#inktober52, #inktober, "Robot"

Bill Mumy used to buzz past my house very regularly in a very beat up VW bug.  He honked, he waved, I smiled and waved back.  My sister growled and slammed doors.  I thought Bill was romantic and determined.  Sis thought he was a long-haired, gangly, teenaged pest.  Oh well, teenagers do what teenagers do and apparently Bill and Sis weren't meant for a happily ever after together.  He got married in 1986 so I'm pretty sure he got over his unrequited love, or maybe it was just teenaged lust.  It's just one of those episodes of childhood that invariably makes me laugh.  I'm pretty sure Sis still gets irritated at the thought of it.

Years before this teenaged stalking, Sis sat on the floor with me in front of the TV and happily watched Bill as Will in "Lost in Space".  It was an admittedly lame show that was cheaply produced and inexplicably entertaining.  There was friendly robot who exclaimed, "Warning, warning, Will Robinson!" before they were attacked by aliens and everything got resolved in 20 minutes or so.  Wasn't even bad TV better when we were kids?

I think about today's robots taking away people's jobs and all the current uncertainties and think I could spend the day watching Lost in Space on youtube.  I'm not sure this is the best use of my life, but it would be a pleasant diversion since nobody has asked me to a Memorial Day picnic, not that I would go this year even if I were invited.  Whatever you're doing this year, please do it safely.

I've moved on from my ditch digging and started attacking my house.  I sat back in my easy chair and noticed the ceiling looked kind of dingy.  I spent a day washing it.  It's sparkly white again and I'm sore again.  I sat back in my easy chair and noticed piles of projects that never got finished (or started).  I moved my project materials to their proper homes.  On and on and I'm not finished thinking about other labor-intensive things I could do.  I think I'm just taking out my frustrations on my surroundings, but also getting some exercise.  Things look better so I feel better.

I'm never going to go full Marie Kondo or anything, but I have been asking myself why I have so much stuff.  I listened to a radio program this week which posed the questions, "Are you holding onto things because you're holding onto your past?  Are you ready to make space for new things to come into your life?"  Hmm...  I think I'm ready for something new.  Clearing space sounds like an excellent idea.  Maybe I'll paint the living room walls too.  On and on and on, there's no end to the stuff I could do.

Of course we haul our past around with us whether or not we keep reminders of it.  The only thing it took for me to remember Bill Mumy buzzing by my house was the word "Robot".  I don't need to keep every gift I received from every person I've cared about to remember them.  I used to, even gifts I wasn't all that crazy about in the first place.  It felt disloyal to throw them away.  I've gotten over that.  Mostly?

Anyway, I've got to get back to my projects.  Now that the ceiling looks great I've noticed the windows need washed.

Bill was adorable, wasn't he?  He kind of looked like Sis' son.
Maybe she should've returned his affections :)

"Robot"

I’ve had some awful jobs, but the rubber factory was the worst by far.  Before you giggle, please realize I was schlepping 8-12’ extruded rubber cushions for railroad tracks.  The air reeked to the high heavens in a cloud of chemicals that seeped into my every pore.  It didn’t matter how many baths or showers I took, I smelled bad, even to myself.

It never occurred to me before having this job, but rubber is heavy.  Long, filthy tubes of it were loaded onto flats, and my main job was to pick each one of them up, trim the ends to size, then stack the filthy, hateful things onto a different skiff.  All day, every day…

It wasn’t the kind of job for dreamers.  All the safeties had been removed from the equipment, and it would’ve been easy to lose an arm, let alone fingers.  I tried to be attentive, but it’s hard to stay attentive 28,800 seconds every day, especially with all the dopey, noxious fumes.

I didn’t complain.  A collection of the meanest women outside a roller derby biker bar worked there, and they didn’t appreciate Sweet Polly Purebred coming in for a summer to pay for college while they were stuck in that pit for life.  Most summer workers didn’t make it a full day.  I guess I’m stubborn.  I worked there all summer at the exorbitant wage of $3/hr.

Eventually they even started talking to me nice, and I examined their tattooed arms planted on the lunch table.  Keep in mind that this was before tattoos were cool, and there weren’t aesthetically pleasing.  The tattoos looked like they’d been pounded into their skin as part of a sacrificial rite. 

These were rough women who probably beat up their Hell’s Angels boyfriends when they got home.  They were short trolls, but their steel arms were bigger than my thigh, and their shoulders were wide and inflexible.  I’ve known scary people before and after this group, but I’ve got to admit this clique scared me most.  They all carried knives and laughed about using them.  I always had to work my other job when they invited me out after work.

There are times I’m inclined to wallow in self-pity about something, but the women in the rubber factory remind me that whatever miseries I experience, at least I’m not them.  I’ve always had hope, while they never dared to dream for anything other than what they had.  It wasn’t that they were stupid, they just didn’t have any other avenues.  The only expectations they’d ever been given is to be a robot in the factory, until the robots actually took even that.

I’ve been in other factories, and the people were different – cleaner, nicer.  For a lot of people, a factory is just a job, and a job they justifiably take pride in doing.  I’m just talking about this sweaty, awful place and the specific people who worked there.  It was just the ugliest, most desperate place outside of the third world, but sometimes it helps to think of the rubber factory where the rules are clear:  do your job, don’t complain, don’t show weakness.

Since I survived the experience, I’m glad I had it.  Wouldn’t do it again for nuthin’.  Wishing those women the best if they haven’t been murdered yet.