It\u2019s still dark outside when I pull into the parking lot of the bullet factory, the chirping of finches and sparrows still a cup of coffee and stale donut off.\u00a0 There is the familiar three a.m. haze drifting through my head as I stumble through my sleeping house and into a pair of steel-toed boots and greasy ball cap.\u00a0 I\u2019ve been at this job for nearly eight years now, progressing through the various stages of the ammunition manufacturing process: Assembler.\u00a0 Material Handler.\u00a0 Nickel Plater.\u00a0 Supervisor Trainee.<\/p>\n
It’s a ritualistic trek from my truck to the turnstile gate each morning.\u00a0 I prepare for the day ahead, never a shortage of things to contemplate these days given my greenness to the world of management.\u00a0 Who will have called in sick and who can I call to fill their spot?\u00a0 Why was production in the tank yesterday and what\u2019s the plan to keep it from recurring?\u00a0 Is supervision really for me?\u00a0 The last question weighs heavy.<\/p>\n
When I was a nickel plater life was so much simpler.\u00a0 I could turn work off at the time clock each night.\u00a0 My routine didn\u2019t vary much one way or another. \u00a0Clock in and stow my lunchbox and water bottle in my locker.\u00a0 Pull on my safety glasses and stuff foam earplugs in.\u00a0 Check product inventory levels and the day\u2019s priorities.\u00a0 Millions of parts, stored in white buckets and stacked in rows waited for me.\u00a0 I\u2019d take my pick and load them into stainless steel washers and crank on the hot water.\u00a0 Add chemicals and let the parts tumble in a steaming white froth.\u00a0 The PH and nickel level checked and balanced.\u00a0 Beakers filled, dyes and solutions swirled, decoding complex chemical equations to chart on a graph for the management to monitor.\u00a0 I transferred the wet parts from the washers into van-sized dryers that smell faintly of burning plastic.<\/p>\n
The automated hoist is a machine that costs more than I\u2019ll likely make in the next thirty years. It picks and sets cylindrical baskets full of parts through a series of acid, alkaline, and rinse tanks.\u00a0 Each basket snaps and sometimes sparks as it is electrified and settled into place, submerged in a heated nickel solution.\u00a0 The solution is green and heavy and rusts the steel support beams nearby.\u00a0 I try not to think what it might be doing to my lungs.<\/p>\n
While the line rolls along I pinball around through the plating building.\u00a0 Washing more primers.\u00a0 More anvils.\u00a0 Drying them.\u00a0 Lubricating and weighing and stacking them.\u00a0 Loading them for transport to the next stage of production.\u00a0 Preventative maintenance needs done\u2014bearings cry out and belts squeal.\u00a0 I snap the lips of a grease gun onto the zerks and pump high-temperature grease like it’s going out of style.\u00a0 Load a basket.\u00a0 Unload another.\u00a0 The routine keeps up until I\u2019m breaked for fifteen minutes.\u00a0 I call home to check on the kids, eat something, and try to think about anything outside of the factory.\u00a0 The day unfolds in a whirl constant movement, the kind of work my grandfather\u2019s grandfather would appreciate.<\/p>\n
When I finally load the final basket of the day and total up my production it will read in the tens of millions.\u00a0 An amount that I still have a hard time wrapping my head around.\u00a0 I sign and date the sheet, drop it on the boss man\u2019s desk.\u00a0 The sheet will be streaked with grease smudges and the entire paper will hold a green tint from the nickel solution.\u00a0 I clean my area and write up pass down notes for the next shift: keep an eye on the acid pumps, check saddle #3 in the nickel tank, stay out of the Fritos in my locker.\u00a0 My hands burn from the chemicals when I wash them in the break room, the skin drying to a rough scale no amount of lotion seems to heal.<\/p>\n
But this was before.<\/p>\n
I haven\u2019t plated any cases for almost two months now.\u00a0 Instead my alarm clock chimes earlier in the morning and as I pass through the house, I look at my chemical speckled hat sadly, a new polo shirt and company cell phone clipped to my belt.\u00a0 I still wear my steel-toed boots each day, though they spend the majority of the working hours parked under a paper-littered desk.\u00a0 I haven\u2019t been in this current position long enough to know whether or not management is right for me.\u00a0 It\u2019s different than anything I\u2019ve ever known. The calluses I once wore so proudly on my hands are smoothing, the lines across my palms no longer dirty or rough.\u00a0 What has stayed the same is the steady metallic heartbeat of the factory.\u00a0 Where men and women punch in each day and churn out bullets by the millions.\u00a0 Where we make the means of protection\u2014and destruction\u2014of life.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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