Featherweight Tilt
Imagine you have syncope. Now imagine you work in a very dizzying toy factory. Add on that you have a deep obsession with the smell of it all.
THIS IS A WORK IN PROGRESS. DON’T JUDGE TOO HARSHLY, BYE HOes.
The fluorescent lights of Mangol’s Emporium and toy factory hummed a tuneless but noticeable buzz to my otherwise unremarkable life. The air, thick with the scent of melting plastic and faint ozone, clung to me like a second skin as if I had been embossed to resemble the very things for which I lived. For eight hours a day, five days a week, I meticulously inspected rubber ducks, each one a miniature, buoyant replica of the last one, and each a potential disaster waiting to happen. A chipped beak, a slightly askew eye, these were the existential threats I faced, the tiny imperfections that could derail an entire shipment and send me into a dizzying spiral. This was both the responsibility I had as a quality control clerk and as someone with syncope.
My faints were as common as they were dramatic and clumsy, complete with clammy skin and blurry vision, followed by a theatrical collapse that usually involved a satisfying thud and the loud, wretched concern of most of my coworkers. These episodes were becoming increasingly frequent but I don’t think I minded too much since it was adding a touch of unpredictable chaos to my all too predictable routine. The factory doctor, a kind man with a penchant for licorice and vague pronouncements, they all called him Frank, had offered no real explanation, merely suggesting “stress” as the likely culprit. He acknowledged I had “fainting billy goats” disease which even I knew was incorrect and very laymen of him. I worked in a factory that was so old, so dangerous, that they had an onsite doctor instead of an onsite gym. Either way, I suspected it was more than just stress and over the years became known for being the only employee at the factory who wore knee pads and, later, elbow pads. I drew the line at wearing a safety helmet. While I could trust that the factory doctor meant well, I suspected it might be the existential dread of assembling toys and inspecting rubber ducks for eternity – or worse – never touching a rubber duck again.
I had developed a strange codependency on the rubber ducks at the factory, of this, I have admitted freely. During my first month at the factory, Agnes caught me inspecting the ducks. I remember my finger slipped down the rounded, half light bulb shaped head, onto the back, and swooped up the yellow back tail. Their bellies were smooth but there was a roughness to the plastic texture that I had never felt before. The training manual said something about polymer vulcanization but I wasn’t an engineer about any of it. I just wanted to smell the plastic and check for chips. Inspecting for defaults was extremely satisfying - I was hooked. I glanced around quickly, cautiously, and I lifted the rubber duck to my nose and took a long, deep inhale.