The Plastic Factory
My name is Ron, I occupation in a plastics factory. The particular factory I work in is new, and it squats atop a man made mound of grass-covered rubble. In front of it is a in general asphalt parking lot with an access road tying it to a major highway which, in turn, eventually bypasses a mean sized city. To one side of the factory are miles of flat sparse fields, traveling out to a low range of smutty mountains in the distance. The other side drops down to a curve in the expressway.
The factory itself is modern architecture at its most functional and hackneyed; the one-storied rectangular box. Only three appendages break this stark harmony; a loading dock on the left front, the energy door on the right front (giving the design balance), and a toolshed in back. Halfway down the steep embankment, between the plant and the highway, is a small square concrete structure. We call it the “pillbox.”
The factory’s individual is split along its length into two equal halves by a spacious hallway. Access to this hall is controlled by the commission, the first cubicle on the right side. The main entrance leads into this office. Continuing down the hall, we pass on our equity the locker room, where the employees change into their white smocks, the bathrooms and the dispensary, and finally a contemporary, well-lit cafeteria, with its plastic chairs and formica’d tables, and its banks of tall bright immorally-food machines. If we retrace our steps back to the front of the building, and list the rooms on our left as we repeat our junket towards the rear, we’d first pass an immense space directly behind the loading dock. This is the inspection, packing and shipping range. Beyond this, protected by thick double walls of cinderblock, is the pressure cooking room, the room I work in.
