening to her personal CD player and repeating the same movements over and over at regular intervals and concentrating on clearing her mind. Sometimes she would focus her mind in a particular direction, like, for example, on a story-line she was developing, and these methods proved fruitful. The “zone out” also came in handy if the company needed to push through a very large quantity of garments in a small amount of time. Naturally the sewers would have to work harder to fill the order on time and repetitive movements can really take their toll on the hands, shoulders, neck, back and hips, especially when sewing. Lydia didn’t suffer from any major afflictions in these areas but at the end of the working day her shoulders would ache slightly and, if there was a rush to fill an order, this ache would consume her energy and drop upon her around 3 p.m. This is where the zone out would have its most beneficial effects. Pain management sort of came with the territory.
The day moved on. Lydia sat with her friends at the smoker’s table for morning tea and lunch. She put the strap through for Kurt. The end of the day came without event. At ten minutes to 4 Lydia tallied up her quota. With two minutes to spare, she cleaned out the fabric dust and grime that had collected inside the machine. The bell rang and the girls, who had been waiting at their machines anxiously, ran to the punch out clock to line up. Lydia didn’t jump at the sound of the bell. She was still cleaning her machine. The elegant shine of the diesel over the metal and the old metallic blue paint gave her machine a grace; the airs of a widowed queen. Lydia got up, collected her CD player and wandered over to the line, which hadn’t really moved.
The girls chattered excitedly. Lydia was quiet. She’d worked hard that day. The boss surveyed the line with a smile. Lydia was still zoned out. Her mind drifted into the day’s work. A bundle of weather proof coats, some jeans, the strap. Lydia punched out and looked for her neighbor’s car. It wasn’t there so she sat at a cafeteria opposite the factory parking lot. “I wonder if my mother's home.” Lydia pondered a walk home. The journey wasn’t far but on top of a long physical day’s work it would certainly be arduous. The car park emptied as Lydia sat alone in the closed cafeteria, waiting for her neighbor.
Lydia stared at the greying sky. The street of the factory was vacant but a road that led into the street was busy, the cars were full of mothers picking their kids up from school and workers rushing home. A street light came on. It was still daylight but the timer on the light was broken so this light always came on two hours before the rest of the lights.
The industrial park spoke to Lydia and she listened to the distant murmurs of drills and clangs of shelves. It was alive. It whispered laments to Lydia in a voice that was semi-corporeal; omnipotent like an angel, like a brooding willow, the beloved annulled. Lydia felt sympathy for the park. She wanted it to rejoice in its awkward buildings, the churches of the 20th century. A new building, freshly painted with pastels, jutted out on the corner. Next to it sat an elder, wiser building. It sat on concrete courtyards like an old woman on a recliner watching silently and knowing better, the iron bars on her windows, the years of experience, mapped out for all to see, the lines on her face, ever knowing, ever silent and more the wiser for it.
The cafe was still but there was still noise, the echoes of the happily fed working class. Lydia knew that this was the park’s most beautiful place. The temple of labor was not the factories but the factory’s lunchrooms, a badge on the chest of the unions.
Another streetlight came on. The sky had been getting darker as clouds moved in from the west. A storm was brewing but it was not threatening to rain yet. Lydia lit a cigarette. The industrial park was lonely. She tried to comfort the park with a smile. It only made it worse. “I am alone now.” It said. Lydia was taken aback. The park sighed with the noise of the traffic passing him by. “Alone.” It sighed again as a car drove out of its bitumen veins. The few trees next to the cafe swayed in the gentle breeze. The park wept. “They’re all gone, they are all I have.” It said.
Lydia began to doubt her sanity. She shook off the zone out and walked back to the factory. There was a public phone next to the punch clock. Lydia eyed the boss’s open office. The boss looked up from her desk and nodded in recognition to Lydia. Lydia waved a finger to her as she picked up the receiver and dialed her home number. It rang... it rang four times before the answering machine picked up. “...Leave a message... beeeeeep...”
“Hi mum its me. If you are there could you pick up please?...” No one answered. “Ok if you get this message, I’m at work still and I need a lift but I’ll probably walk home soon... Ok?...Bye.” She placed the receiver back on the handle. At least she could smoke in the cafeteria.
Lydia wandered back over the car park and sat on the bench. She lit another cigarette. The park looked on with puppy eyes, a doteing, amalgamated look that melted Lydia’s heart. She got up and started walking. “Don’t leave me. Please.” The park begged. Lydia had a choice of two paths: the long way through the industrial park or the noisy way along the main road and through the battered, lower class suburb. Lydia pondered this for a moment. “I have to go,” She said to the park. “But you can walk me home the long way.” Lydia tightened the laces on her boots and began to stroll home.
The sun was still shining off the windows of some million dollar homes in the middle distance on top of a hill. The park hummed an Edwardian children’s song with the hundreds of octaves of the grey noise from cars and machinery. It hung an arm over Lydia’s shoulder and pulled her tight, close to him. “I like you.” It said but its voice was different, menacing and subdued. Lydia shivered a little as some drizzle pattered onto her shoulders. She folded her arms. “You will stay with me won’t you?” Lydia stopped. The voice was more succinct, more defined. Before this, Lydia thought that the voice of the park was just her poetic imagination running away with her but now... “the park couldn’t possibly be alive...” She insisted to the creative hemisphere of her brain, “it’s impossible” Logic further asserted. Lydia didn’t like the way the park looked now. It was unfamiliar. The buildings had transformed into old decrepit, rotting timber and empty lots, full of rusty old car parts and rubbish. There was a dirty old dog tied up next to a truck station. It didn’t bother to move it only watched, pitifully, desiringly, as Lydia passed it.
The rain had touched the ground and recoiled as though it were testing a bath that was too hot. “mum won’t be looking for me this way” Lydia thought. The buildings now loomed like gargoyles on a gothic church, one snarling a grin in Lydia’s direction. The silence of the park now frightened Lydia. “Are you there?” Lydia asked the zone.
“I am always here.” It replied. “I will always be here until long after you are dead. Until mankind slithers back into the slime from whence it came, until the sun...”
“Why are you saying these things? Stop it!” Lydia was now very scared. The buildings on this side of the park were all closed and had been for years. The rusty garage doors had been darkened and spotted by the drizzle. She stopped. “I thought you liked me.”
“Oh, I do.” The park whispered.
“Why did you say such things? Are you trying to frighten me?”
“I am only telling you the truth. The truth can sometimes be frightening.” The park had changed its tone again. This new tone cramped at Lydia’s heart. She looked for a path to the main road. There was one about four buildings away. She stepped carefully, showing off her confidence. The park breathed heavily. “Don’t leave me!” It screamed. Lydia ignored it. She picked up the pace. “I thought you felt sorry for me. You are just like all the rest of them.” It said. Lydia turned the corner into the alley. “You come here, use me and leave.” The alley smelled like sulfur. Some kind of greasy run off had collected in a puddle with the modest rain. Lydia looked into it as she stepped over it. She saw her reflection and it made her heart jump. “I won’t let you go!” The park asserted. Lydia began to run, past the drum, past the used syringes and the Dumpster. The alley grew tighter, restricting light and movement. Great piles of metal junk lay on either side of it. Lydia slowed as she skipped over metal pipes that had escaped from their piles. Suddenly, a force that came from every way at once threw Lydia up against the wall. It was the park. It let her fall into one of the piles. Lydia tried to pick herself up but the park had her pinioned into the dry dusty rust and dirt. It forced itself into her, the power tools screaming, and scoured her insides. Something hit Lydia, a blunt object on her shoulders. “I only want you to stay. Stay with me forever.” It said as it invaded her body through her mind. The park ground Lydia into the metal junk like a mincer, penetrating her sacred thoughts, raping her, corrupting her. Lydia struggled against the automaton, the tautological violence, but it had her pinned to the rusty pile. “I just want you to know, this was not meant to be this way.” The park said. It was gunmetal cold, automatic, souless.
Finally the industrial park was satisfied. Lydia fought against the machine and broke free. “Only a couple of meters.” She wept as she ran. The metal parts had dug into Lydia under her weight and the weight of the force that had raped her. Dusty rust stains on her cheeks ran dark, iron like blood, as the tears streamed down her face. All over her legs and arms were cuts and warm blood, real blood trickled from them. “I love you...more than you will ever know.” The park said as Lydia dashed out of the alley and into the main street. She ran across the road and into the park, a real park with children and play gyms, a living park, humane, botanical and recreational. The suburb where she lived. Lydia was home. She ran up the stairs to her unit, opened the door and slammed it shut behind her. She cried. “No one would ever believe this.” She sobbed. She walked into the bathroom, undressed and jumped into the shower. She sat and wept under the steam and water.
Lydia didn’t go to work the next day. When she did return her job was very much the way it had always been. The park never spoke to her again but Lydia still felt it there, brooding like Milton’s Satan, Lydia was not afraid of it, she still felt sympathy for the devil, an industrial Stockholm syndrome of sorts. She was never alone in the park again.
©Amber Waves 2003