Mr. Boss

It was still dark out as I rose out of my warm bed.  My wife’s figure stirred as the groaning of the springs woke her.  With a yawn I stomped to the bathroom to relieve myself.  I looked in our cracked mirror and gazed upon my weary face.

 I am plump like I always have been, but there is a drawn look now upon my features that was not there before the factory came here.  The dark bags beneath my eyes are now permanently etched there.  My wife comes into the bathroom behind me, so with a sigh I turn and stomp out. 

I go towards the kitchen, my dry feet scuffing along our floor.  I stop at my son’s room and peer in at his sleeping form.  He is sprawled across his entire bed, head and leg dangling of the side.  Looking at him, I see a boy at my factory.  The boy at my factory is small, skinny, and looks much like my son.  I don’t let my son work at the factory because I don’t want him to be as my workers are.  Seeing a child looking like him is painful enough as it is let alone having him work there as well. 

From the kitchen I hear the sizzle of my wife making breakfast.  With a sigh I haul my weight into the hallway and make my way towards the kitchen.  On the counter sits my lunch box, already prepared by my wife.  I slump down on a chair at the table, already dreading my long day.

My wife sets my breakfast before me, and I eat without enthusiasm.  I finish and as I stand, my large stomach bumps the table aside.  I grab my lunch box and leave the house on my way to work.  When I arrive it is dark and nobody is yet there.  The front door creaks open and I enter the musty building.  I feel my way blindly towards the light switch and flick them on.

The lights don’t do much against the pressing darkness but I can now see the shapes of all the machines.  Nike put this in many years ago and nothing has changed since.  I was originally appointed boss and it is still as thus.  The sewing machines have only acquired a more weathered look with the daily work they take.  A few of the creaky tables still bear the blood stains of the stupid children who sew their fingers into the products.  I paid dearly for those.

With a creaking of the door my sample maker enters and heads to her station.  She puts together the samples that my workers use when making the products.  She’s a stooped woman whose age I do not know.  Once the women started working here they all started looked old no matter their age.  I am glad my wife stays at home because I could not stand to see her wither like these women.

I head into my office to begin my paper work.  I see a letter that must have arrived after I left.  The letter is from the bosses in the United States demanding my workers hurry up.  We are behind two days on an order of pants because a child got her finger stuck in the sewing machine and bled all over a bunch of product.  I sent a letter to the bosses telling them what happened but they don’t care, they just want their product.

I look out my door of my office and see the workers have arrived so now the work begins.

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It is now time for my lunch break.  My workers are almost finished with the pants order.  I had to yell much, but now they are working fast.  The little boy at the front table is still crying.  I cannot stand the work here.  I must be brutal to meet the orders, and in the brutality I am losing my humanity.

My workers of all ages work to the bone.  I know their payroll and it is next to nothing.  I am forced into cruelty to get the demands by those Americans done.  I don’t have the power to give my workers lunch and bathroom breaks because I have to meet the time quotas.  Our machines are all dangerous because we are not given the money to become up to date with modern technology.  These Americans are living in the year 2010, but our technology has us stuck in the 1990’s.

 And what power do I have to fix these problems?  None.  I have no power against the company.  The Americans give me their orders and I have to follow through.  The only thing I get is the ability to eat lunch.  It’s something I am forced to deprive my workers of but it is what I have.  It is all I can do against those Americans.