THE FACTORY FLOOR AND THE METAL BALCONY

unlimited supply of sweet treats on a silver tray. Perhaps a large fireplace and a cushy bed for comfortable naps during the workday. Maybe it wasn’t an office in the first place. Some say the room is actually a tennis court with an open bar for all the corporate snobs that waltz from factory to factory. Even others claim the door is just a gateway to heaven. Or hell. Depends on who you ask. Today, I gained consciousness from my workinduced stupor to notice two things. First, three stiff businessmen in sharp suits are standing on the metal balcony, surveying the progress being made in their factory. They appear to be standing in order of age, from young to mature to nigh elderly. After one last critical look, the middle-aged foreman, the one who makes the most consistent appearances at this factory, steered the other two corporate gentlemen into the mysterious office. I let my eyes fall slowly from the balcony. I have been working here for so long that my eyes can wander while my hands continue to assemble. The second thing I noticed was that one of the men across from me and to my right on the assembly line was absent from his position. Unless my eyes were playing tricks on me (which is entirely possible in this boring environment), he was there earlier wearing the same blank face as everyone else. However, it didn’t seem like the other assemblers saw anyone leave their station. A clocktower tolls out two chimes, alerting