this be a character sketch
It was a hot day in the warehouse, he had been listening to his walkman and listening to the co workers talk about their weekend. The loading dock hand Phil was walking around. At five foot eight he walked around with a tee shirt too long and hanging below his gut. He carried himself like some street boxer, leading with the arches of his feet, causing his shoulders to swagger up and down, and the heels of his shoes to wear faster round their outsides. He grit his teeth when he talked and smiled at you with wet eyes. You had to smile back. You would just stand there, and you didn’t really know what to feel so you’d smile back.
The light on the loading dock would flash at twelve thirty every day.
“Looks like our friends are here” he said. He put a clipboard on top of the box he was still working on. It was going to a GNC in Toledo. They wanted two packs of a dozen earwax candles, some cod oil pills, and some enchinea which the warehouse had been short of for the week. Boxes would get kicked about by the employees. They’d fall off the carts and slide underneath the long rows of twin lab products and chocolate whey, or valeo lifting belts. There was a little Mexican in the warehouse called Pedro. He steered the fork lift that would mechanically vroom about the warehouse, steered by the grocery cart rubber wheel in the back. He wore a lifting belt. It was so big on him. Other people wore belts too, but you didn’t see them on them. They didn’t stand out. Pedro, was small though, and he wore the belt like it was a heavyweight belt; with pride, or with a smile on his face, that never told you that he hated working in the warehouse.
It was twelve thirty and the fork was in the back right by P-26, the aisle with Tom’s natural toothpaste from Maine.
“Pedro” Phil called toward the back. The fans were blowing that day in the warehouse, and nobody could hear anything from one end to the other.
“EhhHH” the sides of his mouth pulled back something like a smile, and Phil grunted from the back of his throat. He passed over the clipboard in his hands, pressed between his palms and the top of the box that was a few items too short for the GNC in Toledo. He looked towards the back of the warehouse, and I could see his collar browning with warehouse dusty heat. He looked back down at the cardboard box and wiped his mustached lip with the back of his wrist. It was already sweaty and shiny as the gold plated Timex that banded round it. He squinted down at the dial, wrinkling his forehead and in doing so, causing a bead of sweat to roll in between his eyebrows onto the tip of his nose. He dropped his wrist and looked up.
“Damnit, if I could only speak Spanish, I’d call his ass out.”
The light on the loading dock would flash at twelve thirty every day.
“Looks like our friends are here” he said. He put a clipboard on top of the box he was still working on. It was going to a GNC in Toledo. They wanted two packs of a dozen earwax candles, some cod oil pills, and some enchinea which the warehouse had been short of for the week. Boxes would get kicked about by the employees. They’d fall off the carts and slide underneath the long rows of twin lab products and chocolate whey, or valeo lifting belts. There was a little Mexican in the warehouse called Pedro. He steered the fork lift that would mechanically vroom about the warehouse, steered by the grocery cart rubber wheel in the back. He wore a lifting belt. It was so big on him. Other people wore belts too, but you didn’t see them on them. They didn’t stand out. Pedro, was small though, and he wore the belt like it was a heavyweight belt; with pride, or with a smile on his face, that never told you that he hated working in the warehouse.
It was twelve thirty and the fork was in the back right by P-26, the aisle with Tom’s natural toothpaste from Maine.
“Pedro” Phil called toward the back. The fans were blowing that day in the warehouse, and nobody could hear anything from one end to the other.
“EhhHH” the sides of his mouth pulled back something like a smile, and Phil grunted from the back of his throat. He passed over the clipboard in his hands, pressed between his palms and the top of the box that was a few items too short for the GNC in Toledo. He looked towards the back of the warehouse, and I could see his collar browning with warehouse dusty heat. He looked back down at the cardboard box and wiped his mustached lip with the back of his wrist. It was already sweaty and shiny as the gold plated Timex that banded round it. He squinted down at the dial, wrinkling his forehead and in doing so, causing a bead of sweat to roll in between his eyebrows onto the tip of his nose. He dropped his wrist and looked up.
“Damnit, if I could only speak Spanish, I’d call his ass out.”