The junk mail factory is breaking my spirit. I ended up right where I never thought I would. Right where I said I wouldn’t. It’s a corporation dedicated to money, and money comes from buying and selling. That leads to destroying the earth. Trust me on that one.
Open up the next fancy catalogue you get. I work on the fancy ones, not valPak bulk shit. Open up LL Bean or Williams Sonoma, whatever it is, one with staples in the spine at the least, and make sure it’s printed on glossy color paper that’s a bitch to recycle, and look at the picture. The pretty one with windows in the background, and a hazy outdoors beyond that glass, one lit with HMI lights splashing down through silk so that just behind that clearly focused hero stack of linen on an in-house well appointed table it looks like a fantasy land milk bath for goddesses is just out of camera shot and satyrs standing by with champagne and golden Belgian bunion scrapers wait to be called on. That’s what I work on. top budget stuff. I operate a pallet jack through a fluorescent lit cavern of banded pre-addressed pallet stacks of those catalogs. I am somebody. Wal*Mart tried luring me away with more money, but i have a rep in this town. I don’t work for Wal*Mart.
I know what goes on behind the scenes. You wouldn’t believe what happens to create that illusion. Huge crates with directions written in Vietnamese come in with red stickers and customs labels slapped across them. A couple guys run over with pry bars and safety glasses and start springing nails loose. We get that sucker unwrapped and discover its a chair. Big deal. Someone else’s forest is disappearing. Have a seat.
i take that thing and put a few pad wraps around it, couple’a furny blanks, and throw it in the back of a rental truck. I beat the piss outta the tranny on it, jump curbs – you know what a neutral drop is? Put it in neutral, pin the gas to the mat, an’ drop it in O-D. you’ll lay a patch like a mustang slow clutching in a side show. Because working for a corporation sucks and I let myself do it. Steal every chance you get. The corporation would do it to you if it could, but it isn’t human. Its worse than human. Its a parasite bigger and smarter than you. It doesn’t have to crawl out behind the baseboard and jump in your bed at night, it invites you down to his place early in the mornin’ so he can stick it in and stir it around without getting out of his own bed.
I get the furniture to the location, release the ratchet straps and haul this upholstered monster up the flagstone walk to the massive front door of some American success story who is about to pocket 5 grand for letting trash like me bring mail order crap into his estate to be photographed and marketed to you, your neighbor, your own mother. 5 grand my friend. For a one day photoshoot.
I know what you’re thinking…”They could shoot in my house for that price”. Sure, they’ll go to your place, if you have furniture for me to move out of the way that is better made and more expensive than what I’m dragging into frame. but you’re reading this, you’re a friend of mine. You don’t have it.
Good for you, I say. You aren’t caught up. Too many catered lunches at palatial mock tudors, Eichlers, Napa Valley villas. I was caught up. When’s the last time I helped someone out i didn’t know? Besides the Douglas’s who finally got the floor to ceiling drapes they’ve always wanted… I did an afternoon with Habitat for Humanity a little over four years ago. That felt nice.
I got to helpin’ myself and i don’t wanna go back, and I’m sick to death.