Grab the bottle. Twist the cap.
Grab the bottle. Twist the cap.
Grab the bottle. Twist the cap.
As the day wore on, the Man’s focus tended to drift. The task itself was meaningless, but the concerted concentration of his co-workers implied that the bottle itself was the definition of meaning. The Man did not see things this way, the bottles were the means to his own end. A simple job, a steady paycheck, another week survived with a bank account barely in the black. This was his job.
He hated it.
Occasionally, a bottle would come through with a chipped edge. These were defective bottles. He did not need to apply a cap. Deep down, he liked these bottles. And when he picked them up to deposit them into the recycling bin, he liked to imagine that he was saving the bottle from a dismal future and instead giving it an opportunity to become something more. Part of something bigger than it could ever be as a regular old bottle. Maybe it would be recycled to become a lens in the stage lighting of some rock concert. Or maybe it would be crafted by the hands of some artisan on the cusp of some amazing display, an artistic statement announcing a new concept of beauty. Or even as the water glass of some neo-beatnik in a slam poetry bar, a tool to punctuate gesticulated pontifications on the conflicting nature between social structures and cultural morals.
These were the fantasies the Man would use to keep his monotonous daily routine from engulfing him and crushing him with its monotony. The conveyor belt’s series of steel gears created a deafening din. Ear protectors needed to be worn. Safety protocols. Conversation wasn’t possible. You could attempt to catch the eyes of a co-worker across the belt, but why bother? Everyone’s eyes were focused on the bottles.
