![]() The text was accidentally sent to some of those who had just been fired. Not an hour later, texts went out seeking volunteers for overtime for the next two weeks. Last year, that was when the culling of seasonal associates began, people fired mid-shift by text message. Managers start talking to floor leaders, asking which seasonal workers busted their ass. Several of us in break room conversations, in the back of trucks, in the smoking area, and working the line, whisper and share articles about worker actions during peak: “Did you hear they are going on strike in Europe?” “I heard they are walking out the day before Christmas in Germany, Italy and Spain.” “I hear people are walking out in Minnesota this year – it’s happening in the US!” “Did you hear what happened in New York? I heard they were forming a union.” “We need to do that here!”Īnd just like that, the day after Christmas, peak ends. ![]() A new “seasonal” manager looking to impress upper management comes by and tells us to pick up the pace while he just walks by without offering a hand. Blue lights blink, signaling that we’re working too slow. From the jump we’re pushed to the limit, and it won’t stop until the moment we leave. The whir of the belt picks up, marking the beginning of shift. A manager in his cohort had walked out mid-shift earlier in the week, fed up and pissed off. I see stress in the bags under his eyes, knowing that he is expected to work around the clock under immense pressure. He does me a solid and lets me take on an easier task. A few folks who learned their lesson last year refuse extra-time – they say that one five-hour shift is hard enough, doing two is unbearable.Īs I reach my station I bargain with a friendly manager not to go to the hardest trucks for the day, my shoulders and neck aching from 10 hours of non-stop pushing the day before (and the day before, and the day before). Our friends and co-workers walk past us, their feet dragging like zombies after having worked the last 10 hours, many for six days in a row. Shoddily built pallets of boxes, normally stacked and wrapped with relative precision, are cascading on to the ground. The normally orderly warehouse has trash strewn everywhere, random pieces of wood, tape, gloves and broken product on the concrete floor. Walking on to the sort floor the day after Cyber Monday, boxes of various sizes flood the conveyor belts. Soon the early excitement and anticipation of the first few days of peak madness have dissipated we’re mostly just exhausted, and counting down the days until it’s over. My friend whispers to me, “We set the records, pay us in cash.” We’ll be rewarded, they say: a handful of associates randomly drawn may win a Kindle or an Echo Dot. ![]() ![]() Aren’t we psyched to break records? Management claps and hoots. Guiding us through a “stand up”, management tells us we’re going to “kill it” today, to set new records for boxes processed on our shift. ![]()
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