It was in the middle of the night and I was left alone in this brightly lit corner bedroom that had hardwood floors and yellow walls, badly painted with flecks of yellow paint spattered along the baseboards. One of the plastic injection mold machines from the factory I used to work at was installed in the room with me, taking up most of its space and continually, constantly pumping out those blue jar lids we used to make. There was nothing else in the room except for a red striped lumpy mattress flopped down on the floor and a rickety table beside it with an ashtray on it and a couple of paperback books propping up one of its uneven legs.
I was supposed to keep an eye on the machine and sort through the parts as they came down the conveyor, but I just wanted to lie on the bed and read the books and explore all the bundles of clothes and discarded junk and old mementos that were stuffed into the dark recesses of the bedroom’s closet. But the machine kept seizing up and the parts kept sticking in the mold and I’d miss it because I was busy fooling with something else. Then the foreman would burst through the bedroom door, grumbling and banging on the machine with a wrench until he got it running again. I’d have to sit down at the conveyor and make like I was working and stutter out some excuse as to why I didn’t catch the machine when it seized up. He’d just shake his head and go away and the whole farce would repeat itself over and over until this eternal shift was done.