Locked-In Outlook

WOOMPF. She pressed the reset button, pulled the lever. WOOMPF. She pressed the reset button, pulled the lever. WOOMPF. She pressed the reset button and wiped at her brow with the sleeve of her brown coveralls, then she pulled the lever. CLANG.

Julia looked down, reeling her attention in from the far off netherworld her monotonous work had pulled it to. The sheet-metal slab on the conveyor before her was off its mark; the large, hydraulic press she operated had slammed against the exposed butt-plate, leaving the slightest of impressions in the cast iron of the heart-shaped stamp her station was equipped with.

That wasn’t good. Now the cutting edge on the stamp was dulled and she’d have to file for a replacement at the end of her shift—her supervisor, George, was definitely going to write her up for that offense. She had little time to revel in her dread as the conveyor belt in front of her continued its jerky locomotion. Steadily, it brought more plates of sheet-metal for her to cut into clamshell style heart shapes.

Julia didn’t like her job. In fact, she had already scheduled several interviews with her neighborhood HR department so she could file for a new position—she was hoping maybe somewhere nice, like a fulfillment center, but she knew that was ambitious. She had yet to hear back from any of her neighborhood reps. It could be months till she was allocated a new position, but she had a little credit tucked away; she could survive the wait without her current job, for a time at least. She had already considered quitting the Factory but if it didn’t work out, she’d have to move back in with her sister—and if her sister said no, Julia would have to ask her brother and she most certainly didn’t want to live with him.

WOOMPF. The sheet-metal before Julia shuddered, the hydraulic press arm lifted and a curled, two-sided heart shape was revealed. With the frame of left-over scrap sheet-metal, the heart-shaped delicacy scooted away. Along with all the other’s it slowly moved on to the next station on the assembly line.

Julia didn’t hate her job. Hate was too strong a word for it. On the most base level, it bored her; the monotony sometimes threatened to drive her insane. But beyond that, she didn’t like what she was participating in: the final product of the Factory and what it was being used for.

She had nothing against heart-shaped lockets in general, her discomfort was mostly derived from a report the capitol of the Corporation had released a few days earlier. Her skin had risen in goosebumps when she had read it’s description of how younger generations were having less and less kids; how it would have a severe impact on the future of the Corporation’s consumerforce.

WOOMPF. Julia had to quickly dart her fingers under the suspended arm of the press to correct the next piece of sheet-metal on the conveyor. She hit the reset button, pulled the lever.

The heart-shaped lockets the Factory produced were used in tandem with pink-slips that the Corporation was sending to every customer in all fifty franchises of the company. They’re meant to encourage procreation by guaranteeing at-work childcare until the age of four and a free juice-box for the child everyday (so long as the would-be parent retains the pink slip—which happened to be made from highly soluble paper). The lockets (constructed entirely of long lasting, durable stainless steel, albeit of a very thin gauge,) were meant to be symbolic; to both remind the recipient of whatever family heirlooms they had been given as a child and also, to remind them of how much the Corporation truly cared about its customers.

WOOMPF. Julia hit the reset button, pulled the lever. WOOMPF. Julia hit the reset button, pulled the lever.

The fact that the Corporation was pushing for people to have babies, grossed Julia out. But what really worried her, was what could be next. If the suits in the capitol wanted more babies, that meant they wanted more heterosexual couples.

Julia wasn’t gay or bi, she wasn’t much of anything. For a long time she had toyed on and off with the idea of whether she was asexual. Then, about a year previously, she had heard the term, ‘gray-ace’ and had tentatively begun to identify with that phrase’s nebulous definition. But what she did know, with one hundred percent certainty, was that she didn’t want a child. Not currently. Not in the foreseeable future. She was terrified the Corporation, her home franchise, her local neighborhood, might try and force that decision on her.

WOOMPF. Julia hit the reset button, pulled the lever. WOOMPF.

With every heart-shaped piece of metal that scuttled past, she felt as if she was contributing to the chances that the governing powers would force that decision on her. It made her feel a bit sick to watch, out of the corner of her eye, the next station attaching the minute hinge to each couple of curled, heart-shaped halves. It wasn’t in sight, but she knew the next station after that attached the thin, choking neck-chain. It was the final station that really made the knots in Julia’s stomach tense; the one where someone had to inscribe in each locket via laser-cutter: You Are Loved.

WOOMPF. Julia hit the reset button, pulled the lever. Each WOOMPF sent another shaped piece of metal to be assembled; another trinket for some newly born customer.

Julia’s current position in the Factory was problematic enough for her mind, she couldn’t imagine being at the inscription station. Having to carve those three words again and again would be far worse than monotonous, it’d be maddingly depressing. She felt sorry for the guy that was assigned there. She could never remember his name, but he always waved to her in the mornings. He seemed nice. Quiet and polite.

WOOMPF. Julia hit the reset button, pulled the lever. WOOMPF. She moved to press the reset button once more but the overhead speakers announcing her ten minute break of the afternoon stopped her hand. Without delay, she flipped several switches under the conveyor belt, shutting down her segment of the assembly line. There was an ice tea she had brought from home in the break room fridge and she was very anxious about getting it. She had already had her twenty minute lunch break of the day, but she had saved the tea for this, her last break; she wanted the caffeine for the final few hours of her shift. She needed the boost.

With a handful of others—O’Brien from the fabrication room, Blair from the hinge station and Syme from the chain station—Julia weaved her way off the warehouse floor and to the break room in the back. Moving straight to the fridge, Julia opened the door and immediately slammed it shut.

“Okay,” she said coolly, turning to face O’Brien, Blair and Syme who had also gone directly into the break room, “who took my iced-tea?”

Blair was collapsed in a chair, attempting to tiredly wedge some earbuds into the sides of her head. She looked blankly at Julia and gave a weak shrug.

O’Brien, drumming a plastic fork against the frame of the microwave as he waited for his food to heat up, cocked an eyebrow at Julia. “I didn’t see any tea earlier. Are you sure you brought iced-tea in today?”

Julia made a face at him, wrinkling her nose. “Yeah, of course I am. It took all my willpower not to drink it during lunch.”

Syme chimed in from beside the sink, drinking tap water from a greasy mug. “Maybe John took it or something. He went on break like twenty minutes ago.”

O’Brien frowned across the room. “What? Who was doing the engraving then?”

Syme shrugged. “I think he just set it on auto. I don’t know, man.”

O’Brien’s frown deepened. “Did you see him leave?”

“Yeah,” Syme grunted between sips, “he actually came up to me and asked how much weight the locket chain could hold. ‘Told him that I dunno but it is steel so it's pretty strong.”

“Weird,” O’Brien pondered, “I’ll need to inform George next time he does his rounds.”

“What?” Syme took a couple unconscious steps forward and accidentally bumped into Blair. “Oh, sorry Blair,” he quickly muttered. She didn’t seem to mind, silently engrossed in her earbuds. “Don’t be like that, man.” Syme continued, “John’s a good guy, don’t get the supervisor involved.”

O’Brien crossed his arms. “Well it’s our duty if John’s work is—”

Julia clapped her hands, loudly interrupting the two men’s bickering. “Hey!” she barked, "where is John, then? He’s the only one not here and my ice tea is gone.”

It took O’Brien and Syme a minute to get over the echoes of Julia’s singular clap; they stared owlishly, frozen mid-argumentative pose, their own drab coveralls twisted around their bodies. Eventually, the two men thawed. O’Brien scowled at her. Syme just shrugged. “I dunno,” he said.

Julia considered to herself a moment before realizing that she was burning precious time. Only a few minutes left on her break and despite the lack of her ice tea, she did know one productive thing she could do. “Fine. I’m going pee,” she decided aloud. She left the break room and the argument between O’Brien and Syme resumed behind her as she transitioned the quarry of her hunt from a tea-thief to a bathroom stall. It was to her horror that she found both.

There was only a single bathroom Julia and her four co-consumers were allowed to use. It was cramped and had no ventilation and the door was slightly too big for it’s frame causing it to stick and sometimes be nearly impossible to close fully. It was in its perpetually wedged can’t-tell-if-its-occupied-or-recently-vacated state as Julia approached the bathroom. She gave it a polite knock and waited several seconds for an answer. As no reply was forthcoming, she wrapped both hands around the knob and gave the door a mighty tug. It burst open and she staggered back a couple steps, then screamed.

Hanging from a steel pipe that crossed the bathroom’s narrow ceiling was John, the nice guy who’s name Julia could never remember. His face was a deep purple, his eyes bulging, his tongue swollen. Wrapped around his neck were dozens of the heart-shaped lockets. He had interlaced the thin chain into a makeshift rope, but he hadn’t removed the metal, cordate ornaments.

Julia couldn’t look away and she couldn’t stop the pee that suddenly dampened her crouch, neither could she stop screaming. O’Brien, Syme—and even Blair, her buds ripped from her ears—came running down the hall and rushed up to Julia on the ground. Julia didn’t know how she had gotten there, had she fallen? Slipped on her own pee?

“Oooh man, John…” Syme whispered, his hands clasped on top of his head, his eyes wide. O’Brien and Blair took up similar stances, each equally at a loss for words.

The dozens of lockets that throttled John’s hanging body glinted in the fluorescent light from the hall, each inscription reading clearly, You Are Loved. The message flashed over and over, nearly blinding Julia. She would have been more grateful if they had.

“Well, we gotta call George now,” O’Brien said, breaking the silence that enveloped the group.

“You’re a piece of work, bud,” sighed Blair. She then reached down and offered Julia her hand, helping her to her urine-soaked feet. “I’m going to go call maintenance and security, have fun with the supervisor,” Blair said and briskly started moving down the hall. She seemed anxious to have a reason to leave. Julia understood the feeling very well.

As Julia watched the silhouette of Blair disappear around a corner, the overhead speakers blared the obnoxious claxon that represented the end to their ten minute break. Julia didn’t move. She still had a hard time taking her eyes off the glittering noose John had used to end his life. You Are Loved. You Are Loved. You Are Loved. The sweet congeniality of the message seemed sickening.

“Alright you two,” said O’Brien, rubbing his hands together, “you both heard the bell, break’s over. I’m going to go use the office phone and call George, you both should get back to work.”

Syme and Julia shared an incredulous look. “Who made you the junior supervisor all the sudden?” Syme demanded.

Julia shook her head and, as O’Brien was opening his mouth to bite back a stern reply, she raised her hands and said, “You know what? No. That’s the last straw—you’re the last straw,” she pointed first at her dead co-consumer, then at the bootlicking O’Brien. “I’m done. I’ve made up my mind. I quit.”

O’Brien’s face went slack. “Wh-what?” he spluttered, “you need to give notice—you need to tell George first.”

Julia continued shaking her head. “Nope. Don’t care. I’ve had enough—John’s dead and you tell me to go back to work? Not a chance. I’m done, I’m leaving before I wind up taking the same out he did,” Julia jerked her thumb at the corpse in the bathroom. In the periphery of her vision, she noted that there was a clear plastic, half-empty bottle of tea that looked very familiar (although she remembered it being full), positioned on the bathroom sink. She was mildly peeved that John hadn’t finished it.

“Good for you,” said Syme, nodding his approval at Julia.

“Shut up,” snapped O’Brien. “You can’t leave, Julia, George will need to hear your account of what happened. You were the first one here.”

Julia shrugged and kicked off her boots, beginning to unzip her coveralls. “Don’t care, O’Brien. George can call me or message me or whatever, but I’m outta here.” With that, she kicked off her overalls, bunched them up and threw them at O’Brien’s feet. “And seeing as you’re so keen on representing the needs of the Factory, you’ll want those back. Don’t mind the piss, it's fresh. Goodbye.” She spat her farewell, not angry, exasperated and disgusted all at once—mostly, at herself.

Since reading the report about the Factory, she had been obsessed with the possibility that the seemingly trivial, heart-shaped lockets were worsening people’s lives. She had wasted so much time worrying whether each necklace contributed to the erasure of someone’s wants, needs or personal truth; she had spent so much time in her own bubble that she had failed to recognize how actively the Factory’s work hurt those around her. How it hurt the one person she had never bothered to consider.

As she left the Factory that day, clad only in her sports bra and thin, black leggings, pee drenched boots in hand, there were a lot of unknowns lying in Julia’s immediate future. However, there was one thing that, as she began walking westward towards her small apartment, became emblazoned in her mind with the everlasting intensity of a thousand burning suns: the biggest lie the Corporation had convinced each individual ‘customer’ of, is that they are loved.