Race, Furniture, and Packing Peanuts: Adventures in Warehouse Temping

"Hemph blah nubbin hemp hemp", said Willie, pointing to a palette of vintage leather suitcases with his free hand. I made a wild and totally unsubstantiated guess and hauled the palette to a different area of the storage room. He seemed satisfied.

 I was relieved. In three days of work, I had understood roughly five percent of anything Willie said to me, but it looked like we were beginning to understand one another. At least I assumed so. For all I knew, he couldn't understand anything I said either.

I picked up this temp warehouse job from a friend. The company I was working for deals in antiques and home furnishes. The first day, I did nothing but help three other guys pick up dressers and mirrors and cabinets and move them to different parts of the building. All of the pieces were: A) very heavy, B) extremely fragile, and C) monstrously heavy.

I'm a little guy, barely scraping 5'6. My entire life I've been dealing with crap from guys who are taller than me. (everybody but Peter Dinklage and professional jockies) Usually said crap takes the form of people assuming I'm not strong enough to lift the other side of a sofa or something. When this started up on day one of the new job, I threw myself in to the work, proving that I could and would lift anything that any other man in the room could.

Six hours later I wept gently in the bathtub while I wished fervently for a massage, a chiropractor, and an acupuncturist, in that order. New resolution: If another man's pride demands that he lift something while you stand and watch...by all means STAND AND WATCH.

Moving furniture for money is an interesting experience. Have you ever helped somebody move to a new house or apartment? You know how it kind of sucks but at least you get free pizza and beer, and you get to hang out with people that you are probably pretty good friends with?

So imagine that, but take away all the good things.

Things got better in a few days. With all the furniture moved, my only remaining job was to pack up antiques into boxes and on to palettes and ship them away to business with names like "Kristin's Korner" and "Fun and Funky Collectibles!!"

This was work that I enjoyed. My mind always demands a puzzle, and looking at an oddly shaped antique and trying to figure out how to wrap it and box it as quickly and efficiently as possible fits the bill. It's like Tetris with cardboard and a tape gun. I also have experience in this area, having worked at a UPS store for two Decembers and two summers during college. Compared to boxing up Christmas presents for irate housewives and stressed fathers three days before Christmas with a line stretching out the door, wrapping up antiques in a quiet storeroom with NPR playing over the radio was a cakewalk.

Interesting note about this job experience: As far as I can tell, I was the only person in the building who didn't fit into uncomfortable racial molds. All of the store owners and employees were white, all of the movers, grunt labor and security guards were black, and all of the janitors were Latin.  All the white people think the black people are lazy and intentionally slow moving, all the black people think the same about all the Latin people in addition to thinking that the white people are making their lives difficult for no good reason. I don't know what the Latin people think but I'm sure it's something similar.

What a mess.

I don't know what anybody thought about me, but I did get some fist bumps from my co-workers and what seemed to be genuine respect at my willingness to work hard. I also got compliments from my white bosses. And friendly nods from the janitors, after I nodded at them. How much of what we perceive as race issues are actually class issues? And how do you tell the difference? Food for thought.

After a few days I enthusiastically Tetrised (tetristed?) myself out of a job. The backlog of items to be shipped had been cleared, almost entirely thanks to me. (This is a direct quote from the boss lady). So back to the drawing board we go. Who knows what sits waiting just around the next corner? Not I.

I just hope it doesn't involve a three hundred pound antique liquor cabinet*.

--Andrew--

*Unless it has liquor in it.