The time I worked at a factory

I had been living in Cognac for over a year. It was 2018. I didn’t have a job for a few months now, but since T. was still working for JM., we stayed in town. 

I spent a few months at the house looking for a job. And then a few more. Nobody wanted me. 

I was overqualified for some and unexperienced for others. I signed up for those “interim” agencies which specialized in giving quick jobs to lost people like myself. They asked for my skills and said they would call if something came up. 

I got a call after a week. It was a 2-week mission at some packaging factory. 

-it’s a simple job, you’ll see there – they said. 

They gave me security shoes and said nothing more.

The day started at 7:00 a.m. in Cognac’s industrial area. Just the surroundings were depressing. All square factories in gray colors. Working class people. I first asked myself what the hell I was doing there. Not that I don’t consider myself working class, but I think my 5 years in uni, 2 years masters, and 3 languages should have got me something better than this shit. 

This is where dreams come to die. 

A 50’ish year old woman received me kindly. She took me to the back of the factory. The ceiling was probably 10 meters high, open spaces, metal walls that separated each part of the factory. 

There was a rubber band in the middle and everyone worked alongside. The products came in the band, you took them, folded them, and then put them back in the band. Sometimes it was folding cardboard into boxes, sometimes it was sticking labels into bottles, or just doing quality check. 

The first day I got to fold card boxes. Cardboard comes, you take a bunch, you fold it, and put it back in the band. Repeat endlessly. Non-stop.

There are no cigarette breaks, no time to look at your phone, not even going to the bathroom. At some point, you feel like a robot.

The pause came at 11:30. You have exactly 30 minutes to eat. There were picnic tables for lunch next to the parking lot. I ate in my car. Yes. I am a loner. And I didn’t want to listen to the stories about the husbands and the sons and the problems. 

After lunch, tasks change, so if you were folding, you will be now putting labels in the same robotic way. When the day was over at 3:00 I couldn’t wait to get home. I drove out the parking lot at 70 km/h. 

I think it was one of the darkest times of my life.

And then I started thinking about all the poor woman who have been working there for years. Without any other option. Without ambition. And I question myself: why? WHY do they stay there? Do these people really have no other option?