As Joel pushed her out the door not that long after he had brought her home, he realized he wasn't even sure what her name was. Mindy? Cindy? Linda? Fuck. How pathetic. One more in a long line of trashy little sluts and one night stand bar pick-ups. He was almost glad he hadn't had the opportunity to see her in full light.
With her over sprayed hair plastered down and the excessive makeup smeared all over her face, even in the dim light she had been...what exactly? He'd known as soon as his arms went around her that she had a few too many rolls of fat in all the wrong places. Stubby little legs...a fat ass...questionable oral hygiene...a pussy that had the lingering odor of stale piss. His dick was still sore after the pathetic teeth-laden blow job she had attempted. When he finally had fucked her, she had just laid there. He'd better check carefully for crabs.
He'd had his "beer goggles on" as he did most nights of the week. He had fallen into an all too familiar routine. He didn't love nor hate his job. It was his first real job following college, grad school and the military. He chuckled as he thought about the amazing line of bullshit the corporate recruiter had fed him. "Industry leader," "progressive, state of the art technology." The company facility they had shown him when they had been recruiting him was all of that. The place they had sent him for his first "entry-level" management position was something else.
Joel was a few years older than his two peers at the plant; he'd stuck around his alma mater for an MBA with a double major and then owed Uncle Sam four years in return for his ROTC scholarship. Bobby and Fred were twenty four and twenty-five respectively; Joel was the old man at twenty-nine. The company was paying him a little more in view of his MBA and service time. In the pecking order his job title was senior to theirs. He was the assistant plant manager while they had titles which were a little more nebulous.
If there was a certified smelly arm pit in the country, this was it. Situated about as far North in the U.S. as you could be without being in Canada, it was a decrepit, aged, dirty, dying old town which hadn't even gotten around to upgrading its "ESSO" signs at the gas station he often stopped at. It had one fast food restaurant. Past that there wasn't a decent place to eat and these folks had no concept of a decent cup of coffee. He'd often drive across the border and enjoy an absurdly cheap and relatively decent lobster dinner at a little dive.
The climate was brutal; the sun didn't shine for at least nine months of the year. The mounds of snow didn't melt until well into the month of May. The long winters were numbingly cold and the wind was relentless. During the absurdly short "summer," huge horse flies came out of nowhere and seemed impervious to any repellant other than the 80% DEET that could only be procured on the Canadian side.
It wasn't close to ski country---not that he skied. The only agricultural production seemed to be potatoes. Cheaper---and better---potatoes were coming in from across the border. In a futile fit of protest the potato farmers dumped massive piles of spuds near the border crossings. The town seemed to lack the funds or know how to dispose of them. As soon as the temperature got above freezing the potatoes began to rot and stink.
It was obvious that the EPA had never been here; what industry existed was ancient and polluting. A pungent gray haze hung over everything until the stiff winter breezes blew it somewhere else. The water out of the tap tasted of sulfur and iron. His car was coated with a thick black soot that attacked the paint and seemed impervious to anything short of Comet or Ajax.
His apartment was equally old, dated and crappy; it had been the best he could find or afford and he hated every inch of it. It was neither well-insulated nor adequately weatherproofed. Heat was often intermittent and electrical brown outs were common fare in the winter.
The only place to meet women was at the only motel in town, an equally decrepit Holiday Inn. Local girls would mingle with school teachers who would come across the border to dance to the marginal house band and explore the potential for male companionship.
The first night a friend from work had taken him there, he quickly realized that it would take at least a pitcher a night of overly sweet, flat, shitty draft beer before any of the women appeared remotely attractive. Evidently the better looking girls didn't need to take a job in this little hell hole or its equally depressing sister town just across the border.
Soon after arriving, he read in the local paper that his new home town had the highest suicide rate in the state---and the nation. Crime was another issue; no one had much to steal. Violent crime usually came down to a couple of terminally depressed drunks going after each other with knives, lead pipes or ball bats. Driving after dark could be hazardous; the critically understaffed local constabulary had long since given up enforcing DUI statutes.
His boss at work, the plant manager, was a very decent guy who, rumor had it, was being punished for some earlier indiscretion. He was actually very sharp, mentored well and seemed to give a shit. Joel was a bright kid with decidedly blue collar roots. He wasn't afraid of hard work; he worked longer hours than he probably needed to. Hell, what else did he have to do? Hopefully hard work, good results and long hours would get him out of this shit hole sooner rather than later.
The plant employees worked with a grim determination that seemed to indicate that they had accepted their lot in life. It was almost as if they believed God had put them here for a purpose---possibly as punishment for some unknown sins---and they had to make the best of it. They were in purgatory; if it was the last stop before hell, hard work might get them a seat slightly away from the inferno. If there was a chance for redemption, hard work and a good attitude might be the tickets to salvation.
The local stores were almost a throwback to the late forties and early fifties; they always ran out of things. If you didn't like the brand of sliced cheese on the shelf, tough luck...it was the only one they carried. One mustard, one catsup and one kind of relish.
Unfortunately the women who worked at the factory were well illuminated by the harsh, yellow, flickering florescent lighting. All of their flaws and shortcomings were well displayed. He wouldn't have let a single one of them in his bed; if any of them had crawled in of their own volition, you're damn right he would have kicked them out. Three pitchers of bad beer wouldn't have changed his perspective.
Each morning he and his two counterparts would proceed on arrival to the plant manager's office---more an open bay overlooking the shop floor---for a quick pep talk and any special marching orders. Today was no exception. There were never any new marching orders and the pep talked had lost any vestige of effectiveness. Joel couldn't remember the boss ever closing his office door. He didn't even remember it having a door but evidently it did because the plant manager closed it, asked them all to sit down and seemed less talkative than usual.
"Gents, let's keep this under our hats until it's official and more details are forthcoming. No use beating around the bush; this plant is being closed. It's been decided that investment in newly mandated work place safety requirements just doesn't make sense. New technology says the work we do here can be done at lower cost with fewer people someplace else. For the record you three are not going to be let go; HR will find new positions for you at other locations. I on the other hand will be exploring opportunities outside the corporation. An HR representative will be in town this afternoon to chat with each of you. Those conversations will be held off-site to avoid alarming the work force. Any questions?"
Joel spoke up first. "I guess it isn't a surprise. Our machinery is antique and, in spite of diligent and quality conscious workers, things break down all the time and it kills productivity. I know I join Bobby and Fred in saying it has been an honor to work for you. You've been a good boss, you care about the employees and the plant and you've worked overtime to mentor us. I've learned more about the business of manufacturing from you in the last year and a half than I ever did in college. This is probably out of line, but what the hell did you do---and who did you do it to---to get screwed over like this, Simon? It just doesn't seem right."
Simon laughed so hard he almost fell out of his chair. "For the record I didn't sleep with the boss's wife---heaven forbid. You guys have frankly been the best three entry level hires I've had the pleasure of working with; you deserve to know. I'm talking way out of school here."
Simon paused to sip his black coffee and continued. "Every company has a few people that play the good old boy system for all it's worth, seldom put in an honest day's work and repeatedly take credit for other people's efforts. Some get caught but one or two just seem to keep getting promoted. I've never been part of the good old boy network. I don't do dinners, cigars, Single Malt or late night brandy sniffing---I have a family. I hate golf.
