Balsam

We thought of it as a scam. The Balsam scam. As if we were making a huge profit by pulling one over on society. I don't know. Maybe we were. I still don't quite understand the demand for wreathes.

 

Every year, thousands of Americans hang wreaths around their doors during the holiday season for reasons mysterious, even to themselves. I’m one of the men responsible for this strange phenomenon.

 

It's all a scam.

 

Here’s how it works: a couple guys in the northwoods need money, so they go out into the swampy forests in search of balsam trees. When we find them, we snip every branch off every tree so all that remains is a patch of sticks is standing out of the ground. It was a mostly legitimate venture, so long as the authorities never got involved. (Don’t worry about environmental repercussions. The things are like weeds. They’re almost impossible to kill.)

 

Then, after we’re done molesting the forest, we bundle all the sticks together and sell them to warehouses, where lesser paid people turn them into wreaths and ship them out to Wal-Marts across the state, where they are purchased and hung on people’s doors as sacred symbols of disposable income.

 

            My team and I had been supplied five tons of balsam sticks to the Rose Wreath warehouse. We would have supplied five more, but my truck caught fire on the trip back. Left an oilslick all the way up the one and paved road in the entire region, the road everyone loved and filled us with hometown pride. That caught fire, too.

 

It was quite a sight.

 

Quite a sight, but it left me only one choice in life: employment.

 

A week later, I was working at Rose Wreath. I was hired on the spot and led into a small cubby near a conveyor belt where I would make wreaths for a dollar apiece. A giant circular smiley face was drawn in permanent marker on my table as a template to judge how big each wreath was to be. Every cubby had one. They gave me the creeps.

 

On a wire above me dangled several metal rings with which to weave the balsam around, thus creating a wreath. In theory it was all pretty simple. But there were problems.

 

Firstly, there was a problem with my scissors. They stuck together and didn’t snip wreaths very well. Frequently I dropped them into my scrap pile and they were swept away by the cleaning guys and deposited in the trash.

 

Secondly, most of the bundles of balsam sticks I had to work with were sold to Rose Wreath were supplied by myself in the weeks before. They contained a beautiful shell of green on the outside, useless dead sticks on the inside. Not the best materials to work with.

 

Thirdly, I had a supervisor.

 

Every hour, I worked diligently to craft the perfect wreath. I'd marvel at my creation for a while and then place it on the conveyor belt, where it traveled about a foot down before being snatched by the supervisor in the cubby across from me. While the supervisor carefully scrutinized my work, I watched other, inferior wreaths travel past her down the belt on their merry way to the collectors at the end. My supervisor handed my wreath back to me because she had deemed the wiring to be too loose (or because she snapped the wire trying to tighten it further,) and I had to redo everything. My dollar was snatched away from me.

 

Many atime I tried sneaking wreaths past her, but to no avail. She always caught me and told me to redo my work. I was losing profit. At a dollar per wreath, I could make at least eight dollars an hour if it weren’t for her meddling. By the end of the week I had made a total of $120 and was determined to quit.

 

But when I reported for duty the next Monday, I couldn’t help noticing that my supervisor’s cubby was empty.

 

Got back to work with a skip in my step. In twenty minutes eight of my wreaths were happily on their journey down the belt, unimpeded. Twenty minutes, eight dollars!

 

The lack of a supervisor was just the break I needed!

 

But, after that initial twenty minutes, the supervisor entered the warehouse. Panting. Out of breath.

 

My feverish wreathmaking hands slowed nearly to a halt at her sight.

 

She waddled into her cubby, across from me and started whining that she didn't have a ride to work and had to walk all the way from her house. I wasn't paying much attention. I was busy trying to craft a wreath up to her standards.

 

Little while later my concentration was broken by a shrill, bloodcurdling scream.

 

She was on the floor.

 

She was on the floor and she wouldn't stop screaming. Shrieking. People looked but nobody moved. As she lay there, dying, the everyone continued making wreaths.

 

The big boss walked by. When he saw her, he spoke into his walkie-talkie. "We got a code-red here” he said.

 

With that, he walked away.    

 

Felt a great burden lifted from my shoulders. I didn't have to do anything about the situation. Somewhere, a code was being acted upon: code red. A procedure for the situation was being carried out. I needn’t worry.

 

So while she was preoccupied, screaming on the floor in front of me, I was making wreaths at a lightning-fast pace.

 

Few minutes later the paramedics arrived. They came with a stretcher, rolled it all the way to the screaming woman on the floor, and stopped.

 

The ambulance paramedics were no older than me.

 

They were like me. They were befuddled by the situation. They weren't properly trained. There was no correct operational procedure, no code for the situation. They were idiots. They just stared at her a while, eyes popping out. The more daring of the two spoke. "Ma’am, I'm going to ask you to get up and get on the stretcher..."

 

The woman replied with another ear-shattering, bloodcurdling scream.

 

The woman was screaming and the paramedics just continued standing there. Looking at her. All the other wreathmakers were staring at the scene, but their hands continued moving. They kept working.

An old man down the line, a decorator facing the mess, began crying a long, whimpering cry. But that didn't stop him from tagging pine cones and fake ribbons to the wreaths.

 

Took five minutes for the "paramedics" to finally do something. They lifted her onto the stretcher and carted her off.

 

A replacement supervisor instantly took her place.

 

I started making wreaths at a slow and frustrating pace, to appease the replacement.

 

A girl of about twenty was making wreaths on the side of the conveyor beside me. She was staring at me and smiling.

 

When I noticed her, I smiled back.

Author's Note

This has been a rough draft forever now. It's hard to get the events to solidify in my mind.

Reviews

[bunny nabber]

wanting to do this forever:




Every year, thousands of Americans hang wreaths around their doors during the holiday season for reasons mysterious, even to themselves. I'm one of the men responsible for this strange phenomenon.

It's all a scam.

[Hedra Helix]

-Many atime I tried sneaking, {a time}
also I just caught this, 3rd read, trying to figure out what has hurt the supervisor which yes infact, 3rd read, is still a mystery to me. ;)

[Hedra Helix]

;0 upon second read it actuall flew by really quickly and I havent much to say;) Weird, but cool.

Anyway if anything, things like this, it's just nitpicking (but I love stuff like that from reviewers, I wish ppl would give their opinion more often.)

: The woman was screaming and the paramedics just continued standing there. Looking at her. All the other wreathmakers were staring at the scene, but their hands continued moving. (They kept working.)

[Hedra Helix]

Hah and the new young girl takes her place. Lucky you. Poor lady, hurt creating objects that display disposable income;)

as far as the writing, IMHO youve got great flow and speed, and your interest factor is certainly there, but IMHO I think you could make it slightly more vague to amp that interest factor all the more and make it that much of a faster more concise read. Know what I mean? If not ask me {if you want} and ill try to figure out how to say it...

;) overall though, very cool style. Interesting way of showing things.

[Nameless]

kickass story. is it really true? did the woman die? it is scary that nobody did anything for her..