On the Line
Ken Post
Mr. Stankovic, the owner of Acme Merchandise, sat behind a broad gray metal desk. He scanned my resume, thin on job history, but chock full of non-work-related stuff: captain of my high school debate team, National Honor Society, Eagle Scout. “Hmm, what’s this one here?” he asked as he peered over his reading glasses. “Phi Alpha Theta.”
“It’s a national honor society for college history majors,” I said.
“So, you’re a smart college guy, right?” He tapped a thick, nicotine-stained finger on my resume.
“I guess so.” I certainly didn’t feel smart, or entitled, or anything else. It was the 1970’s, I was fresh out of college with a history degree, and adrift in the ways many college grads are, waiting for the wind to blow them, like dandelion seeds, in a new direction. I just needed a job. Work was tough to come by, even for college grads, and I didn’t have a car. I would have to share the family Ford Maverick with my dad by dropping him off at the New Brunswick Amtrak station, and pick him up each day, to make this work.
“You don’t need to know history here. If you know what I’m saying.” He pushed back from his desk and stood up. “I need a worker. A hard worker. Are you a hard worker?”
His gray eyes bored into me.
“I am.”
“Good. The pay is 2.50 per hour, 3.75 for overtime. If you stay three months, your pay goes up to 2.75 per hour. Eight to 4:30 p.m. Be here on Monday at 8:00.”
I pulled into the gravel parking lot of Acme Merchandise on Monday morning at 7:50 a.m. Mr. Stankovic sat on the edge of a much younger woman’s desk in a tiny office adjoining the one I interviewed in.
Mr. Stankovic stood. “This is Jack. He’s our new employee and starts today.” He turned into his office and shut the door.
“Good morning, Jack,” the woman said. “It’s nice to meet you.” She extended her hand to shake, and it was soft and warm. Her nails were fire engine red and matched her lipstick. “I’m June, the office manager, purchasing agent, trouble-shooter, and company therapist.” She giggled at her joke. “I’m not really a therapist.”
“Nice to meet you, June.” She was pretty with a perky air and a swirl of bleached blond hair perched on her head and seemed out of place in her dreary office. Maybe she sized me up, wondering how long I’d make it on the line in a cinderblock warehouse tinged with the odor of mildew and lit by dim fluorescent bulbs. As I filled out company paperwork, I heard the warehouse front door open several times, and glanced over my shoulder to watch my co-workers file in. Nobody said hello or appeared curious about the new guy in June’s office. The hum of machinery started in the background. I passed the completed paperwork back to June.
“Let’s go meet the crew, shall we?” June said.
We walked through a short, dark corridor, and entered “the floor” where the workers stood near individual workstations piled with boxes on each side of a 15-foot conveyor belt. A heavy-set woman pressed a button and the conveyor belt ground to a halt.
“Hey, everyone, this is Jack. He’s the new guy,” June said.
A guy named Garth, with a strong resemblance to Charles Manson, mumbled, “Hey.” On the other side of the conveyor was Maureen, and Della. Della’s sister, Velma, seemed to be the crew boss and turned the conveyor on and off. A few others on the crew simply nodded. None of them were likely candidates for Phi Alpha Theta.
“Here’s how this works,” Velma said. “The crew fills up the boxes with stuff, and it moves down the line.” She shifted to the end of the conveyor. “You stand here, tape the box shut and walk it over to that pallet over there.” She pointed to a pallet on the loading dock about 30 feet away. Don’t pile the boxes more than three or four layers high or they could tip over. That’s it.” She smacked the ‘Start’ button and the conveyor rattled to life.
I watched as the crew pulled objects such as pens, pencils, coffee mugs, little pads, fridge magnets, and every other type of gewgaw from their boxes and transferred them to small bags. They placed the bags in a larger box and sent it my way while a tinny AM radio played Top 40 tunes.
“What is all this stuff?” I asked Velma.
“It’s company, university, or whatever giveaway stuff,” she said without looking up from packing her bags. “We call it SWAG. With Princeton and Rutgers University just down the road, and tons of businesses and convention centers along Route 1, there’s no end to the useless shit we pack here.”
As we spoke, the garage door rolled up into the ceiling of the delivery bay and two guys hopped out of a truck. In the bright light of day, they scrambled to unload a bunch of boxes like it was a fire drill. The garage door banged shut and they were gone, the only trace of them was their boxes and the cloud of exhaust their truck pumped into the warehouse.
Velma nodded toward the boxes. “You’ll need to get them later on.”
By the end of the first day, I estimated I walked nine miles on a concrete floor and deposited over 300 boxes on pallets.
“Why are you laying on the sofa with your legs up?” My mom asked when she called me in for dinner.
“My legs are throbbing from my job.” I sat up to rub my calf. “And this is the first day.” Eight hours had never passed so slowly. In the back of my mind, I wondered how I was going to make it through a week of monotonous box carrying. My co-workers amazed me; they stood on the concrete all day although they had stools to sit on if they wanted. Velma and Della brought rubber mats from home to help their legs.
“Well, come join me and your father for dinner. Maybe that will make you feel better.”
I looked forward to 15-minute break times at 10:00 and 3:00 and a 30-minute noon lunch like a parched straggler crawling across the desert and stumbling on a canteen full of water. It was our only respite and each of us strained in our own way to savor those minutes and do anything to stretch them so we wouldn’t have to return to the line before absolutely necessary. We were slaves to the clock.
At a three o’clock break, Velma waved me over to her Dodge Dart while Della fiddled with the radio station. Velma stubbed out her cigarette into an overflowing ash tray. “I probably shouldn’t say nuthin’ but you should know,” Velma said.
I had no idea what Velma was hinting at.
“You’re doing two people’s jobs,” Velma said. “Right before you showed up, there were two guys, I think they were cousins, who were doing the same shit you’re doing by yourself.” Velma pursed her lips and nodded. “Yup, Stankovic found himself a real draft horse.”
“What?” I couldn’t believe it. Now I knew why my legs throbbed when I got home and my back ached all day.
Velma opened the car door. “Break time’s over. And don’t you be telling Old Man Stankovic you heard it from me.” She tapped the roof of the car. “My advice: you need to get your ass out of here, college boy.”
A slow burn filtered from my brain, down my torso, and out to my limbs. Fucking Stankovic! If I slowed down, the boxes would pile up. I came close to stomping in, demanding an explanation, more pay, or more help. Despite my anger, I didn’t summon the courage to confront Mr. Stankovic, which only fueled my fury. I needed to keep saving money and couldn’t take any chances with dramatics. All I thought about was the day I was going to escape this cinder block hell.
To break the daily monotony, I tried to fit in and make small talk but most of the crew seemed more interested in drifting off to their own world. I questioned what kind of world that was; I grew up in a family who laughed and talked to each other. We went to Dad’s office parties where people genuinely enjoyed each other. Acme Merchandising was Zombie Land.
Another week passed and a few details seeped out. On Monday, Maureen came in with a black eye doctored with an overload of makeup. Two days later, Della was absent.
I overheard Velma tell Mr. Stankovic her sister was “under the weather.”
My workstation was right next to Velma and Della’s so we occasionally chatted during the workday, and I enjoyed their sisterly banter. As I walked out the door for lunch, Velma didn’t go to her car, and she sat down next to me at the graying wooden picnic table. She pulled a cigarette out and was ready to light up, before remembering I didn’t smoke.
“Sorry.” Velma laid the cigarette and lighter on the table. “I’m real worried about Della.”
“What do you mean?” Her confession startled me and I was silently relieved to have a real human connection. I knew she and Della were extremely close.
“Della’s not sick. She’s drunk. This isn’t the first time I’ve covered for her.” Velma tapped her cigarette lighter on the table. “Della can’t afford to lose this job.” She looked around for other members of the crew. “Don’t tell nobody.” She gave me a stern look and squinted. “What are you doing here, college boy? I got a GED and Della never graduated high school. We’re stuck here. But you—I don’t get it.”
I wasn’t sure I got it either. A history degree in a down job market and no car didn’t leave lots of options either. Inside, I knew life would get better, but for now, I needed to work too. I had hope, and it struck me Della and Velma were adrift in a very deep sea without life jackets. As I looked at Velma’s deep brown eyes, it pained me I couldn’t break off a piece of my innate optimism and share it with her.
The most interesting part of my day was watching my co-workers.
Garth got dropped off every day by a woman who could have been his girlfriend, his sister, or his parole officer. They never lingered in the car; he showed up and the woman drove off without any evidence of them speaking.
Maureen struggled to make it on time and twice Mr. Stankovic pulled her into his office.
Della and Velma arrived a few minutes early in their car, and remained in it smoking cigarettes right up until 8:00 a.m.
At lunch, Garth wandered into the woods, rain, or shine, and ate his lunch. On rainy days, Maureen ate in the windowless lunchroom no bigger than a cell block with the tiny fridge, an ancient candy machine with half the candy sold out, and a coffee pot. I was certain the Stasi had nicer confines for interrogations. If it was sunny, Maureen went outside and leaned on the back of the warehouse wall, sandwich in one hand, cigarette in another. I don’t think I’d ever seen a person chew a sandwich so slowly. Della and Velma returned to their car to smoke and eat with their radio blaring.
June often sat in her new electric blue Camaro at lunch time, not eating or playing the radio—probably absorbing the fresh scent of its interior. She saw me admiring the car and rolled the window down. “Like it?”
“Very nice,” I said.
“It’s my pride and joy.”
I glanced at my parent’s yellow Maverick in the parking lot and was thankful for any set of wheels.
“Wanna go for a spin?” June asked.
I was up for anything to break the monotony. “Sure.”
“Hop in.”
As we left the parking lot, all eyes were on us. I had the impression none of my fellow workers had ever been offered a ride in the Camaro.
June turned onto Route 130 and said, “Might want to buckle up.” She gunned the engine and the speedometer inched up to 70 mph. After a few hair-raising miles, June pulled into a Stewart’s Root Beer drive-in. “Why don’t you be a sweetie and buy me a root beer?”
I had been saving my shekels and hadn’t gone out for lunch once since I started working for Stankovic. My wallet wasn’t happy, but I didn’t want to hurt June’s feelings.
As I shut the door, June said, “Get a large.”
When I got back to the Camaro, a guy was chatting June up. I handed her the root beer.
“Is this your date?” He asked June.
I couldn’t tell if he was interested in the car, June, or both. At this point, I was ready to return to Stankovic’s, worried the boxes would start piling up if I didn’t get back soon.
June pushed her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and gave me a long look. “Yeah, he is my date.”
The guy ambled off, and June slurped her root beer. “Why did you say I was your date?” I asked.
“Well, this is kind of a date, right?” She set the drink on the dashboard. “I mean, you bought me a soda and we’re hanging out at Stewarts.” She pressed her index finger into my shoulder like a hypodermic needle. “I like you; you’re not like the rest of the guys who have worked at Acme.”
I thought we were simply going for a nice short spin in the Camaro. An escape from my shitty job. June’s blue eyes sparkled and it seemed like she was trying to step away and have more fun than her life allowed. I couldn’t tell if I was part of her diversion or if she really wanted to connect with another co-worker. “Sure, this is great” was the best I came up with. I certainly did not want to spring for another large root beer on our next ‘date’ but it was a relief to leave the Acme Merchandise compound.
We pulled into work just as everyone was filing back into the warehouse. “Thanks for the ride,” I said.
“Anytime.” June answered.
On Monday morning, the crew filed in morosely as usual. I passed by June’s office, but she had not showed up yet. I noticed she had more leeway with arrival and leaving times than the rest of us. Mr. Stankovic was in his office filing papers. To get through each day, my mind drifted to distant destinations, far from the grim warehouse where I walked, carried, and taped boxes for 40 hours a week. It was like I was trapped in Salvadore Dali’s surreal painting of the watches melting, making me think time stopped.
The next day, Garth disappeared. He never came by to pick up his paycheck and simply drifted away like the fog rising from the swamp behind Acme Merchandising.
On Wednesday, Della was back at work and Maureen was AWOL. Mr. Stankovic’s harried look grew worse as we fell behind with our boxes. There was no way flogging a dying horse was going to improve life on the line.
Maureen returned on Thursday with no explanation. At morning break, Mr. Stankovic’s wife, Doris, walked into the warehouse. Normally, Doris brought Mr. Stankovic a paper bag with his sandwich or a thermos of soup at lunch time. Today, she had a carton of donuts for us and Mr. Stankovic glowed with his benevolence. Doris had a body like a beer keg and a mop of curly gray hair. She shuffled to Garth’s station and in Polish-accented English said, “I’ll fill in here until we get help.”
Velma punched the button, the assembly line rumbled, and life in the salt mine continued.
One Friday night after two months on the job, my friend Pete and his girlfriend, Lynn, and I were parked with the Datsun’s lights off on the edge of a cornfield. A cloud of marijuana smoke billowed inside the car. The subject turned to who had the shittiest job. Pete worked in a meat-packing plant with guys named Vinny and Dominic who threatened to cut him up and run him through the sausage machine. “I hope they’re joking but I’m not too sure,” Pete said.
“Wait, wait,” Lynn chimed in. She worked as a housekeeper at the Sleepy Time Inn. “I can top that. Half the clientele are either hookers or drug dealers. They book rooms by the hour.”
When I told them about my coworkers and the windowless warehouse, and realized we were only two miles away, they insisted we go check it out.
We rolled the windows down to vent the smoke, and I directed Pete toward the gravel turnoff to Acme Merchandising. The road made a long sweeping curve and entered a clearing in the woods. A lone streetlight illuminated the parking lot, and I noticed two cars tucked on the side of the building: Mr. Stankovic’s Cadillac DeVille and June’s Camaro.
“Whoa, whoa,” I said. “Something’s not right. Pete, turn off the engine and lights.”
“Man, you are so paranoid,” Pete said.
“Seriously, shut it down.”
“Who’s in there?” Lynn asked.
“The owner and his office manager,” I replied. My mind raced, attempting to sort out why they’d be here late on a Friday night. There were no deliveries scheduled on Monday and no end-of-month financial paperwork due.
“We should check it out,” Pete said. “Isn’t that why we came here?”
“They could be plotting to burn the place down and get the insurance money,” Lynn said. “I saw that in a movie once.”
It didn’t seem smart to get out of the car, yet I was drawn to the office light like a moth and wanted to know what was going on. “Okay, be quiet and shut the doors gently.” We creeped to the window and peered through a battered set of half-closed thin metal blinds. I expected to see June, head down feverishly working her adding machine while Mr. Stankovic pulled thick files from a cabinet.
Lynn eyes widened and she silently mouthed, Oh, my God.”
Pete looked frozen in time, partly by all the pot he’d smoked, as well as the spectacle he witnessed.
June’s naked body, except for a bra twisted half off, was bent over Mr. Stankovic’s desk. Mr. Stankovic’s pants were down to his ankles as he roughly thrusted into June from behind, his belly protruding over her ass. I don’t know how long we watched in a combination of horror and sordid fascination. I tapped both of them on the shoulders and gestured back to the car.
We sat silently in Pete’s car.
“That was intense,” Pete said.
“We need to get out of here,” I said. I thought of poor Mrs. Stankovic devotedly bringing lunch daily to her husband and then heroically filling in for Garth. “Take it slow and don’t turn your lights on until we get to the highway.”
Pete flipped on the headlights as we turned onto Route 130.
“I can’t unsee that,” Lynn said. “Ever.”
It was painful to see June or Mr. Stankovic in the same light after that Friday night. I pieced together all their prior flirtation and banter and noticed Mr. Stankovic did not chat with June if I was around. As my only way to get back at Stankovic, I drove a wedge between the two of them by making him jealous. I flirted, laughed, and bought June a few more large root beers—money be damned—just to see his dull gray eyes narrow behind his thick glasses as we took off in the Camaro. June was not my type although I had to admit she had a certain enjoyable joie de vivre and giddy laugh. She made the clock at Acme Merchandise speed up and that was priceless.
Three weeks after our night visit to Acme Merchandising, the black rotary phone in the kitchen rang and Mom handed it to me. “It’s Pete.”
“I’m out of here,” Pete said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“My cousin in Seattle told me about all the jobs out there. Boeing is hiring too and pays great. I’m not a meat packer and Vinny and Dominick are really creeping me out.”
“What about Lynn?”
“She’s coming as soon as I get settled.” Pete’s self-assured tone and his enthusiasm were infectious. “I want you to come too. You need to get out of this hellhole as bad as the rest of us.”
“When are you leaving?”
“The Monday after next.”
I did the math; my savings would get me to Seattle and last until I found work. Any job was better than busting my ass for Mr. Stankovic. Seattle—new and green, and everything New Jersey wasn’t. “I’m in. I’m totally in.” A sense of elation swelled inside me, like a birthday balloon inflating for a party.
It was Friday, my last day at Acme Merchandising and June had gone home early. All I thought about was hitting the road with Pete and the adventures ahead of us. Mr. Stankovic typically waited for us, leaning against the wall outside his office with our checks. We’d walk by and he’d hand us a check and mumble a platitude like “have a nice weekend.” I waited until I was last. He handed me my check, and the words burst out of me: “Today’s my last day. I quit.”
Mr. Stankovic’s back stiffened and he stepped away, eyeing me. “Is there a problem? If there was a problem, you could have talked to me. You could have at least given me two weeks’ notice.”
I jabbed my finger at him. “And you could have paid me for doing two people’s jobs. I think it’s best for both of us this way.” I strode across the gravel lot, my feet never touching the ground as I inhaled the clean spring air. I buckled up in my car and Mr. Stankovic burst out of the warehouse and approached. I had never seen him move so fast.
“What do you mean ‘best for both of us?’”
I unsnapped the seatbelt, opened the door, and stood, facing him with a surge of anger more powerful than I possessed during all the time I slaved in Mr. Stankovic’s warehouse. “I know how June affords that sporty Camaro.” Mr. Stankovic’s jaw slackened and his arms dropped to his side.
The Maverick sprayed gravel in all directions and I shot out of the lot as the cloud of dust enveloped a defeated Mr. Stankovic. I turned onto the paved highway and sunlight glinted off the hood of the car. Before I knew it, I approached the Stewart’s Root Beer and spotted June’s unmistakable blue Camaro in the parking lot. A moment’s hesitation swept me past the entrance and I considered turning around. Her turquois eyes and gleeful mirth tugged at me. I wanted to believe we all had the same opportunities to move ahead in life—similar tools and outlook propelling us forward. After working at Acme Merchandising, I realized that wasn’t the case.
Maybe I should have cared more for the repercussions to June. Maybe I should have said goodbye to her for providing a brief lunch sanctuary. I had to make a clean break from everything at Acme Merchandising. June was a survivor and I needed to hop on my own life raft and float away. A U-turn across the median lay ahead, and it struck me I had never talked with June outside the hellscape of Stankovic’s sweatshop, and I didn’t even have her phone number. Then Velma’s voice came back to me: Get out of here, college boy. And don’t come back.
~ ~ ~
May 2026
Ken Post
Mr. Stankovic, the owner of Acme Merchandise, sat behind a broad gray metal desk. He scanned my resume, thin on job history, but chock full of non-work-related stuff: captain of my high school debate team, National Honor Society, Eagle Scout. “Hmm, what’s this one here?” he asked as he peered over his reading glasses. “Phi Alpha Theta.”
“It’s a national honor society for college history majors,” I said.
“So, you’re a smart college guy, right?” He tapped a thick, nicotine-stained finger on my resume.
“I guess so.” I certainly didn’t feel smart, or entitled, or anything else. It was the 1970’s, I was fresh out of college with a history degree, and adrift in the ways many college grads are, waiting for the wind to blow them, like dandelion seeds, in a new direction. I just needed a job. Work was tough to come by, even for college grads, and I didn’t have a car. I would have to share the family Ford Maverick with my dad by dropping him off at the New Brunswick Amtrak station, and pick him up each day, to make this work.
“You don’t need to know history here. If you know what I’m saying.” He pushed back from his desk and stood up. “I need a worker. A hard worker. Are you a hard worker?”
His gray eyes bored into me.
“I am.”
“Good. The pay is 2.50 per hour, 3.75 for overtime. If you stay three months, your pay goes up to 2.75 per hour. Eight to 4:30 p.m. Be here on Monday at 8:00.”
I pulled into the gravel parking lot of Acme Merchandise on Monday morning at 7:50 a.m. Mr. Stankovic sat on the edge of a much younger woman’s desk in a tiny office adjoining the one I interviewed in.
Mr. Stankovic stood. “This is Jack. He’s our new employee and starts today.” He turned into his office and shut the door.
“Good morning, Jack,” the woman said. “It’s nice to meet you.” She extended her hand to shake, and it was soft and warm. Her nails were fire engine red and matched her lipstick. “I’m June, the office manager, purchasing agent, trouble-shooter, and company therapist.” She giggled at her joke. “I’m not really a therapist.”
“Nice to meet you, June.” She was pretty with a perky air and a swirl of bleached blond hair perched on her head and seemed out of place in her dreary office. Maybe she sized me up, wondering how long I’d make it on the line in a cinderblock warehouse tinged with the odor of mildew and lit by dim fluorescent bulbs. As I filled out company paperwork, I heard the warehouse front door open several times, and glanced over my shoulder to watch my co-workers file in. Nobody said hello or appeared curious about the new guy in June’s office. The hum of machinery started in the background. I passed the completed paperwork back to June.
“Let’s go meet the crew, shall we?” June said.
We walked through a short, dark corridor, and entered “the floor” where the workers stood near individual workstations piled with boxes on each side of a 15-foot conveyor belt. A heavy-set woman pressed a button and the conveyor belt ground to a halt.
“Hey, everyone, this is Jack. He’s the new guy,” June said.
A guy named Garth, with a strong resemblance to Charles Manson, mumbled, “Hey.” On the other side of the conveyor was Maureen, and Della. Della’s sister, Velma, seemed to be the crew boss and turned the conveyor on and off. A few others on the crew simply nodded. None of them were likely candidates for Phi Alpha Theta.
“Here’s how this works,” Velma said. “The crew fills up the boxes with stuff, and it moves down the line.” She shifted to the end of the conveyor. “You stand here, tape the box shut and walk it over to that pallet over there.” She pointed to a pallet on the loading dock about 30 feet away. Don’t pile the boxes more than three or four layers high or they could tip over. That’s it.” She smacked the ‘Start’ button and the conveyor rattled to life.
I watched as the crew pulled objects such as pens, pencils, coffee mugs, little pads, fridge magnets, and every other type of gewgaw from their boxes and transferred them to small bags. They placed the bags in a larger box and sent it my way while a tinny AM radio played Top 40 tunes.
“What is all this stuff?” I asked Velma.
“It’s company, university, or whatever giveaway stuff,” she said without looking up from packing her bags. “We call it SWAG. With Princeton and Rutgers University just down the road, and tons of businesses and convention centers along Route 1, there’s no end to the useless shit we pack here.”
As we spoke, the garage door rolled up into the ceiling of the delivery bay and two guys hopped out of a truck. In the bright light of day, they scrambled to unload a bunch of boxes like it was a fire drill. The garage door banged shut and they were gone, the only trace of them was their boxes and the cloud of exhaust their truck pumped into the warehouse.
Velma nodded toward the boxes. “You’ll need to get them later on.”
By the end of the first day, I estimated I walked nine miles on a concrete floor and deposited over 300 boxes on pallets.
“Why are you laying on the sofa with your legs up?” My mom asked when she called me in for dinner.
“My legs are throbbing from my job.” I sat up to rub my calf. “And this is the first day.” Eight hours had never passed so slowly. In the back of my mind, I wondered how I was going to make it through a week of monotonous box carrying. My co-workers amazed me; they stood on the concrete all day although they had stools to sit on if they wanted. Velma and Della brought rubber mats from home to help their legs.
“Well, come join me and your father for dinner. Maybe that will make you feel better.”
I looked forward to 15-minute break times at 10:00 and 3:00 and a 30-minute noon lunch like a parched straggler crawling across the desert and stumbling on a canteen full of water. It was our only respite and each of us strained in our own way to savor those minutes and do anything to stretch them so we wouldn’t have to return to the line before absolutely necessary. We were slaves to the clock.
At a three o’clock break, Velma waved me over to her Dodge Dart while Della fiddled with the radio station. Velma stubbed out her cigarette into an overflowing ash tray. “I probably shouldn’t say nuthin’ but you should know,” Velma said.
I had no idea what Velma was hinting at.
“You’re doing two people’s jobs,” Velma said. “Right before you showed up, there were two guys, I think they were cousins, who were doing the same shit you’re doing by yourself.” Velma pursed her lips and nodded. “Yup, Stankovic found himself a real draft horse.”
“What?” I couldn’t believe it. Now I knew why my legs throbbed when I got home and my back ached all day.
Velma opened the car door. “Break time’s over. And don’t you be telling Old Man Stankovic you heard it from me.” She tapped the roof of the car. “My advice: you need to get your ass out of here, college boy.”
A slow burn filtered from my brain, down my torso, and out to my limbs. Fucking Stankovic! If I slowed down, the boxes would pile up. I came close to stomping in, demanding an explanation, more pay, or more help. Despite my anger, I didn’t summon the courage to confront Mr. Stankovic, which only fueled my fury. I needed to keep saving money and couldn’t take any chances with dramatics. All I thought about was the day I was going to escape this cinder block hell.
To break the daily monotony, I tried to fit in and make small talk but most of the crew seemed more interested in drifting off to their own world. I questioned what kind of world that was; I grew up in a family who laughed and talked to each other. We went to Dad’s office parties where people genuinely enjoyed each other. Acme Merchandising was Zombie Land.
Another week passed and a few details seeped out. On Monday, Maureen came in with a black eye doctored with an overload of makeup. Two days later, Della was absent.
I overheard Velma tell Mr. Stankovic her sister was “under the weather.”
My workstation was right next to Velma and Della’s so we occasionally chatted during the workday, and I enjoyed their sisterly banter. As I walked out the door for lunch, Velma didn’t go to her car, and she sat down next to me at the graying wooden picnic table. She pulled a cigarette out and was ready to light up, before remembering I didn’t smoke.
“Sorry.” Velma laid the cigarette and lighter on the table. “I’m real worried about Della.”
“What do you mean?” Her confession startled me and I was silently relieved to have a real human connection. I knew she and Della were extremely close.
“Della’s not sick. She’s drunk. This isn’t the first time I’ve covered for her.” Velma tapped her cigarette lighter on the table. “Della can’t afford to lose this job.” She looked around for other members of the crew. “Don’t tell nobody.” She gave me a stern look and squinted. “What are you doing here, college boy? I got a GED and Della never graduated high school. We’re stuck here. But you—I don’t get it.”
I wasn’t sure I got it either. A history degree in a down job market and no car didn’t leave lots of options either. Inside, I knew life would get better, but for now, I needed to work too. I had hope, and it struck me Della and Velma were adrift in a very deep sea without life jackets. As I looked at Velma’s deep brown eyes, it pained me I couldn’t break off a piece of my innate optimism and share it with her.
The most interesting part of my day was watching my co-workers.
Garth got dropped off every day by a woman who could have been his girlfriend, his sister, or his parole officer. They never lingered in the car; he showed up and the woman drove off without any evidence of them speaking.
Maureen struggled to make it on time and twice Mr. Stankovic pulled her into his office.
Della and Velma arrived a few minutes early in their car, and remained in it smoking cigarettes right up until 8:00 a.m.
At lunch, Garth wandered into the woods, rain, or shine, and ate his lunch. On rainy days, Maureen ate in the windowless lunchroom no bigger than a cell block with the tiny fridge, an ancient candy machine with half the candy sold out, and a coffee pot. I was certain the Stasi had nicer confines for interrogations. If it was sunny, Maureen went outside and leaned on the back of the warehouse wall, sandwich in one hand, cigarette in another. I don’t think I’d ever seen a person chew a sandwich so slowly. Della and Velma returned to their car to smoke and eat with their radio blaring.
June often sat in her new electric blue Camaro at lunch time, not eating or playing the radio—probably absorbing the fresh scent of its interior. She saw me admiring the car and rolled the window down. “Like it?”
“Very nice,” I said.
“It’s my pride and joy.”
I glanced at my parent’s yellow Maverick in the parking lot and was thankful for any set of wheels.
“Wanna go for a spin?” June asked.
I was up for anything to break the monotony. “Sure.”
“Hop in.”
As we left the parking lot, all eyes were on us. I had the impression none of my fellow workers had ever been offered a ride in the Camaro.
June turned onto Route 130 and said, “Might want to buckle up.” She gunned the engine and the speedometer inched up to 70 mph. After a few hair-raising miles, June pulled into a Stewart’s Root Beer drive-in. “Why don’t you be a sweetie and buy me a root beer?”
I had been saving my shekels and hadn’t gone out for lunch once since I started working for Stankovic. My wallet wasn’t happy, but I didn’t want to hurt June’s feelings.
As I shut the door, June said, “Get a large.”
When I got back to the Camaro, a guy was chatting June up. I handed her the root beer.
“Is this your date?” He asked June.
I couldn’t tell if he was interested in the car, June, or both. At this point, I was ready to return to Stankovic’s, worried the boxes would start piling up if I didn’t get back soon.
June pushed her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and gave me a long look. “Yeah, he is my date.”
The guy ambled off, and June slurped her root beer. “Why did you say I was your date?” I asked.
“Well, this is kind of a date, right?” She set the drink on the dashboard. “I mean, you bought me a soda and we’re hanging out at Stewarts.” She pressed her index finger into my shoulder like a hypodermic needle. “I like you; you’re not like the rest of the guys who have worked at Acme.”
I thought we were simply going for a nice short spin in the Camaro. An escape from my shitty job. June’s blue eyes sparkled and it seemed like she was trying to step away and have more fun than her life allowed. I couldn’t tell if I was part of her diversion or if she really wanted to connect with another co-worker. “Sure, this is great” was the best I came up with. I certainly did not want to spring for another large root beer on our next ‘date’ but it was a relief to leave the Acme Merchandise compound.
We pulled into work just as everyone was filing back into the warehouse. “Thanks for the ride,” I said.
“Anytime.” June answered.
On Monday morning, the crew filed in morosely as usual. I passed by June’s office, but she had not showed up yet. I noticed she had more leeway with arrival and leaving times than the rest of us. Mr. Stankovic was in his office filing papers. To get through each day, my mind drifted to distant destinations, far from the grim warehouse where I walked, carried, and taped boxes for 40 hours a week. It was like I was trapped in Salvadore Dali’s surreal painting of the watches melting, making me think time stopped.
The next day, Garth disappeared. He never came by to pick up his paycheck and simply drifted away like the fog rising from the swamp behind Acme Merchandising.
On Wednesday, Della was back at work and Maureen was AWOL. Mr. Stankovic’s harried look grew worse as we fell behind with our boxes. There was no way flogging a dying horse was going to improve life on the line.
Maureen returned on Thursday with no explanation. At morning break, Mr. Stankovic’s wife, Doris, walked into the warehouse. Normally, Doris brought Mr. Stankovic a paper bag with his sandwich or a thermos of soup at lunch time. Today, she had a carton of donuts for us and Mr. Stankovic glowed with his benevolence. Doris had a body like a beer keg and a mop of curly gray hair. She shuffled to Garth’s station and in Polish-accented English said, “I’ll fill in here until we get help.”
Velma punched the button, the assembly line rumbled, and life in the salt mine continued.
One Friday night after two months on the job, my friend Pete and his girlfriend, Lynn, and I were parked with the Datsun’s lights off on the edge of a cornfield. A cloud of marijuana smoke billowed inside the car. The subject turned to who had the shittiest job. Pete worked in a meat-packing plant with guys named Vinny and Dominic who threatened to cut him up and run him through the sausage machine. “I hope they’re joking but I’m not too sure,” Pete said.
“Wait, wait,” Lynn chimed in. She worked as a housekeeper at the Sleepy Time Inn. “I can top that. Half the clientele are either hookers or drug dealers. They book rooms by the hour.”
When I told them about my coworkers and the windowless warehouse, and realized we were only two miles away, they insisted we go check it out.
We rolled the windows down to vent the smoke, and I directed Pete toward the gravel turnoff to Acme Merchandising. The road made a long sweeping curve and entered a clearing in the woods. A lone streetlight illuminated the parking lot, and I noticed two cars tucked on the side of the building: Mr. Stankovic’s Cadillac DeVille and June’s Camaro.
“Whoa, whoa,” I said. “Something’s not right. Pete, turn off the engine and lights.”
“Man, you are so paranoid,” Pete said.
“Seriously, shut it down.”
“Who’s in there?” Lynn asked.
“The owner and his office manager,” I replied. My mind raced, attempting to sort out why they’d be here late on a Friday night. There were no deliveries scheduled on Monday and no end-of-month financial paperwork due.
“We should check it out,” Pete said. “Isn’t that why we came here?”
“They could be plotting to burn the place down and get the insurance money,” Lynn said. “I saw that in a movie once.”
It didn’t seem smart to get out of the car, yet I was drawn to the office light like a moth and wanted to know what was going on. “Okay, be quiet and shut the doors gently.” We creeped to the window and peered through a battered set of half-closed thin metal blinds. I expected to see June, head down feverishly working her adding machine while Mr. Stankovic pulled thick files from a cabinet.
Lynn eyes widened and she silently mouthed, Oh, my God.”
Pete looked frozen in time, partly by all the pot he’d smoked, as well as the spectacle he witnessed.
June’s naked body, except for a bra twisted half off, was bent over Mr. Stankovic’s desk. Mr. Stankovic’s pants were down to his ankles as he roughly thrusted into June from behind, his belly protruding over her ass. I don’t know how long we watched in a combination of horror and sordid fascination. I tapped both of them on the shoulders and gestured back to the car.
We sat silently in Pete’s car.
“That was intense,” Pete said.
“We need to get out of here,” I said. I thought of poor Mrs. Stankovic devotedly bringing lunch daily to her husband and then heroically filling in for Garth. “Take it slow and don’t turn your lights on until we get to the highway.”
Pete flipped on the headlights as we turned onto Route 130.
“I can’t unsee that,” Lynn said. “Ever.”
It was painful to see June or Mr. Stankovic in the same light after that Friday night. I pieced together all their prior flirtation and banter and noticed Mr. Stankovic did not chat with June if I was around. As my only way to get back at Stankovic, I drove a wedge between the two of them by making him jealous. I flirted, laughed, and bought June a few more large root beers—money be damned—just to see his dull gray eyes narrow behind his thick glasses as we took off in the Camaro. June was not my type although I had to admit she had a certain enjoyable joie de vivre and giddy laugh. She made the clock at Acme Merchandise speed up and that was priceless.
Three weeks after our night visit to Acme Merchandising, the black rotary phone in the kitchen rang and Mom handed it to me. “It’s Pete.”
“I’m out of here,” Pete said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“My cousin in Seattle told me about all the jobs out there. Boeing is hiring too and pays great. I’m not a meat packer and Vinny and Dominick are really creeping me out.”
“What about Lynn?”
“She’s coming as soon as I get settled.” Pete’s self-assured tone and his enthusiasm were infectious. “I want you to come too. You need to get out of this hellhole as bad as the rest of us.”
“When are you leaving?”
“The Monday after next.”
I did the math; my savings would get me to Seattle and last until I found work. Any job was better than busting my ass for Mr. Stankovic. Seattle—new and green, and everything New Jersey wasn’t. “I’m in. I’m totally in.” A sense of elation swelled inside me, like a birthday balloon inflating for a party.
It was Friday, my last day at Acme Merchandising and June had gone home early. All I thought about was hitting the road with Pete and the adventures ahead of us. Mr. Stankovic typically waited for us, leaning against the wall outside his office with our checks. We’d walk by and he’d hand us a check and mumble a platitude like “have a nice weekend.” I waited until I was last. He handed me my check, and the words burst out of me: “Today’s my last day. I quit.”
Mr. Stankovic’s back stiffened and he stepped away, eyeing me. “Is there a problem? If there was a problem, you could have talked to me. You could have at least given me two weeks’ notice.”
I jabbed my finger at him. “And you could have paid me for doing two people’s jobs. I think it’s best for both of us this way.” I strode across the gravel lot, my feet never touching the ground as I inhaled the clean spring air. I buckled up in my car and Mr. Stankovic burst out of the warehouse and approached. I had never seen him move so fast.
“What do you mean ‘best for both of us?’”
I unsnapped the seatbelt, opened the door, and stood, facing him with a surge of anger more powerful than I possessed during all the time I slaved in Mr. Stankovic’s warehouse. “I know how June affords that sporty Camaro.” Mr. Stankovic’s jaw slackened and his arms dropped to his side.
The Maverick sprayed gravel in all directions and I shot out of the lot as the cloud of dust enveloped a defeated Mr. Stankovic. I turned onto the paved highway and sunlight glinted off the hood of the car. Before I knew it, I approached the Stewart’s Root Beer and spotted June’s unmistakable blue Camaro in the parking lot. A moment’s hesitation swept me past the entrance and I considered turning around. Her turquois eyes and gleeful mirth tugged at me. I wanted to believe we all had the same opportunities to move ahead in life—similar tools and outlook propelling us forward. After working at Acme Merchandising, I realized that wasn’t the case.
Maybe I should have cared more for the repercussions to June. Maybe I should have said goodbye to her for providing a brief lunch sanctuary. I had to make a clean break from everything at Acme Merchandising. June was a survivor and I needed to hop on my own life raft and float away. A U-turn across the median lay ahead, and it struck me I had never talked with June outside the hellscape of Stankovic’s sweatshop, and I didn’t even have her phone number. Then Velma’s voice came back to me: Get out of here, college boy. And don’t come back.
~ ~ ~
May 2026
