Florescent lights flicker above the high rafter ceiling. I ignore the pain that is shooting up my legs. I will be sorry later that I wore my sling-back sandal shoes. A finger nail breaks every twenty minutes as my fingers are all ready numb. The aroma of metal fills my nostrils.
“I’m gonna get a drink,” Helice says.
“Make it quick.” I watch her walk to the drinking fountain. The water looks clear and refreshing. Instantly my mouth is suddenly dry.
“I need a drink,” I say.
“Come on people. If you all must insist on taking breaks you are breaking the chain of rhythm. We will never meet out 115 units per hour.” I swirl around the tepid water and spit it out. I take my place back on the assembly line. The sound of hangers clinking together fills the air instead of the radio. While I am singing a song in my head, one of my co-workers faints. She is removed from the line. I’m guessing that we will have to pick up the slack. I guess this is what an American sweatshop is like.
