Work for Idle Hands
The first two chapters of the science fiction mystery novella
I
Smith was an average man of average height and average build. He had an average job and average interests with an average family and average friends. Everything about his life was average, and he never wished it to be any other way. That was until one Friday morning like any other, save for the fact Smith was running late for work. That small change would alter his average life forever. For better or worse, he did not know.
8:58 a.m.
Smith sprinted through the empty lobby of the Ovivo building toward a row of ten elevators. One door was open with an employee in a gray jumpsuit identical to his standing inside.
“Hold that door, please!” Smith ran toward the elevator.
The employee inside, Korgar from room 5846 according to his badge, pointed to his watch while shaking his head.
“Please!” Smith shouted.
Korgar shrugged apologetically as the doors closed moments before Smith reached them.
“No, no, no!” Smith repeatedly tapped the UP button, but the doors remained shut. “Damn!” He checked the lights above the nine other elevators, each on a different one of the 102 floors in the building. “Come on, come on…” He waited impatiently until elevator six dinged and its doors opened.
Smith immediately rushed inside, raised his hand toward the second column of buttons, and pressed 21.
“Son of a—!” He cursed himself for his hasty mistake then quickly pressed the button directly below it, 31.
As the elevator began to ascend, Smith watched the lights for the floor numbers rise—too slow for his liking—then checked the silver watch on his wrist—8:59 a.m. He restlessly paced back and forth until the elevator stopped on floor 21. The doors opened, but nobody came or went. Smith held down the CLOSE DOORS button as precious time ticked away.
“Let’s go, already!” he griped.
Finally, the doors closed, and the elevator continued ascending another ten floors. As soon as the doors opened, Smith sprinted out to the hallway, mostly empty except for a few straggling workers in gray jumpsuits entering doors along the right wall. Smith paused as he passed a door to his left for the restroom and checked his watch. The minute hand ticked to twelve, and a loud whistle echoed throughout the building.
9:00 a.m.
Smith looked again at the restroom door, winced, then continued running down the hall to room 3113. He skidded to a stop, turned the knob, and pushed open the door to step inside.
“Good of you to join us, Smith,” said a slender woman standing by a desk. She had short curly brown hair, wore eyeglasses, beige khaki slacks, and a blue Ovivo polo shirt. Her badge read: Bishop — Supervisor — 3113. “We were getting worried about you there for a second.”
Two workers in gray jumpsuits standing by a conveyor belt along the back wall turned to greet Smith. To the right was Herrera, a short stocky man with a black crew cut and mustache. His sleeves were rolled up, displaying muscular biceps and a few tattoos. To the left of Herrera was Kowalski, a tall man with frizzy brown hair and a shaggy beard beginning to turn the color of his jumpsuit. It being Friday, Kowalski’s jumpsuit was extra greasy that day since he only washed it once per week on Sundays. Branded on the uniforms of all employees were the company name, slogan, and logo: Ovivo, Forging the Future, and three figure-8 infinity signs linked into a triangle.
“Nothing to worry about.” Smith stepped between Herrera and Kowalski on the assembly line and picked up a steel wrench hanging from a shelf on the wall. “I’m here now.”
“Great,” Mrs. Bishop said. “Let’s get to work.”
Three steel bars and three steel bolts rolled along the conveyor belt into the room. Herrera lifted one bolt and used his wrench to connect the first bar to the second. Smith used another bolt to attach the second bar to the third, then placed it back down on the belt. Kowalski twisted the final bolt, connecting the third bar to the first, fusing them into the shape of a triangle. The completed component rolled out along the conveyor belt into the next room, and three new sets of parts, the same as the last, rolled in.
Herrera, Smith, and Kowalski repeated the process of assembly while Mrs. Bishop sat at her desk watching them work while making notes in a ledger.
“Back to the grind, eh,” Herrera said.
“Another day, another dollar,” said Kowalski.
“Thank God it’s Friday,” said Smith.
“Amen to that,” Mrs. Bishop said. “TGIF.”
“TGIF!” Herrera, Kowalski, and Smith shouted gladly in unison.
The team of three continued connecting the same metal triangles again, again, and again. They assembled two modules per minute, 120 per hour, and 720 per day. The conveyor belt never stopped except during hourly fifteen-minute breaks and a longer mid-day break for lunch.
After assembling their fourth steel triangular contraption of the day, Smith checked his watch.
9:09 a.m.
He regretted drinking that second cup of coffee with breakfast, though he needed the extra caffeine to combat his lack of sleep the night before. If only he’d had one spare minute to stop in the restroom before work… Oh well, he thought, too late for that. Just another fifty-one minutes until the first break, he reminded himself, squeezing his legs together in an attempt to suppress his teeming bladder. Surely he could hold it in until then.
“You’ll never believe what the wife says to me when I got home from work yesterday,” Herrera said while cranking his wrench.
“What was it this time?” asked Kowalski.
“The moment I walk through the front door, she says she bought a new bed frame and asks if I can put it together,” Herrera said.
“Ugh,” Kowalski groaned. “You’re kidding…”
“Doesn’t she realize you’ve been putting things together all day?” Mrs. Bishop said, looking up from the newspaper crossword puzzle she was working on.
“That’s what I said,” Herrera spoke while tightening his bolt. “So then she gets all passive-aggressive on me.”
“That’s the worst,” Mrs. Bishop said. “If you’ve got a problem, just come out and say it.”
“I know, right,” Herrera said. “But don’t you dare accuse a passive-aggressive person of being passive-aggressive. Then you’ll see some active aggression!”
“I didn’t know you knew my partner,” Mrs. Bishop said.
“See,” Kowalski said, “this is exactly why I stay single.”
“No, Kowalski,” Herrera said, “you’re single because nobody will have you.”
He and Mrs. Bishop laughed, but all Smith could muster through his bodily discomfort was a stiff smirk.
“So did you put the bed together?” asked Mrs. Bishop.
“Of course I did,” Herrera said. “I had to if I ever wanted to sleep in the same bed with her again.”
Mrs. Bishop, Herrera, and Kowalski laughed while Smith bit his lower lip, squeezing his legs tighter.
The three men continued assembling their parts, Smith working faster than normal, but it made no difference. The conveyor belt always moved at the same rate. No matter how fast he worked, he couldn’t escape that room until the whistle blew at 10 AM.
Smith checked his watch—9:25—then bit his lip harder, squirming in place as he bolted the metal parts together with his wrench.
“Did you hear what our genius president said in that speech last night?” asked Kowalski.
“Yeah, what a moron,” Herrera said. “How can we possibly—”
“Hey, now,” Mrs. Bishop said. “Let’s not discuss politics at the workplace.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Bishop,” Herrera said.
“Yeah, sorry,” said Kowalski.
“But he is an imbecile,” Mrs. Bishop added, and the others chuckled.
Smith could not even summon a smile that time. His bladder felt like it was going to burst. While attempting to tighten the next bolt, his hands trembled, causing his wrench to clatter against the metal bars.
“Smith?” Herrera glanced over to see what was the matter.
Smith ignored him and continued tightening, but his wrench slipped and the bolt fell.
“Oops.” Kowalski caught the bolt just as it rolled off the belt then handed it back to Smith.
“Are you okay?” asked Herrera, handing him his wrench.
“Yes,” Smith said. “I just…” He attempted to re-bolt the parts, but his hands were shaking too erratically.
“Is there a problem, Smith?” Mrs. Bishop walked toward the workers.
“No,” Smith said through clenched teeth. “I just…” He danced in place, breathing heavily and sweating while the next set of parts quickly approached him along the conveyor belt. “Well, I um…”
“Need to tinkle?” Mrs. Bishop said with a sly grin.
Herrera and Kowalski snickered while Smith blushed from embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” he said, finally securing his bolt then passing the parts off to Kowalski. “The baby was up all night crying, so I overslept this morning and missed my train, then I got here late and didn’t have time to—”
“Smith, Smith, relax.” Mrs. Bishop placed a hand on his shoulder.
“I was trying to hold it in until the break,” Smith said, “but—”
“No worries.” Mrs. Bishop stepped beside him on the assembly line. “I can cover you for a few minutes.” She grabbed his wrench and bolt. “Go ahead.”
“Really?” asked Smith, and she nodded assuredly. “Oh, thank you so much, Mrs. Bishop. I’ll be real fast.”
“Get out of here before I change my mind,” Mrs. Bishop said.
“Yes, ma’am!” Smith sprinted to the door.
“I was kidding, Smith,” Mrs. Bishop said. “Take your time.” She used his wrench like a pro, connecting the steel parts securely.
“Right, of course,” Smith said then exited the room.
II
9:27 a.m.
The hallway was completely empty and quiet except for the faint sound of metallic clanging and the hum of the conveyor belt behind each of the dozens of closed doors. Smith ran straight to the restroom and into a stall where he unzipped his jumpsuit then let loose. Water flowed like a firehose into the toilet, a steady stream lasting a solid thirty seconds. The urination felt euphoric. Smith closed his eyes, reveling in the alleviation, then exhaled emphatically upon finishing, letting out a long sigh of relief.
He flushed the toilet, zipped up his jumpsuit, and swiftly exited the stall. Despite what Mrs. Bishop had told him, Smith didn’t want to force his supervisor to do menial assembly line labor any longer than necessary, so he rinsed his hands in the sink for just a brief second, using no soap, then dried them on his jumpsuit as he ran back out to the hall. Darting past the doors without looking, he returned to the production room, checking his watch as he stepped to the conveyor belt.
9:29 a.m.
“Thanks again, Mrs. Bishop.” Smith tapped the shoulder of the person in the middle of the assembly line.
“Excuse me?” The worker with the wrench turned around in confusion. It was not Mrs. Bishop, but a bald man with a black goatee wearing a gray Ovivo jumpsuit. His nametag read: Sekara — 3114.
“What are you doing in here?” asked a man sitting at a desk behind them wearing a blue polo shirt with a badge reading: Myers — Supervisor — 3114.
“I, uh…” Smith studied the other two workers in the assembly line, a man and woman whose nametags read “Hidad” and “Kovacs,” both room 3114.
“I think you may have the wrong room…” Mr. Myers stepped closer to read his badge. “…Smith.”
“Oh!” Smith slapped his forehead, feeling like a fool, as of course he knew entering a production room other than his own was against Ovivo’s core rules. “Sorry.” He noticed the room was identical to 3113, with a conveyor belt running along the back wall carrying three steel rectangular bars, but something was off. The bars and bolts were at the opposite end of the belt, heading out of the room. The assembly line workers weren’t putting the parts together into a triangle—they were taking the triangle apart.
“I think you’d better get back to work,” Mr. Myers said.
Smith blinked twice, assuming his eyes must have been playing tricks on him, but upon second glance, what he had seen was no hallucination. He stared dumbstruck at the conveyor belt as a steel triangle—the same mechanism he and his team put together—rolled into the room. Kovacs used a wrench to loosen the bolt connecting the third part from the first, Sekara detached part two from three, and Hidad disconnected the first part from the second. Three bars and three bolts then rolled separately along the conveyor belt out of the room. Another steel triangle rolled in from the other end of the belt, and the three line workers repeated the process of disassembly.
Smith felt the room spinning around him as he struggled to process the scene. What in the world were these workers doing? Smith and his team assembled those same three parts 720 times a day, 180,000 times a year, for… for… for what?
“Smith?” Mr. Myers tapped his shoulder, jarring him out of his trance.
“Huh?” Smith said, still feeling quite dazed.
“I said you should get back to work,” repeated Mr. Myers. “Your supervisor must be looking for you.”
“Yes, right, um…” Smith backed away from the conveyor belt, watching as another steel triangle rolled into the room, only to be dismantled piece by piece by piece.
“You look sick.” Mr. Myers sounded concerned. “Are you feeling unwell?”
“No, I…” Smith continued backing away, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the conveyor belt, watching his triangle roll into the room intact, then roll out in pieces.
“Room 3113…” Mr. Myers read Smith’s nametag. “Who’s your supervisor?”
“Um…” Smith backed into the corner and bumped his head on the wall, jolting him back to attention. He realized Mr. Myers was staring at him, as were the three assembly—or disassembly—line workers.
“My mistake!” Smith said then dashed out of the room.
In the hallway, he checked the number on the door—3114—then groaned, berating himself for his stupidity. In his haste to return to work, he had gone one door too far.
Smith backtracked down the hallway to the previous room, double-checked the number on the door and his badge—both 3113—then turned the knob and stepped inside.
9:33 a.m.
“It’s about time, Smith.” Mrs. Bishop turned around from the middle spot on the assembly line. “My hands are getting sore here.” She exaggerated rubbing them together.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Bishop.” Smith hurried toward her. “I was just—”
“Relax, Smith.” Mrs. Bishop winked. “I’m just yanking your chain.” She playfully slapped his back then handed him his wrench. “I used to work the assembly line just like you. Keep at it, and someday you might become a supervisor.” She returned to her desk.
“Yes, ma’am.” Smith, still discombobulated by what he had seen in the adjacent room, forced himself to nod and smile.
“Uh, Smith…” Mrs. Bishop eyed the metal parts rolling by him along the conveyor belt.
“Oh! Sorry!” Smith turned around to grab the bolt, but his jittery hands fumbled it.
“You okay, George?” asked Kowalski.
“I’m fine!” Smith picked up the parts and hurriedly attached them with his wrench then placed them back down. Kowalski connected the final piece, and the completed triangle rolled out of the room. From the other end of the conveyor belt, three new sets of parts rolled in, and the three workers repeated the process of assembly.
“Almost there,” Mrs. Bishop said, sharpening her pencil. “Last day ’til freedom.”
“Can’t come any sooner,” Herrera said. “TGIF.”
“TGIF,” Kowalski said, torquing his wrench.
“TGIF,” said Mrs. Bishop.
Smith went through the motions of wrenching his bolts, but his mind was elsewhere, trying to make sense of what he had seen in room 3114. The conveyor belt ran directly between the two rooms, meaning every triangle they assembled was immediately disassembled by the team next door. For the life of him, Smith could not fathom why they would do such a thing.
He didn’t know what they were building—what the triangular component was for. He assumed it was one small cog of a larger machine, and the workers in each room built upon the work of those before them. Why then, would the workers in the next room reverse the process and completely undo all his hard labor?
Smith felt ridiculous tightening the bolts with his wrench, knowing a worker named Sekara was loosening those very same bolts in the next room. Yet he continued assembling regardless. After all, as long as the conveyor belt was running, production must never stop.
Smith wondered if Mrs. Bishop knew what was happening in room 3114—though of course he couldn’t come right out and ask her. The only people at Ovivo Smith trusted were the two men to his left and right. He’d grown up with Herrera and Kowalski, went to the same schools, and began working on the assembly line together. They were more than co-workers—they were best friends. Smith doubted they knew any more than he did, but he had to share what he had seen. Not in front of Mrs. Bishop, though. He would need to wait until they were alone.
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