3.a.vi
Tanya and Mr.
Jones hadn’t had much luck finding a container for The Greed sausages. They’d tried kitchen storage, automotive, and
even gardening. Still, nothing. Nothing that seemed suitable anyway. As they stood in the toy section, however,
things began to look up. Various
spaceships, swords, ray guns, and toy cars could easily house the leftovers of
The Greed.
Mr. Jones was
favoring the ray gun.
Tanya
professed her admiration for a pink unicorn.
Mr. Jones suspected her of putting him on, but on the contrary, Tanya
really did like the bejeweled unicorn.
Not because she admired its girly qualities, she simply loved the idea
of befouling a stereotypical girl’s toy by cramming it full of nasty greed
pieces. She also liked the idea of
forcing Mr. Jones to carry around something so pretty and sparkly.
“That’s not
the point, Wendel,” a woman’s voice barked from the next aisle. “The point is that your crew is slow and
needs a little incentive.”
“My crew is
not slow. Management is asking the
impossible,” Wendel said.
“According to
corporate, they are below the per-hour rate on number of cases thrown.”
“Who says?”
“Corporate.”
“What’s that
mean?”
“Someone, a
panel or a group, from corporate researched it and came up with the figure.”
“Those numbers
are either generated from asking an experienced freight worker to throw as fast
as he can for fifteen minutes and then averaging his time across eight hours or
by measuring a quantity of freight that is extremely easy and quick to throw
and calling that the average.”
“So. What does that matter? It is still the average that corporate demands.”
There was an
audible, exhausted sigh from Wendel before he continued. “Measuring fifteen minutes of work against
eight hours is like apples to oranges.
The human body can’t work at sprint speed for eight hours. It’s too much to ask.”
“Not according
to this paperwork. And going forward
everyone will be wearing one of these during their shift.”
Tanya and Mr.
Jones shared a confused but intrigued look and then walked around the corner in
time to see the black-haired manager slip a little collar over Wendel’s
neck.
“This has to
be illegal,” Wendel said.
“Why?” said
the black haired manager as she checked the connections on the collar. “Everyone has given consent.”
“Yeah. Cause you said they could wear the collars or
find another job.”
“Yes,
voluntary. Like I said.”
“Not by my
definition.”
“It’s
simple. I see someone dragging their
heals, I zap ‘em. I see someone chatting
up a fellow worker. Zap. Checking out a hot piece of tail walking
by. Zap, zap, zap. Just you watch, our productivity numbers will
show positive change.”
Wendel shook
his head. “How about you throw freight
tonight and see if you can make those numbers and then we–”
Wendel went
stiff; his eyes wide and bottom lip quivering.
The sounds that came out of his throat were chortled and thick.
“Still disagree
with me?” the black-haired manager asked.
Wendel shook
his head, the gesture over exaggerated to leave no uncertainty in his
response.
“Good,” she
said. “But you and the crew better work
while I’m zapping you. None of this
freezing up, like you’re enjoying the pain, crap.”
She walked
off, passing by Tanya and Mr. Jones without even noticing them. When she got to the end of the aisle she
triggered the switch again and Wendel, who was
standing there doing nothing, went rigid and chortley again. Then, at a noticeably quickened pace, he
resumed his work.
“Are we gonna
get her?” Tanya asked.
“No,” said Mr.
Jones.
“Oh come
on. She’s gotta be the one making your
sausage thing twitch.”
Mr. Jones
glared at her and said, “How about we make that the last time you phrase it
that way? And no, not even a
shudder. I think that woman’s just a
sadist. All that performance efficiency
crap must be a cover, an excuse to inflict pain.”
“You’re saying
she’s probably wearing vinyl panties and has a cat-of-nine-tails in her
locker?”
“Wouldn’t
doubt it,” Mr. Jones said. “No, someone
else is making The Greed remnants jump, but the movements are weakening, now.”