My first real job was in a factory that made carbon brushes. I was there for seasonal maintenance: mowing the lawn, painting walls, sweeping the shop floor, taping the ground to add traction, and following around the full-time maintenance guy helping him with odd jobs. It was mostly terrible and I don't like talking or thinking about it much, which is kind of a shame so this is everything I remember.
After my first two semesters of univeristy, I failed to find a co-op position despite 200+ applications through the university's job board. I found the seasonal maintenance position on Indeed and spent two months with it before ending my contract early to take up an actual co-op position. I'll write about that too eventually.
There were two recent college graduates who did their capstone project with the company and came back to keep working on it. They were both South Asian and fairly young we had common ground and our sparse interactions were amicable. I don't remember any of our conversations except the time I was a part of a discussion with them and the maintenance guy about men's colognes, surprised at the extent of their knowledge and embarrassed at my lack of caring.
I remember the human resources lady was cute. I don't remember what she looked like but I'm pretty sure it was cute. I think she was the only relatively young woman working there. In addition to regular HR responsibilities, she was also the person that interviewed me. I don't remember anything about the interview.
Most of the floor staff were elderly European women. I never spoke to any of them. I think most didn't know English that well.
I spent most of my first day with the facility's machinist in and around his workshop. He was an interesting man. He had no idea what I was supposed to be doing so he told me about what a bunch of the machines did and how they worked. He immediately struck me as the kind of man with genuine interest and skill in his career. The CNC machine was cool. Some of my favourite tasks that summer were sorting his tools. I forget his name, but I remember reading a name plate or degree or something when we ate lunch in his office. His last name ended in -ic, like Nikola Jokic or Luka Doncic. I asked if he was Serbian. I think I was wrong, it was something else in the vicinty, but he was impressed at how close I was. He lived really far away from the factory and drove something like an hour and a half each way to get there. I didn't interact with him much after the first week.
I vaguely remember there being some kind of facility manager there sometimes, in charge of everyone else. He was a fairly old and pudgy white man and I got weird vibes from him, but everyone else seemed to really like him. I forget why, but I was convinced he was smart and resourceful. Maybe because I saw him operating some kind of heavy machinery once while I was shoveling dirt in the back. He spoke to me a few times but I don't remember what about. Painting the walls was some of it. He also bought a paint spray gun for me to make the painting easier. I'll get back to that.
The full-time maintenance guy had the greatest presence in my time there. He's the only person whose name, face and mannerisms I have clear memory of. He was from Kerala, a renowned Indian state that I've only heard good things about. He was young, tall, well groomed, thin and had a long face. Outside of his mouth being kind of weird he could've been a model, and I think he occasionally was. His gait was distinct, and oddly distinguished: long, slow strides with his arms floating gracefully by his side and his head held high--a stark contrast from the drab grey work shirts we were required to wear. He was proud of his independence and success, being the first of his family to come to Canada. His previous job was at a Five Guys where he'd worked his way up to manager. It was easy to tell his status was important to him and he was always working hard to advance his life in any way he could, which was admirable, but I often felt like he could benefit from slowing things down and relaxing a little.
There are two topics of conversation we engaged in that stick out: women and aliens. He relished in telling me about the scores of girls he had seen, was seeing or planned to see soon. He spoke about them smugly and coldly, would show me his conversations with them, and tell me about how amazing they all thought he was. He seemed very proud of all his arrangements and gave me unsolicited advice on how to attract and treat women. Thankfully I've forgotten most of it, but I remember he had rules regarding how frequently to text girls (and how frequently they should text him) and to always kiss on the first date. The only thing I remember asking about was where he met all of them, to which the answer was almost always Instagram.
He was the one appointing the majority of my tasks. If there wasn't anything pressing, he'd sometimes request I help him with his work. The breadth of his knowledge was impressive. I aided him in fixing a garage door, welding in new machinery, and rewiring lighting. A lot of the work took me to random corners of the factory no one else really visited. Sometimes he'd send me up to the mezzanine to grab supplies. I always enjoyed that. The aerial view of the factory floor was always worth noticing.
The lights we fixed were in a meeting room in a corner of the main floor. I never saw anyone other than us enter or exit that area. I think we spent a whole afternoon once sitting in that room having intensely juvenile conversation. He asked what my dream super power was with a smirk. I said time travel. He told me I was wrong, and the best one would be the ability to turn invisible (or it may have been to teleport, I'm not sure which but I know it was to enable nefarious activities). I think that revealed a lot about his character. We had a genine debate on the topic, including the implications of different kinds of time travel, and as embarrassing as it is to admit, I had a great time. Some of what I said was stuff I'd thought about since I was a kid but never really shared with anyone, and in a subjective discussion like that, it really boils down to what you value in life, and it felt good to be honest when we got to that point.
I don't remember if it was that same conversation or another when he revealed to me he was a conspiracy theorist. It's hard to recall the details, maybe because I was so surprised, but one pillar of the discussion was the construction of pyramids. He was adamant ancient humans could not have built them with the technology they possessed. I pointed out that they existed around the world, so this would imply aliens making contact with multiple civilizations across human history. Somehow he spun that as a point in his own favour, which I found really funny. I remember he was hesitant to reveal the extent of his beliefs. He gave me sources and things to search up that would clearly show me the truth. I think I brought up Easter Island and we touched on the indomitable human spirit and will. Other than our argument about super powers, this was the only topic I really wrestled with him on. Most of the time we spoke I'd just let him talk about whatever he liked, chiming in with questions to egg him on, but the few times I really tried to challenge him were the most entertaining.
He reached out once years later to say we should hang out sometime. I said absolutely. No contact since.
Looking at the duties I listed earlier, it may seem like mowing the lawn would have been a highlight. The opportunity to be outside was nice, but otherwise it was dreadful. I had seasonal allergies, the summer was hot, I'd get covered in grass and the surroundings were ugly. There was a noisy highway just behind the facility, and apart from a handful of lawns and trees, there was nothing but concrete and metal to look at. At one point the aging lawn mower broke and I had to use a trimmer to not only trim, but actually cut large swathes of grass. It was my first time using a trimmer. I went through a lot of wire.
Surprisingly, I think sweeping was my favourite task. The workshop would frequently fill with metal and wood shavings, and I'd usually start my day with brooming it or the area around it if I had nothing else to do. I liked it cause it was easy, I could move slow, and I was taking initiative on when and where to work. The first time I did it the machinist was startlingly gracious. I could tell it was usually his responsibility, but he didn't like doing it and felt guilty for it falling on me. Eventually though, it became routine. He was always appreciative, and I was appreciative of him for that.
Painting was generally decent. I got to learn how to operate a scissor lift which was neat. The painting itself was tricky but not too demanding so I didn't mind it. The introduction of the spray gun made things a bit smoother, but I think I didn't like it for some reason. It may have been because the clean up was annoying. I needed to cycle water through the machine multiple times to ensure there was no buildup, which meant a lot of sitting around and watching. I didn't mind that of course, but I was always stressed I'd get caught doing nothing (which is actually something I spent a lot of time doing, but I don't want to get into that).
On my last day in the factory I was asked to repaint this closet/shelf thing to a mossy green colour. I distinctly remember asking if I should do it by hand or use the spray gun. The maintenace guy said by hand at first, but reconsidered and told me I might as well just spray it. I loaded up the gun as usual and got to work. Things went mostly fine, but for some reason the smell was much more irritating than usual. I didn't realize how bad it was until someone came and told me the workers in the main area of the factory were complaining. I opened the garage, which was luckily right by where I was working, and let things air out while I finished up. Right at the end the maintenance guy came by to check in on things. I forget exactly when the feeling of panic arose, but eventually we realized there'd been a mistake: I was using oil paint. The paint I had used for the walls was water-based, so we could clean the machine out using water. Oils needed a different kind of liquid. One we didn't have. I remember the moment I realized this was the moment I learned what it meant to break out in a cold sweat. The maintenance guy was also distraught. We (mostly I) had possibly ruined an expensive piece of equipment brought in personally by the guy in charge of the place.
I cleaned the machine out the best I could with water, put it deep in the back of the storage closet, and left the factory for the last time.
I stole a counter. I didn't know what it was at the time, I just found a box full of them in the storage closet. It was mechanical and fun to fiddle with. I considered taking one the first time I found them but talked myself out of it. After mulling it over for the next couple weeks, I grabbed one just before leaving. I think I might still have it in my room somewhere.
When I got home after my first day, I took off my overshirt and found my forearms were black. It took me a while to realize it was carbon. Residue from the carbon brushes the factory made. I kind of liked it. It was satisfying watching it come off in the shower, and my mom and grandma would regularly inspect it like some kind of rash. They were glad I was making money for the first time, but would hem and haw with each other over whether it was really worth it if I had to get so dirty. I was glad. I felt like a man. I would reassure them it wasn't so bad, but let them think I was working much harder than I was.
My favourite part of the job was the breaks. Other than when I'd work through them to help the maintenance guy sometimes, breaks started and ended with a loud chime over the speaker system. The ending actually had two: one to signal five minutes remaining; get back to your workstations, and the other saying to start working again right this instant. It felt dystopian watching the old ladies standing at their stations, waiting for the second bell to ring. They'd be reprimanded if they weren't ready to begin immediately with it. Obviously this kind of sucked, but it didn't really effect me. Most of the time I didn't have a supervisor watching over me since I had work I could be doing all over the factory, and the people meant to watch over me were usually busy with other things. Because of this, my breaks tended to run long. I'd spend the time eating snacks or the lunch my mom packed while reading off my phone. I was trying the Libby app, which lets you borrow ebooks from libraries you have a membership with. I don't think I spent my whole time there on one book, but I know that break room is where I read almost the entirety of Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood. I liked it a lot. Good book.