Written by walter

Wednesday, 25 November 2009

I am a car manufacturing worker. We, I mean the union, the industry and a limited number of workers, have come up with a confidential pilot agreement, requiring us to report to work as usual but receive no formal remuneration. Of course, the company generously compensates our efforts via some payment in-kind: vouchers, food stamps etc. In other words, we are formally sacked.

The assembly line to which I am assigned is not fully operational, because, due to the politically stupid economy, my industry has practically come to a screeching halt. But our supervisor, a genius indeed, came up with this idea; therefore, he privately talked to the management and allowed us to continue working.

As a result, I normally get up by the alarm clock and hurriedly have my breakfast and drive to work, while proudly waving to neighbors, friends and bystanders.

Like I said, our actual obligation is car assembly. Yes. You heard me right. Car assembly. Every day our team assembles about ten regular cars, but after 12 noon we disassemble them all. We all do our job, a topnotch work, diligently and with utmost discipline. Our line is equipped with robots. Our supervisor is, undoubtedly, very strict and demands punctuality and order.

The catch here is not payment in-kind but chemistry. In fact, what I am trying to say is a very special interpersonal relationship, which is shared by other participants, as well. Everything pivots around Liz!

This girl is the sunshine of our life. She is not a movie star, but she is mysteriously pretty, a quality sometimes found in a few women, a fact which boggles the mind of all men. She is medium; not a Hollywood blond beauty, but a pleasing plumpish brunette. She is probably a hybrid of Spanish-Italian-French-Korean descent. A green card worker? We do not know. She, with a crack in her voice, does not smoke. I believe she plays tennis. When she is in shorts and bending, her round buttocks are comfortably on the verge of an outburst or her cleavage squeezing a walnut-size spot in a man's abdomen, swishing like a bursting pipe.

None of the team members make any remark upon her at all. Do we have married men among us? Sure we do. Do they sneak a look at her? Well, this is an unwavering unwritten stipulation of our secret contract not to show publicly our feeling. Does she know it. Oh, for sure. Find a woman who doesn't. Is she married? Does it matter?

I believe we all know that if it was not for Liz we wouldn't bother leaving our home. She knows it; the management knows it. She is the only source of hope left for us, until the stupid economy wakes up. Thanks to Liz for her Redundancy Compensation.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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