A lukewarm energy drink is spilling down his face and onto the carpet beneath him, as he stumbles through each leg of a pair of shoddy overalls. His jacket has been on the porch since last night and the frigid sleeves send shivers down his arms. He gauges the conditions of the sidewalk and laces up his sneakers.
As he passes the threshold of his parent’s home into the early morning, the yellow dot from their Amber Eye doorbell camera illuminates his back. His phone vibrates in hand and the text reads: You’re running late, make sure you check in with your supervisor to avoid an unfortunate outcome! We value you.
He buckles in and waits for the bluetooth to connect, it takes a few tries, and queues up Parade Ground’s Cut Up. The roads are slick, but he makes good time. Cries of a cold world shift to poorly fitted earbuds, as the yellow dot of a facial recognition camera greets his entry and grants him access to a day of repetition, with a minute to spare.
Automation has halved the workforce of factories producing inevitable detritus. He feels fortunate to find any work at this point. Automatization prospers along the system of conveyor belts, as the workers perform their repetitive, minute motions for hours on end. He arranges his clips of security tags just so and awaits the steady stream of cardboard boxes. Atomization embeds itself within every cell of exhausted skin under the LED lights and Amber Eyes, though the machinery and computers remain undivided. He will scarcely engage with another soul, his entire shift will be spent at his station.
A harsh ringing bell and flashing siren precedes the tidy barrage of boxes. His tagging gun is loaded and ready, the coldwave is beating his eardrums to a pulp. One by one, he tactically applies the trackable security tags. Thousands of plant fiber pressed packages come and go, onward to further stations of singular tasks. Sweat drips from his brow. He fantasizes about finally moving out. It’s not all that bad living with his parents, but the further into adulthood he delves, the more he desires true independence. If he sticks around long enough, a floor supervisor position should open, and that wage would help.
He drops the shoulder straps from his overalls and pisses in a gallon jug as the siren sounds again. A straggler eke’s by, evading his station and a security tag. Down the line it goes, dodging procedural criticism each step of the way. If it were caught, it would be labeled: FAILED CLEARANCE. It lands on a pallet naked, unsecure and surrounded by nearly identical three-dimensional forms.
The loading dock gate raises as an exterior yellow dot illuminates acceptance, like the sun breaking through on a cloudy day, to an Amber Now semi. A true crime podcast, Property Hunted, hums in the front cab as forklifts load pallet upon pallet of neatly organized product through the mouth of the five-ton behemoth. The untrackable box eludes detection from the all-seeing eyes, again. Slush lines the streets of the industrial park and the highway is still icy from last night’s storm, it will be a miracle if she makes the delivery in time.
Stretches of bumper to bumper interstate at thirty miles per hour enable a near perfect podcast binging situation. She can’t help but gasp with each grisly recounting of the horrifying case, but the deeper the host goes, the more invested she becomes. A body count of six for one man, all because of a property dispute. Each one of them, neighbors. How could someone commit such detestable acts, she thinks to herself. And what would she do, in that situation, with her life on the line?
She eyes the dashboard GPS screen and figures she can squeeze in another episode before reaching the Amber Now distribution center. A tub of trail mix in the console captures her gaze, and her stomach is rumbling. She skipped lunch to shave some time off the delayed arrival, she will not be compensated for the extenuating circumstances. She loves her job in spite of this, the open road is sacred. The collection of salted nuts and dried berries will have to do for now.
An oil stained hunk of frozen kickup violently shoots from the back of the vehicle ahead. She overcomes the instinctual drive to whip away from the oncoming hazard and clenches her teeth as it bounces below the big rig. It scrapes along the entire underside of the trailer while the host of the podcast describes a murder in visceral detail.
Her exit is two miles away, the distribution center just a hop and a skip from there. She guts it out, the truck wails as she limps into the loading dock. The cargo is out of harm’s way, the untagged package one step closer to fulfillment as another security camera flashes a yellow dot, granting safe harbor.
Forklifts swarm the pallets like bees, buzzing in symphonic unison, efficiently unloading the towers of cardboard into one of many stretching aisles. A packer immediately snags the naked box, indifferent to the absence of a tag, and tosses it into a pile of assorted bubble mailers and shipping enclosures. The pile now ready for delivery rests like detritus, with reticulated cameras surveying the delicate environment, the panopticon.
Tastefully embellished Amber Now vans, at least 30 deep, are backed up into a busy intersection. Residents are up in arms over the constant disruption. City officials prize the business and status of being a hub for such extensive commerce. A cacophony of honks and burning fuel overwhelm all senses. The queue plods forward with gig workers shoveling their daily package rations into the company vehicles. Each will work until their vans are empty, no matter the required time. “Work quick, finish fast” is their passive proverb.
The unsecure package finds itself amongst familiar streets and addresses, courtesy of a vested man working his second of three gigs on the day. He fluctuates between personal calls on speaker phone to nothing but the sound of rustling parcels. Sloppy sidewalks meet his work boots upon nearly all stops, hardly anyone has shoveled yet. It may be tedious work, but he is driven to help support his family here and abroad, no matter what.
He peeks backward, briefly, every now and again to observe the status of the task ahead. Porch doors open and shut in a matter of seconds, happy customers surely beaming to finally have their thing. If he works methodically, he’ll be able to return the van and make it just in time for his daughter’s game. He cherishes her more than anything, anyone. When she’s on the pitch, he sees this side of her that she rarely let’s on at home. Passion, unbridled joy. To see his daughter give her all, always with a smile, is the highlight of his week. She’s also quite skilled, just like him.
The gig worker trudges through dirty snow sludge from stoop to stoop, reminiscing on his playing days. He’s too humble to admit, but he did play in a lower division back home. Some packages look quite kickable, but he would never dare, even on the most trying of days.
A nearly cleared cargo area on the Amber Now van allows for more nimble acceleration. It’s now light, with one remaining delivery, the unsecure package. The home is quite nice, laden with excellent brickwork and expertly crafted trim. Snow blanketing the walkway is unscathed. He steps delicately and carefully up the stairs along the retaining wall, package in one hand, the other firmly seizing the iron handrail. His boots shoot out from under him right below the steps leading to the four season porch, and miraculously, he is able to brace the skidding fall with the cardboard box.
The package holds up well enough, despite some expected blemishes. He recenters himself, chuckles, and thinks of how his wife and daughter are going to have a good laugh when he recounts his final delivery of the day.
Printed in large, bold letters and fastened with long strips of packing tape on the front door, a sign reads: LEAVE DELIVERIES INSIDE, WILL REPORT MISPLACED AND STOLEN ORDERS TO AMBER EYE TASK FORCE. Most folks leave instructions, either upon ordering or placed as so, on the door. He tries his best to follow them to avoid any further headaches.
An Amber Eye glimmers with it’s signature dot, and his face turns downward. He hates getting his photo taken, and especially dislikes complete strangers having archival footage of him. The door knob won’t budge as he twists and turns it every which way. He notices the box lacks a security tag and rings the doorbell numerous times to no avail. There’s no traceable tag, no way to notify a secure delivery. Glancing at his watch, he decides to leave the package on the front steps, and hope for the best. He won’t miss his daughter’s game for this.
The sun is descending behind the rows of finely built homes, and the damaged box is fully melded into slush and snow. Hours pass as the lights inside flicker on and off, the homeowner going about their comfortable day, shielded from the elements. The Amber Eye sees all. Young parents trudge through the snow, their children tumbling along. Comical pairings of dogs trot with their insulated sweaters and booties.
As the last glimpse of daylight escapes into thin air, the Amber Eye picks up a heavily layered figure approaching from the retaining wall steps. She’s wearing a pom pom beanie, a black puffer jacket and has a scarf wrapped around any exposed skin, including her face.
She manages to navigate both sets of stairs with ease, pick up the package in a natural manner, and leave the property as only a fleeting, blurry phantom on the doorbell camera. Working her way through the well-off neighborhood, package in tow, she makes many anonymous cameos, but has no further luck.
One expropriation isn’t necessarily a bad day, but it isn’t a triumphant success by any means. She scarcely considers the contents that rest inside the damaged and now thoroughly soaked box, as the yellow sparkles of Amber Eyes dance beside her. The tightly wound scarf and beanie keep her warm, and dampen the residential soundscape into nothingness.
Her best friend’s birthday is coming up, and she wants to do something really special for them. They’ve had an especially tough year, and she wants them to know how much they are loved. If she hits the motherload over the next few days, she may be able to procure one of those fancy cakes from the french bakery in the ritzy part of town, fully customized.
As she draws nearer to home, the yellow dots dissipate precipitously, eventually to one or two a block and then only a spare doorbell camera every now and again. The apartment complex she calls home is an old corner lot build, and full of what they call character.
She peels off the protective layers of winter wear and grabs a pair of scissors from the drawer. Carefully, she cuts through the brown tape holding the mess together, anticipating literally anything that can be used for the birthday fund. Bubble wrap flanks each of the six sides, upon unboxing. Her eagerness grows. It must be good, she thinks.
The item is lifted out with her thawing hands, and held to the ceiling fixture as if it were a prophesied child savior. She investigates the object quizzically, fumbling to find the tag that will reveal its purpose. Portable Kitchen Multi-Utensil is inscribed along the rubberized handle. There’s a button that releases a singular chopstick, another that swings open a nearly flat spoon like a switchblade, and a steel rectangle that she figures must be doing it’s best butterknife impression. She attempts to fold it all back together, and the chopstick fits only with some elbow grease. Another go and the button for the chopstick falls out, the spoon gets caught and the butterknife nearly stabs her, despite it’s dullness.
In puzzled awe of the defected and otherwise entirely useless tool, she drops it where it belongs most, the kitchen trash and cries from laughter. There certainly won’t be a fancy birthday cake in the cards, if people keep buying such nonsense. She remembers the house that she snagged the package from and tries to build a psychological profile of the twisted soul who would be so enticed by an ad in their feed to buy this product.
The box and multi-utensil marinate overnight in a week's worth of waste. Random bits of daily activity, moldy leftovers and chemical seepings reincarnate the package and tool into something profoundly different, and maybe even improved, a rank stew of garbage.
She can hear the garbage truck making its way down the alley and rises out of bed with a clearly defined purpose, to get rid of the stench. Foregoing her black puffer coat, she sprints in sweatpants toward the alley, pinching her nose the entire way. The waste collectors stop just as she arrives with the stinky culprit. She nods at them and shivers as the robotic grabber floats varying bags of consumptive rubbish into the metal hopper.
The disruptively loud carrier of waste turns out of the alley and onto the main street. About halfway down the block there’s a parked squad car. Golden emergency vehicle lights are flashing. A handful of neighbors are scattered across a few yards and the sidewalk outside of a humble, worn down home. The waste collectors slow to a crawl gawking at the commotion. Two officer’s emerge with brimming grins decorating their menacing faces. Trailing slightly behind them is a handcuffed individual, in a nondescript black puffer coat. The brief disruption on the block subsides as they shove the suspect into the back of the squad car. Leisurely accelerating, the waste collectors carry on with their route, acquiring an abundance of junk to join the package and its contents, destined for The Great Plastic Islands.
The box and multi-utensil marinate overnight in a week's worth of waste. Random bits of daily activity, moldy leftovers and chemical seepings reincarnate the package and tool into something profoundly different, and maybe even improved, a rank stew of garbage.
She can hear the garbage truck making its way down the alley and rises out of bed with a clearly defined purpose, to get rid of the stench. Foregoing her black puffer coat, she sprints in sweatpants toward the alley, pinching her nose the entire way. The waste collectors stop just as she arrives with the stinky culprit. She nods at them and shivers as the robotic grabber floats varying bags of consumptive rubbish into the metal hopper.
The disruptively loud carrier of waste turns out of the alley and onto the main street. About halfway down the block there’s a parked squad car. Golden emergency vehicle lights are flashing. A handful of neighbors are scattered across a few yards and the sidewalk outside of a humble, worn down home. The waste collectors slow to a crawl gawking at the commotion. Two officer’s emerge with brimming grins decorating their menacing faces. Trailing slightly behind them is a handcuffed individual, in a nondescript black puffer coat. The brief disruption on the block subsides as they shove the suspect into the back of the squad car. Leisurely accelerating, the waste collectors carry on with their route, acquiring an abundance of junk to join the package and its contents, destined for The Great Plastic Islands.
