Short Story Sunday: Allow for some spillage

The grinding of the dispenser was the only warning Nathaniel needed: long overdue maintenance was about to halt their production, and he wasn’t convinced that he could get it repaired this time.

“Boss, you better come quick.” Faizel’s head appeared around the door. “It don’t look too good.”

Nathaniel donned his hardhat and followed in Faizel’s wake. The grinding had escalated to wailing and he heard the wheels slipping in the grease he’d been forced to use during the last breakdown. All around the factory, eyes followed him. It was like being in the midst of a jellyfish migration: the workers’ surgical caps bobbed as they tracked his descent from the office level. He focused on Faizel’s gait and tried to ignore them.

“Donny, cut the engine.”

He stood in front of the grand dame of the floor, the dispenser which was about ten years out of date and fifteen years past her prime. She whined and ticked as the moving parts slowed. He smelt burning: the chafing of the robotic arms had caused the cables to overheat and melt through their insulation. Not a good sign.

“What we do now, Boss?” Faizel readied himself for instructions.

“Nothing for the moment. I need to make a call. Excuse me.”

As he had feared, the grand dame was beyond repair. He could resuscitate her temporarily, but all it would take to raze the factory was a spark from one of those heated cables. He lumbered back to the office, aware of the stares. After closing the door, Nathaniel removed his hardhat and rubbed his hairline against the sleeve of his upper arm. The sweat stained his overalls to their original colour. He hated having to make this kind of phone call.

“Mick Johnson’s office, Grimelda speaking.”

Nathaniel could hear the snap of her Stimorol as she spoke. He cleared his throat.

“It’s Nathaniel. I need to speak to Mick. Urgently.” He had learnt to stick to short sentences to avoid confusing Grimelda.

“Oh, Nathaniel! You never call here anymore. How are you? How’s the girlfriend?”

Drat, now he’d be stuck on the niceties for at least ten minutes unless he found a way to distract her.

“It’s an emergency, Grimelda. Get Mick. Please?”

“Mick isn’t here.” The Stimorol snapped. “Well, he is, but he can’t be disturbed, if you know what I mean.”

Nathaniel groaned. “I’m going to need you to disturb him.”

“I can’t.” Her voice came through in heavy breaths. “It’s his wife.”

He sank into his chair and closed his eyes. “Have him call me back. It’s urgent.”

“Sure. Nathaniel, you never did tell me...” The line beeped. “Okay then. Bye-ee!”

Nathaniel placed the handset on his desk and looked at the manual he’d been studying. There was a list of warnings about operating some machinery he was looking into ordering. Some of the Chinese to English translations had left him in stitches; he could use a good chuckle now, given the circumstances. He cast his eye down the list. Number seventeen said: “Allow for some spillage.” As in manufacturing, so too was life full of accidents. All he had to do was figure out how to avoid one on his shift.

Mick retrieved a serviette from his desk drawer and dragged it across his mouth. He hated finding traces of red lipstick all over his face. While Connie was enthusiastic, and he loved that about her, he’d asked her time and again not to be so eager when he was at work. Jeez, and now there were crumbs all over his contract. He’d have to put a stop to her amorous lunch breaks. Not that he was complaining. Ever since Connie had gone back to her Zumba class, her butt was firmer than a stewing steak. He loved seeing her in those yoga pants with the stencilled words like “Juicy” and “Vixen” on the rear. It made it hard for him to concentrate. A notification sounded from his computer. Jeez, when did his inbox go from nine to twenty emails? He’d definitely have to tell Connie to stop coming around. His cordless phone rang.

“Mr Johnson, I had a call from Nathaniel. He said it was an emergency.”

“How long ago was that? Did he say what it was about?”

“About ten minutes after your wife arrived.”

“Get him back for me, Grimelda.” He braced for her inevitable sigh.

“Hold please.”

Mick scrolled through his emails. Clearly the Spam filter wasn’t working again. He forwarded the last in a list of five – promising him a good time with a Latvian Lass – to Tim in the IT department and marked it urgent.

“Nathaniel Woodrow.”

“Nate, it’s Mick. Fill me in.”

“Ah, Mick. Yes. Well, the grand dame conked in today. If I let her run again, we’re bound to have a fire.”

“Jeez.”

“Look, I know you keep saying we don’t have budget for a replacement, but I’ve been doing a bit of research and the Chinese have got – well, it seems to be what we need. The price isn’t too bad either.” He heard Nathaniel catch his breath. “And they throw in a joke handbook for free.”

“What?”

Nathaniel cleared his throat. “Nothing. It’s just that the translations in the handbook are funny. I think it’s a good machine, Mick. I’ve sent you a mail with the details.”

Mick shut his eyes. Nathaniel was a good guy: cautious, meticulous and just the right degree of anal to make a good floor manager. “Ballpark figure? I haven’t had a chance to check my mail yet.”

“We’re looking at twelve million, including delivery and installation.”

His eyes stretched. “Jeez, Nate. You’re killing me.”

“It’s one of our key machines. She should have been replaced ages ago.”

Yes, ages ago, when he’d had to salvage J.M. Johnson and Sons from the brink of bankruptcy after his father had squirreled all their capital into funding a secret lifestyle with his accountant.

“How long can we make do without it?”

“We can’t if we want to sustain our current production levels. I think the three month waiting period for ordering and delivery is already too long.”

He heard Nathaniel tapping something, like a pen on a table.

“I’m sorry, Mick. As she sits there now, she’s an electrical fire waiting to happen.”

“You said twelve million. That’s the best price?”

“The next competitor offered me one for seventeen, including delivery but not installation.”

When Mick ended the call, he retrieved three darts from his stationery drawer, stood up and walked across his office to his father’s portrait. On the reverse was a dart board. It had been Connie’s suggestion; something for him to do to relieve stress. This time he didn’t bother turning the portrait over.

Nathaniel tilted back in his chair. The call had gone better than expected. Perhaps he should make an effort to only speak to Mick after his wife’s visits; she clearly mellowed him. It had been so easy to deliver the lie. He hadn’t expected that. Mick didn’t even question the price. It wasn’t as though he had any cash flow problems. Grimelda had been complaining about all the research she had to do for his trip to Vietnam. Apparently it had to include spa days for him and his wife, and Grimelda resented having to plan what was essentially a second honeymoon. Or a fifth, for that matter. Mick had made a point of spoiling his wife since he succeeded his father as CEO. There had been a bit of scandal around the takeover; something to do with the elder Mr Johnson and his accountant. 

None of that mattered anymore. As far as Nathaniel was concerned, he’d soon be coming into some money. He recalled a Dr Seuss poem: “Oh, the places you’ll go...”