Cinderella
The first time Kenny sat behind the controls of the forklift, he took everything in for a minute, pondered the use of the myriad levers and buttons, then moved slowly while he got his bearings. The lack of any formal training only added to his enjoyment when he was asked to operate it. For some reason, towards the end of last summer, he had a below average forklift operation day. He had been asked to break down the spent plastic barrels housed in the storage shed, which involved moving them on pallets out into the main yard.
He started off alright, easily and swiftly moving the first pallet to the far end of the yard. He took great care using a Skil Saw to cut strips out of the barrel, tossing the remnants into a large dumpster. He was surprised how difficult it was to cut the industrial-strength plastic. The saw blades would often snag and wrench his arm violently if he tried to go too quickly. Plastic dust shavings and a strange chemical residue began to accumulate on his clothes and skin. Driving the forklift would become a welcome distraction as the afternoon sun crept across the Texas sky.
On his way back to the shed, he began to drive fast and swing wider on turns than was necessary or safe. He grinned mischievously as the rear wheels slid across the dirt. The simple joy was just enough to keep him motivated on that punishing August day. Kenny was a college student that worked for the construction company during his breaks from school and was frequently given that type of arduous task that the full-time employees wanted to avoid. He saw them as opportunities to belie his privilege and gain some amount of respect.
When he was close to finishing for the day, Kenny was driving recklessly and collided with the back side of the main office building. He panicked a bit and pulled the forklift into the shed as fast as he could. Seconds later, the old company accountant, Mr. Friedman, came rushing out the back door wearing crumbs on his face and a napkin tucked into his dress shirt. He stood there momentarily behind his oversize glasses, possibly trying to remember why he’d come to the door, then sunk back inside scowling. There was some loose siding and a possibly unrelated dangling shingle, but nothing so serious as to concern anyone too greatly.
Unfortunately, in his haste, Kenny had driven the forklift tines into a mostly empty barrel of chemicals that had leaked out onto the dirt floor while he had been spying on Mr. Friedman. As he was covering the mess with kitty litter and dirt, a crew of relatively young dropouts known as “the three musketeers” walked past arguing about video games. They paused briefly to look at the scene, then blankly piled into Jason’s prized Mitsubishi Eclipse and sped away, hurling dirt and rocks everywhere.
Feeling relieved, Kenny decided to move the last barrel out and finish up for the day. As he was repositioning the forklift in the shed, he caught a rear wheel on a conduit pipe, tearing it from the wall and disabling the overhead lights. Lacking the tools or knowledge to fix the problem, he decided it was time to go home. He was sure he’d be fired the next morning.
He returned to find the wiring had been unprofessionally but acceptably repaired and everyone milling about like any other day. However, when his supervisor, Tim, came out of the office building, he looked pissed. Everyone got quiet and Jason boldly asked him what was up. Tim began yelling about how he couldn’t believe how stupid people could be and how he was going to be busy all morning filling out an incident report. Kenny’s stomach began to twist in nervous anticipation, but Tim went on to explain.
One of the other supervisors, Tom, had done a bunch of speedballs and tried to run over some cops before destroying the company pickup truck he was driving while trying to escape. As Tim continued detailing that Tom would be demoted for six months after he got out of County, a tow truck arrived with what was left of the truck.
Kenny, Tim, and the three musketeers all walked back to survey the damage. As they imagined Tom driving the wrecked pickup down the railroad tracks until there was nothing left of the wheels, Kenny said, “I’ve always liked Tom. He calls me Cinderella, which is weird as hell, but he’s a good guy.”
- Written for “Incident Report”