This morning in the shower for some reason I was remembering my first full-time job.
I'd worked summers at the hardware store or at the plant nursery all during school, but when I graduated and suddenly had to support myself I had to take whatever full-time employment I could find, and this was right after the big Seattle recession of 1970-1 when they put up billboards, "Will the last person leaving Seattle please turn out the lights?" Boeing engineers were cashiering, legal secretaries were waiting tables.
Consequently the only job I could get, without a college degree, was in a warehouse. A very physical, dangerous job. I still have the scars to prove it.
I worked for Ralph Wilson Plastics, WilsonArt, a Texas-based competitor of Formica. We were the NW distributor for sheets of countertopping. Every couple of days we'd get one or two tractor-trailer trucks in with two big "railroad carts" inside, big metal sleds 6' wide and 15' long, stacked 6' high with sheets of plastic. The bottom of the stack was the largest size we stocked, 5x12s. Next 4x12s then 3x12s. On top of that would be 5x10s, 4x10s and 3x10s, then finally 5x8s, 4x8s and 3x8s. Our warehouse also stocked "offalls," cut pieces down to 2x3.
The truck would back up to our loading dock -- whenever they arrived from Texas, which most often was between 2:00 and 4:00 in the morning -- we'd open up the warehouse door and the back door of the truck. Our forklift (propane powered because it was an enclosed warehouse) had a hole in one of the forks, which we would use to catch the trailer hitch on the front of the railroad cart and drag it out of the truck. These things weighed many tons, and often the forklift spun its wheels trying to move a cart.
One time the sleepy truck driver forgot to fully set the parking brake on his truck, and his truck rolled forward when the forklift pushed against it. Our forklift ended up sitting in the parking lot, having dropped 4' off the dock.
Once we had the carts in the warehouse our job was to unload them, into the plywood bins around the perimeter. We had to COUNT each style, color, and size and afterward compare it to the manifest to make sure it matched. There were four textures: gloss, satin, flat and a specialty one called "slate" which was textured. There were about twenty colors/patterns -- solid colors, patterns, woodgrain. We had to be able to distinguish, on sight, about 6 different beiges (1530, 1524, D-11), 4 browns (D-33, D-34, "D" stands for "desert-tone," I'm amazed I still remember the color names), 3 greens, walnut (dark) from walnut (natural) from oak from cherry from honey oak. The difference between satin and flat was very, very subtle and we spent a lot of time chasing down mis-binned sheets.
Oh, and there were two thicknesses available too.
When first unloading a cart we had to drag it around the warehouse by its hitch (they were on wheels, supposedly). Once they got 2/3 emptied we could pick them up with the forklift and carry them sideways, which was a LOT easier to unload from 'cos you could lift it up. However, if you tried to lift it too soon it often outweighed the forklift, and if you weren't careful the lift would pitch over forward, spilling sheets of plastic in a slow-motion avalanche all over the warehouse floor (I did this three times, before being banished from forklift-driving).
The stuff was also brittle, OMG. It liked to shatter, especially in the cold -- and the warehouse was unheated. When it shattered it left a ragged edge that was as sharp as broken glass. We used to take broken pieces and wing them into the wall -- where they hit sheetrock or wood invariably they'd stick. Where they hit metal most of the time they'd bounce off.
When loading the bins you had to push a handful of sheets (maybe 60-100# worth) in with your hands. The warehouse supplied disposable gloves, but they were hot and had to be removed for counting, so usually we just left them off. Consequently I have several scars on the palms of both hands, where I cut open my hands to the bone.
After you got the sheets started -- and wrangling a dozen 5x12 sheets into a 3" vertical slot is an artform, lemme tell ya -- you'd push the sheets the rest of the way in with your hip. You couldn't kick them in because that usually caused breakage. I also have scars on my legs from hip-pushing (though not as bad, because we wore jeans -- a new pair every couple of weeks).
To ship out orders, we either palletized (making our own custom pallets with an air-driven nailgun -- lots of fun nailgun fights) or "flatpacks" which were 4" thick cardboard boxes (I think 4' x 12' was the biggest flatpack?) or, most commonly, rolling. We had cardboard 8-sided tubes about 3' in diameter and either 3', 4' or 5' high. You'd staple in a bottom and stand it up next to the rolling table.
The rolling table was 5x12 and about 2 high. Standing at the table you'd grab 2 or 3 or 5 sheets of plastic, lift the front edge and create a roll. You'd roll it up to the end of the sheet and drop it in the waiting tube. When the tube got too heavy to lift you'd start the next one.
Now, handling 60-100 lbs of 5x12 plastic, in a roll, and getting it into the tube was quite an art too. If you let up the pressure, for even a second, it would SPRONG out flat again. The roughness of the underside of the plastic wore through your pants & shirt in a week or two, so we were constantly buying shirts and belts too.
Occasionally, you'd roll a sheet too tight, or the sheet would have a defect in the laminates such that the roll would shatter in your arms before you could lift it and drop it in the tube. I have scars in my stomach from this. Slate was the worst, because the textured surface WANTED to shatter when rolled. After some pretty serious injuries in another warehouse we were told to stop rolling slate.
It was a physical job. We would sweat constantly from sunup to sundown. I was never in such great physical condition as then -- I got very strong and very lean.
Of course I also bled a lot and hated the work. To top it off the warehouse supervisor was a sadistic fuck who made our lives miserable, because he could.
We got a half hour for lunch. In that time we had to get in our car, drive to a local fast food joint, order, consume our food and return to the warehouse. There was no time to wash up.
I worked that job I think about two years, and left for a desk job as soon as I found one (the economy was slowly improving). I still think about that job though, every time i see the scars on the hands and arms, and I marvel at the dangers we were allowed -- nay FORCED - to endure.
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