Brushing her hair from her eyes she entered the gates of the factory holding her picture ID so the security guard could see it as she and the other employees passed by. Her dredlocks and beads slipped back and forth over her shoulders when she turned her head to enter an opened door into the facility. Tall and fit her gait matched that of the men; hers was a forward thoughtful measured stride; the full cut of her black multi-strapped and zippered pantlegs amplifying her every step. Her chalky white and olive skin stretched tightly across a round cheeked clear complexioned face, wide nose and full lips; her eyes an expressive dark brown like the color of her hair that day something that was subject to change it would be apparent as the weeks and months pass by. As if apart from this adjoining crowd its other members impatiently milling about or wandering away toward the confectionary machines and restroom facilities a short distance away she sits down by herself her denim jacket across her lap her backpack on the floor beside her and brushes back her hair. She's familiar with waiting a long time; she’s calm and observant of the factory around her with all its bustling activity, its noise, its lights; she sees hundreds of people working by bending stretching, turning — then turning back again; working picking up small parts and tools with their gloved hands and reaching for more. She looks past forklifts driving by their yellow strobe lights flashing; their back-up alarms beeping, hauling material from somewhere to somewhere else. Intercoms repetitively call names and numbers over the din; forklift horns beep, backup alarms sound, vehicles slow then speed on; amid strains of Bruce Springsteen songs, Alabama, Creedence, ACDC, heavy metal rap, rock, screamo, hip-hop, familiar and new lyrics and in the background beat multiple sound systems on every assembly line, she thinks to herself for the music alone she’s going to like this place. She glances toward a change in the crowd as it reforms around two people with clipboards and rises to her feet. Gripping her jacket and backpack in her hand she rejoins the group listening for her name to be called as others walk away down a wide yellow-striped aisle the whole length of the building.
"OH MY GOD! SVEN IS DEAD!" the new neighbor Jack Krag said, running from his car to the swing set in Sven's yard where Sven Guyson laid prone on the ground, one foot still afloat in the seat of the swing, his face against the sod, his cap ajar. "SVEN! SVEN!" Krag repeated plaintively, gently turning Sven over onto his back; the imprint of grass and dirt stuck to Sven's open-eye slobbery face. " HE'S JUST A'FOOLIN' YOU, bon ami! " shouted Monique, Sven's wife of two years and some months from the porch. "He's just workin' up to his expiration date and wants his death to be just a part of our normal routine. He doesn't want to surprise anyone by dyin' unexpectedly. You know what a shock a death can be. He's just tryin' to ease us all into it, one act at a time. "WHAT??" Krag fairly hollered in disbelief, looking at Monique, then back st Sven, and back to Monique...
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