FedEx: When You Absolutely, Positively Need That Third Job
by Patrick D. Hahn
Sparrows Point, Maryland, late summer, mid-afternoon. This area once was the home of Bethlehem Steel, but its glory days as a manufacturing powerhouse are long gone. Now it serves as a hub for the distribution of products made somewhere else.
The sun is shining brilliantly outside. Today would be a perfect day for young lovers to go strolling hand in hand along the beach, through the park, or along the Harborplace, but none of that is in the cards for me. I’ve just gotten off my other job (well, one of my two other jobs) as a college lecturer, and now I’m reporting for work at FedEx Ground.
After more than thirty years of teaching undergraduate courses in biology (like most of us doing the actual work of teaching), I still am employed on a part-time, short-term basis, with contracts stipulating I can be gotten rid of at any time, for any reason. (Actually, most of us “part-timers” teach more than the “full-timers,” but never mind that for now.) This is a scam of which the students are almost completely unaware. Sweatshop conditions for the teachers, crushing student loan debt for the students—this has become part of the new normal. And this explains my never-ending search for side jobs that work around my teaching responsibilities.
With two adults at home, both working more than full-time, we have … enough. This is not how I envisioned myself spending my golden years, but I take cold comfort in knowing that most men my age couldn’t do this kind of work. (Most men my age are retired.) We handle packages up to one hundred and fifty pounds. Anything larger than that is managed by FedEx Freight, a different division.
After scanning my badge to gain entrance to the warehouse, I cross the vast expanse of concrete to the other side, which contains dozens of portals, each one about three feet off the warehouse floor, each one with a large truck backed up to it on the parking lot outside. On the inside, each portal is connected to a chute down which the packages slide into the maw of the truck, where someone like me is waiting to stack them.
I scan my badge a second time to clock in, and I’m greeted by Jake, the wisecracking, gravelly-voiced ex-Marine and Gulf War veteran who runs the show. Here’s the only other white guy in this place, and the only one anywhere near my age. He’s also the only one here who knows me by name.
“Gate 110,” he says, and I report to my assigned station.
I climb into the truck bed and pull up the horizontal flaps that divide the bed vertically into a lower third and an upper two-thirds, and latch them to the wall to get them out of my way. The bed is filthy, as always. A lot of meal prep companies use our services, and sometimes the packages burst, spilling food all over the place. I don’t know how frequently they clean out these trucks, but it can’t be very often.
I gather the leftover plastic strapping as well as the larger pieces of trash, and tote this armload of grimy rubbish to the nearest waste container. The strapping can be a tripping hazard, and removing the excess trash makes it a little easier to stack the boxes. Besides, this gives me something to do while I’m waiting for the packages to start rolling in.
I sit down on the rear flap and try to let my mind go blank. I learned a long time ago never to look at my watch when doing jobs like this—the more times a day you look at your watch, the slower the day goes—and besides, it wouldn’t tell you much here anyway. There’s no break here (although they don’t mind if you use the bathroom), and no set hours. You stay on the job until the bosses tell you that you are finished. I am no stranger to hard work, but I have to say, one six- or seven- or eight-hour unbroken chunk of monotonous work, alone in some dark, hot, sweaty truck bed with nothing but your own thoughts for company, can be … disturbing. If you take this job, be prepared to visit some dark and cobwebby corners of your psyche before your shift is over.
The packages start rolling in, one by one at first, and I get to work. We always fill the truck bed in the same order: lower third first, front to back, closing the flaps behind us as we go, then the upper two-thirds, again front to back. Larger and heavier packages on the bottom, smaller and lighter ones on top. Stack same-sized boxes side by side, not on top of one another.
And … that’s about it. This job is not rocket science. When the packages are coming in at a moderate pace, this work could be described as not unpleasant.
Whenever there is a lull in the flow of packages, I jump out of the truck bed and take a swig of ice water from the insulated gallon jug I keep by the gate. This will be my only source of sustenance until I get home.
The only cue I have that the outside world continues to exist is the little sliver of pavement I can see between the truck bed and the outside wall of the warehouse, and the only indication I have that time continues to pass is watching as the brilliant sunshine outside fades to amber and then gray before finally disappearing into blackness as the sun goes down.
I notice one of the packages at the bottom of the stack is starting to buckle under the weight of those above it. It’s one of the larger boxes, but it’s made of lightweight and flimsy material. I should have set it aside to place on top of the stack, but I’m not about to knock down the whole pile and build it up again. That’s not how this job works. You take things as the come, handle them as best as you can, and keep moving.
The packages are coming in faster now, backing up on the chute. I try to grab the one nearest me, but it’s stuck fast, held in place by all the ones behind it. I pull with all my might and manage to wrench it free, only to trigger an avalanche of boxes slamming into my ankles. I look up and see the line of packages extending all the way up the chute, as far as I can see.
A woman young enough to be my granddaughter, six feet tall and very thin, attired in spandex booty shorts and matching tank top, leaps into the truck bed unbidden and begins throwing packages on the stacks I have created. I will never get used to seeing spandex on a warehouse floor, but right now I’ll take help from any direction it is offered. We’re both bending, twisting, hurling, doing all the things they tell us not to do, because that’s the only way to get the job done when the packages are coming in hot and heavy. At last, we catch up, and my erstwhile companion departs from the truck bed before I even have the chance to say thank you.
Alone again. Once more I will my mind to go blank, because the alternative is re-visiting every misstep I have made in the course of my long life, every act of cowardice or pusillanimity or unkindness I have ever committed. Little by little the stack of packages extends toward the rear of the trailer, until finally I reach the last tier.
I raise the guard that is supposed to hold the boxes in place on the chute, even though I know perfectly well there is no point in my doing so. The latch that is supposed to hold the guard in place has long ago been worn down by the cumulative impact of thousands upon thousands of boxes colliding against it. I’ve called Jake’s attention to this matter, but so far nothing has been done about it. Each package that comes sliding down bangs into the guard hard enough to knock it back down, often slamming into my beleaguered ankles if I’m not looking. I have to be careful when I get to this point—if I forget where I am momentarily, I could fall out of truck bed onto the concrete floor of the warehouse and hurt myself.
At last, the conveyor is shut off. I stand on my tip-toes to slide the last few packages in place and then step aside as Jake closes the back door, fills out a tag, and affixes it to the latch before turning to me and pronouncing the magic words: “You’re good to go.”
I grab my water jug (which is now empty) and head for the exit. Some of my colleagues have already gone home; others remain hard at work. No one bids me goodbye as scan my badge to clock out, cross the vast expanse of concrete, scan my badge one more time to gain egress from the facility, and exit the warehouse into the pale moonlight.
Overhead the cicadas are chorusing, singing their song of another summer about to end. I think back to another summer, so many summers ago, and to a girl who let me kiss her goodnight as we stood together on the front porch of her parents’ home in the pale moonlight. She’d be a grandmother now, or perhaps in her grave.
Life goes by fast.
If I had to do it over again, I could do it so much better.
Of course, that’s not how life works, is it? You take what comes, handle it as best you can, and keep moving.
I get into the car, start the engine, and turn up the air conditioning, savoring the blast of cold air as it plasters my sweat-soaked T-shirt to my skin. Then I begin wending my way home, where someone is waiting for me.
Patrick D. Hahn is a lecturer, researcher, and author of five books. To see more of his writing, visit his website.
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