![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.thetruthseeker.co.uk\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/09\/Ea-Kly-2019x-2.jpg\")
<\/a><\/p>\nThere is a dearth of writing about work, its variety, tedium and grind. This is understandable, since most writers have devoted much of their time to writing and reading, and not painting houses, cleaning toilets, washing dishes, planting crops or performing mind numbingly monotonous tasks on an assembly line, etc. This blind spot or ignorance has become worse in contemporary America, where your typical writer spends nearly his entire adulthood inside academia. There is no more surreal theme park than a college campus.<\/h5>\nDuring my few cameo appearances as a university professor, I\u2019d encourage students to write about their work experiences, especially if they appear pointless, for this in itself is meaningful, as hard as it is to believe as you\u2019re flipping endless beef patties, with burnt marks on your fingers, grease in your hair and sweat on your face, dreaming of sleep.<\/h5>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.thetruthseeker.co.uk\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/09\/46309200691_8a02fcab85_b-1024x683.jpg\")
<\/a>I\u2019m typing this during stolen moments while working at a plastic recycling plant<\/span><\/a>. Our grinding machine<\/span><\/a> is chopping sorted yellow plastic into bits. Its loud, constant roar is a muscular, minimalist music that\u2019s punctuated by the sure hacking of our steadfast women, who must remove metal from plastic, separate all the colors. Heliophobic and stench adverse, most have their faces well-covered, lest they darken or sniff something too foul or even toxic. Among the plastic garbage are not quite empty bottles of insecticides or weed killers, with one advertised as having the \u201cStrength of a German tank<\/span><\/a>\u201d!<\/h5>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.thetruthseeker.co.uk\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/09\/48720052966_64e49aeb3d_o-1024x683.jpg\")
<\/a>The worst funk, though, comes from jars or bottles of fermented shrimp paste. Even when fresh and delicious, this purplish delicacy already smells like garbage. It can hearten, complicate and anchor a broth<\/span><\/a>, or be mixed with lime juice and chili pepper to serve as a dip for boiled meat. Our puppy, though, likes it fine raw, as fished from our many tons of plastic trash, and it\u2019s useless to chastise Lou<\/span><\/a> for her bad taste or derelict table manners.<\/h5>\nWith its iron stomach, a dog will lap up dish water or even eat shit. Last time I checked, I wasn\u2019t a dog. While sorting through some plastic garbage yesterday, I touched something that looked, smelled and felt exactly like shit, but maybe it wasn\u2019t, I optimistically hoped. At least I didn\u2019t have to eat it.<\/h5>\nAs a house and office cleaner for several years, I\u2019m not unfamiliar with that malodorous purview. I\u2019ve written in a poem, \u201cBelonging to the lower class, you\u2019re expected \/ To cater to the upper class\u2019 lower bodily functions, \/ Not to engage their minds but to wipe their asses, \/ Kiss their cunts on demand, suck cocks for tips.\u201d<\/h5>\nThe lower you\u2019re on the ladder, the more buttocks you have to stare up at, the more shit you must deal with, the more unpleasantness you\u2019re forced swallow, and this goes for entire societies, and that\u2019s why plastic recycling is only feasible in a poorer country like Vietnam.<\/h5>\nOur sorters work at their own pace and, to leaven their days, chatter and joke, so you\u2019ll hear laughter episodically, for felicitous language is the cheapest entertainment. Visiting large factories, I\u2019ve witnessed assembly lines and isolated workstations where humans functioned like machines, but that\u2019s the whole point. Their mind is supposed to be blank, and their spirit snuffed out, so there is nothing left but the task. They can\u2019t slow down or even speed up. Just do it! I\u2019m glad we\u2019re more primitive.<\/h5>\nRepeatedly overburdened by loads<\/a><\/span> beyond their stature and calling, some men quit, sometimes after mere days, though most are way tougher than their size suggests. This place stinks. A young man throws up, a woman must lie down and well tucked metal shards will cut through rubber sandals and draw blood, but days will go by uneventfully, tediously, as folks soldier on, waiting for pay day.<\/h5>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.thetruthseeker.co.uk\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/09\/48597800092_caf0863083_o-1024x683.jpg\")
<\/a>We bring nearly three tons of plastic garbage<\/a><\/span> a day, so we swim and wade through the stuff. Trash, we live garbage<\/a><\/span>, with a smile.<\/h5>\nThough the oldest at our plant at 55, I\u2019m the foreman, so don\u2019t have to bust my ass like the others. Still, it\u2019s a half marathon. A constant sweater, I rehydrate myself with Zero Degree iced tea, hot matcha tea or an ungodly concoction of hot water, spicy instant noodle seasoning and soy sauce. Though obviously nutrition-free, this broth yields a jolt of energy, or at least quickens my senses, thus lessening fatigue.<\/h5>\nOne of our strongest workers likes to reward himself with plenty of beer or rice wine after work, but Diep has missed two days already this week, so should be fired tomorrow. It\u2019s unfortunate, since I\u2019ve drank and eaten with this guy, and find his conversations alert and funny.<\/h5>\nMany among us get together<\/span><\/a> to feast<\/a><\/span>, get drunk, joke, share stories and sing<\/span><\/a> songs of love and loss going back half a century. With a shared heritage, our lives have meanings, and that\u2019s why we work, not just to eat. A poet may leave us with just one memorable phrase, but that\u2019s enough, and he should do at least that. Often, there\u2019s a woman who takes pride in outdrinking any man.<\/h5>\nDiep reminds me of a Philly friend, Jay, for not only would they drink themselves out of a job, but they\u2019re both good looking enough to expect someone to accommodate them always, so if a door should close, another must soon open. They imagine life to be an endless series of open legs. It is rare to be blessed with such a curse. For such a man, even pussies can get tiresome.<\/h5>\nJay was my housemate for a year, and we were on the same housepainting crew. In the morning, we\u2019d leave the house together, but once, Jay lagged behind on the walk to the bus stop, so missed the bus, and was fired.<\/h5>\nWe actually occupied an unheated loft, over a printing shop that steadily exhaled noxious fume through our floorboards. Like us, Jay\u2019s two cats often froze. When Betty became gravely ill, Jay had to deliver her from this earth with a soiled pillow. We were trying to become artists.<\/h5>\nIt\u2019s apt for American bars to pitch afterwork boozing \u201chappy hour,\u201d for it is the happiest, though many drink sullenly, alone, like Johnny the Hat at my old neighborhood haunt, Friendly Lounge. Enough Jamesons downed, the 55-ish car mechanic would cordially say goodbye to each before weaving home, but sometimes, he\u2019d turn nasty, as when he growled at Aurelia, \u201cWhen did they let you out of the zoo?\u201d<\/h5>\nAt 19, I heard some old guy wheeze, \u201cI like to work because it makes my food taste better, and I sleep better,\u201d and I do agree that physical exhaustion makes just about anything delicious, and sleep become heavenly, but what I had for lunch today may challenge this thesis.<\/h5>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.thetruthseeker.co.uk\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/09\/48725352036_2d1a008cba_o-1024x683.jpg\")
<\/a>I wiped the dirt off my hair, face and neck, then sat down in my grimy tank top to enjoy Cung Dinh [Royal Palace] brand\u2019s Kool Spaghetti<\/a><\/span>, and on the label, there\u2019s a convincing image of some firm and long pasta covered with a crimson meat sauce, with even fresh basil on top. Opening the plastic lid, your kingship discovered that it\u2019s just ordinary instant noodles, with two seasoning packets. Combined, they yielded a measly, greasy paste that\u2019s slightly sweet and almost tomato free. Paying only 60 cents for this mess, I had no right to kvetch, and I did in fact wolf it down, like a poofed, famished dog.<\/h5>\nThe poetry quoted above was published in Harper\u2019s, my one appearance in that magazine, and I was surprised they had wanted such a naked depiction of working class life. I\u2019ve never been a Harper\u2019s reader and didn\u2019t submit. In my early 20\u2019s, I did subscribe to the New Yorker and New York Times, but the social milieus they depicted, especially in the ads, seemed super exotic to me. What fanciful travels, restaurants and nightclubs, and what preposterous prices, even those touted as bargains! It\u2019s a different world.<\/h5>\nOccupying the top half, many will vehemently defend the bottom, in theory, without any intimacy with it, with some openly despising it, but these ignorant trash must be spoken for, so exclaim the righteous snobs.<\/h5>\nIllegal immigration is a classic example of this. Although this stream of cheap labor benefits the ownership class while hurting the poorest, it is presented, often earnestly, as an act of solidarity with the downtrodden. Blacks, brown citizens and legal immigrants are among illegal immigration\u2019s worst victims, and of course, poor whites, but if these dare to demand their lowly jobs back, they must be racists! No wonder so many are killing themselves.<\/h5>\nI\u2019m across the globe from all that. Here, 9\/11<\/a><\/span> came and went without anyone remembering anything. It\u2019s someone else\u2019s fairy tale.<\/h5>\nIt\u2019s past five, so I\u2019m done. I can\u2019t wait to eat, then lie down.<\/h5>\nTomorrow, I\u2019ll get up before four to read some, then be at Mrs. Ha\u2019s<\/span><\/a> cafe as dawn<\/a><\/span> pales over our negligible village. Each morning, a hen leads her chicks across our empty gas station<\/a><\/span>, with each bird perusing the ground, when not pecking. Penned cocks crow. Since it\u2019s rice harvesting time, tractor trucks bring Rade farmhands to paddies. Black peppers wait their turn. Durians<\/span><\/a> drop. So much land and work to fill just one scrawny belly.<\/h5>\nSlumped in a corner where my head can rest<\/a><\/span>, I\u2019ll have two cups of slow drip Perfect coffee with condensed milk, plus unlimited green tea, free of charge. The tin tea pot is labeled Phoenix. I am indeed royalty. Once, I showed up with my shirt inside out and my fly unzipped, but no one said shit. I\u2019ve discovered my true calling as the village idiot. When not serving customers, Mrs. Ha lies on a hammock or laughs as she watches dating shows on television.<\/h5>\nHer cafe is also a tiny store<\/a><\/span> and parking garage<\/span><\/a>, and she charges just 22 cents a day for commuters to park a motorbike.<\/h5>\n\u201cThis is just the country<\/span><\/a>, uncle.\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cAnd they can keep it here until what time?\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cSeven or eight.\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cAnd if they don\u2019t pick it up by then?\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cI\u2019ll just lock up, then go to sleep. Sometimes, though, a man would get drunk, show up in the dark to bang on my gate.\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cAnd you\u2019d let him have his bike?\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cOf course, but that\u2019d the last time he parks here!\u201d<\/h5>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.thetruthseeker.co.uk\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/09\/48713558573_1cba06f981_o-1024x683.jpg\")
<\/a>Sharing my plastic table will be a motorbike taxi man<\/a><\/span>. Once a cop, he was fired for marrying a tribal woman, a security risk. Seeing me, he rarely fails to gleefully shout, \u201cHow many cups already? Two? Four?\u201d Whenever I tried to introduce a new topic, he\u2019d just grin, this worn man of few words. Practically mindless, perhaps he\u2019s a Zen master? Last week, I spotted a T-shirt, \u201cTHINK LESS LIVE MORE.\u201d Deep, man.<\/h5>\nLuridly dressed as if going to a party, with a large, blood red rose on the back of her black jacket, a middle-aged lady will totter on the cheapest high heels across the road, to wait for a bus to deliver her to her daily toiling. She\u2019ll bend until she\u2019s bent.<\/h5>\nAt 6:40, I\u2019ll stroll to mine.<\/h5>\nLinh Dinh\u2019s<\/em><\/strong> latest book is <\/em>Postcards from the End of America<\/span><\/em><\/a>. He maintains a regularly updated photo blog<\/span><\/a>.<\/em><\/h5>\n
<\/a>I\u2019m typing this during stolen moments while working at a plastic recycling plant<\/span><\/a>. Our grinding machine<\/span><\/a> is chopping sorted yellow plastic into bits. Its loud, constant roar is a muscular, minimalist music that\u2019s punctuated by the sure hacking of our steadfast women, who must remove metal from plastic, separate all the colors. Heliophobic and stench adverse, most have their faces well-covered, lest they darken or sniff something too foul or even toxic. Among the plastic garbage are not quite empty bottles of insecticides or weed killers, with one advertised as having the \u201cStrength of a German tank<\/span><\/a>\u201d!<\/h5>\n<\/a>The worst funk, though, comes from jars or bottles of fermented shrimp paste. Even when fresh and delicious, this purplish delicacy already smells like garbage. It can hearten, complicate and anchor a broth<\/span><\/a>, or be mixed with lime juice and chili pepper to serve as a dip for boiled meat. Our puppy, though, likes it fine raw, as fished from our many tons of plastic trash, and it\u2019s useless to chastise Lou<\/span><\/a> for her bad taste or derelict table manners.<\/h5>\nWith its iron stomach, a dog will lap up dish water or even eat shit. Last time I checked, I wasn\u2019t a dog. While sorting through some plastic garbage yesterday, I touched something that looked, smelled and felt exactly like shit, but maybe it wasn\u2019t, I optimistically hoped. At least I didn\u2019t have to eat it.<\/h5>\nAs a house and office cleaner for several years, I\u2019m not unfamiliar with that malodorous purview. I\u2019ve written in a poem, \u201cBelonging to the lower class, you\u2019re expected \/ To cater to the upper class\u2019 lower bodily functions, \/ Not to engage their minds but to wipe their asses, \/ Kiss their cunts on demand, suck cocks for tips.\u201d<\/h5>\nThe lower you\u2019re on the ladder, the more buttocks you have to stare up at, the more shit you must deal with, the more unpleasantness you\u2019re forced swallow, and this goes for entire societies, and that\u2019s why plastic recycling is only feasible in a poorer country like Vietnam.<\/h5>\nOur sorters work at their own pace and, to leaven their days, chatter and joke, so you\u2019ll hear laughter episodically, for felicitous language is the cheapest entertainment. Visiting large factories, I\u2019ve witnessed assembly lines and isolated workstations where humans functioned like machines, but that\u2019s the whole point. Their mind is supposed to be blank, and their spirit snuffed out, so there is nothing left but the task. They can\u2019t slow down or even speed up. Just do it! I\u2019m glad we\u2019re more primitive.<\/h5>\nRepeatedly overburdened by loads<\/a><\/span> beyond their stature and calling, some men quit, sometimes after mere days, though most are way tougher than their size suggests. This place stinks. A young man throws up, a woman must lie down and well tucked metal shards will cut through rubber sandals and draw blood, but days will go by uneventfully, tediously, as folks soldier on, waiting for pay day.<\/h5>\n<\/a>We bring nearly three tons of plastic garbage<\/a><\/span> a day, so we swim and wade through the stuff. Trash, we live garbage<\/a><\/span>, with a smile.<\/h5>\nThough the oldest at our plant at 55, I\u2019m the foreman, so don\u2019t have to bust my ass like the others. Still, it\u2019s a half marathon. A constant sweater, I rehydrate myself with Zero Degree iced tea, hot matcha tea or an ungodly concoction of hot water, spicy instant noodle seasoning and soy sauce. Though obviously nutrition-free, this broth yields a jolt of energy, or at least quickens my senses, thus lessening fatigue.<\/h5>\nOne of our strongest workers likes to reward himself with plenty of beer or rice wine after work, but Diep has missed two days already this week, so should be fired tomorrow. It\u2019s unfortunate, since I\u2019ve drank and eaten with this guy, and find his conversations alert and funny.<\/h5>\nMany among us get together<\/span><\/a> to feast<\/a><\/span>, get drunk, joke, share stories and sing<\/span><\/a> songs of love and loss going back half a century. With a shared heritage, our lives have meanings, and that\u2019s why we work, not just to eat. A poet may leave us with just one memorable phrase, but that\u2019s enough, and he should do at least that. Often, there\u2019s a woman who takes pride in outdrinking any man.<\/h5>\nDiep reminds me of a Philly friend, Jay, for not only would they drink themselves out of a job, but they\u2019re both good looking enough to expect someone to accommodate them always, so if a door should close, another must soon open. They imagine life to be an endless series of open legs. It is rare to be blessed with such a curse. For such a man, even pussies can get tiresome.<\/h5>\nJay was my housemate for a year, and we were on the same housepainting crew. In the morning, we\u2019d leave the house together, but once, Jay lagged behind on the walk to the bus stop, so missed the bus, and was fired.<\/h5>\nWe actually occupied an unheated loft, over a printing shop that steadily exhaled noxious fume through our floorboards. Like us, Jay\u2019s two cats often froze. When Betty became gravely ill, Jay had to deliver her from this earth with a soiled pillow. We were trying to become artists.<\/h5>\nIt\u2019s apt for American bars to pitch afterwork boozing \u201chappy hour,\u201d for it is the happiest, though many drink sullenly, alone, like Johnny the Hat at my old neighborhood haunt, Friendly Lounge. Enough Jamesons downed, the 55-ish car mechanic would cordially say goodbye to each before weaving home, but sometimes, he\u2019d turn nasty, as when he growled at Aurelia, \u201cWhen did they let you out of the zoo?\u201d<\/h5>\nAt 19, I heard some old guy wheeze, \u201cI like to work because it makes my food taste better, and I sleep better,\u201d and I do agree that physical exhaustion makes just about anything delicious, and sleep become heavenly, but what I had for lunch today may challenge this thesis.<\/h5>\n<\/a>I wiped the dirt off my hair, face and neck, then sat down in my grimy tank top to enjoy Cung Dinh [Royal Palace] brand\u2019s Kool Spaghetti<\/a><\/span>, and on the label, there\u2019s a convincing image of some firm and long pasta covered with a crimson meat sauce, with even fresh basil on top. Opening the plastic lid, your kingship discovered that it\u2019s just ordinary instant noodles, with two seasoning packets. Combined, they yielded a measly, greasy paste that\u2019s slightly sweet and almost tomato free. Paying only 60 cents for this mess, I had no right to kvetch, and I did in fact wolf it down, like a poofed, famished dog.<\/h5>\nThe poetry quoted above was published in Harper\u2019s, my one appearance in that magazine, and I was surprised they had wanted such a naked depiction of working class life. I\u2019ve never been a Harper\u2019s reader and didn\u2019t submit. In my early 20\u2019s, I did subscribe to the New Yorker and New York Times, but the social milieus they depicted, especially in the ads, seemed super exotic to me. What fanciful travels, restaurants and nightclubs, and what preposterous prices, even those touted as bargains! It\u2019s a different world.<\/h5>\nOccupying the top half, many will vehemently defend the bottom, in theory, without any intimacy with it, with some openly despising it, but these ignorant trash must be spoken for, so exclaim the righteous snobs.<\/h5>\nIllegal immigration is a classic example of this. Although this stream of cheap labor benefits the ownership class while hurting the poorest, it is presented, often earnestly, as an act of solidarity with the downtrodden. Blacks, brown citizens and legal immigrants are among illegal immigration\u2019s worst victims, and of course, poor whites, but if these dare to demand their lowly jobs back, they must be racists! No wonder so many are killing themselves.<\/h5>\nI\u2019m across the globe from all that. Here, 9\/11<\/a><\/span> came and went without anyone remembering anything. It\u2019s someone else\u2019s fairy tale.<\/h5>\nIt\u2019s past five, so I\u2019m done. I can\u2019t wait to eat, then lie down.<\/h5>\nTomorrow, I\u2019ll get up before four to read some, then be at Mrs. Ha\u2019s<\/span><\/a> cafe as dawn<\/a><\/span> pales over our negligible village. Each morning, a hen leads her chicks across our empty gas station<\/a><\/span>, with each bird perusing the ground, when not pecking. Penned cocks crow. Since it\u2019s rice harvesting time, tractor trucks bring Rade farmhands to paddies. Black peppers wait their turn. Durians<\/span><\/a> drop. So much land and work to fill just one scrawny belly.<\/h5>\nSlumped in a corner where my head can rest<\/a><\/span>, I\u2019ll have two cups of slow drip Perfect coffee with condensed milk, plus unlimited green tea, free of charge. The tin tea pot is labeled Phoenix. I am indeed royalty. Once, I showed up with my shirt inside out and my fly unzipped, but no one said shit. I\u2019ve discovered my true calling as the village idiot. When not serving customers, Mrs. Ha lies on a hammock or laughs as she watches dating shows on television.<\/h5>\nHer cafe is also a tiny store<\/a><\/span> and parking garage<\/span><\/a>, and she charges just 22 cents a day for commuters to park a motorbike.<\/h5>\n\u201cThis is just the country<\/span><\/a>, uncle.\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cAnd they can keep it here until what time?\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cSeven or eight.\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cAnd if they don\u2019t pick it up by then?\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cI\u2019ll just lock up, then go to sleep. Sometimes, though, a man would get drunk, show up in the dark to bang on my gate.\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cAnd you\u2019d let him have his bike?\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cOf course, but that\u2019d the last time he parks here!\u201d<\/h5>\n<\/a>Sharing my plastic table will be a motorbike taxi man<\/a><\/span>. Once a cop, he was fired for marrying a tribal woman, a security risk. Seeing me, he rarely fails to gleefully shout, \u201cHow many cups already? Two? Four?\u201d Whenever I tried to introduce a new topic, he\u2019d just grin, this worn man of few words. Practically mindless, perhaps he\u2019s a Zen master? Last week, I spotted a T-shirt, \u201cTHINK LESS LIVE MORE.\u201d Deep, man.<\/h5>\nLuridly dressed as if going to a party, with a large, blood red rose on the back of her black jacket, a middle-aged lady will totter on the cheapest high heels across the road, to wait for a bus to deliver her to her daily toiling. She\u2019ll bend until she\u2019s bent.<\/h5>\nAt 6:40, I\u2019ll stroll to mine.<\/h5>\nLinh Dinh\u2019s<\/em><\/strong> latest book is <\/em>Postcards from the End of America<\/span><\/em><\/a>. He maintains a regularly updated photo blog<\/span><\/a>.<\/em><\/h5>\n
<\/a>The worst funk, though, comes from jars or bottles of fermented shrimp paste. Even when fresh and delicious, this purplish delicacy already smells like garbage. It can hearten, complicate and anchor a broth<\/span><\/a>, or be mixed with lime juice and chili pepper to serve as a dip for boiled meat. Our puppy, though, likes it fine raw, as fished from our many tons of plastic trash, and it\u2019s useless to chastise Lou<\/span><\/a> for her bad taste or derelict table manners.<\/h5>\nWith its iron stomach, a dog will lap up dish water or even eat shit. Last time I checked, I wasn\u2019t a dog. While sorting through some plastic garbage yesterday, I touched something that looked, smelled and felt exactly like shit, but maybe it wasn\u2019t, I optimistically hoped. At least I didn\u2019t have to eat it.<\/h5>\nAs a house and office cleaner for several years, I\u2019m not unfamiliar with that malodorous purview. I\u2019ve written in a poem, \u201cBelonging to the lower class, you\u2019re expected \/ To cater to the upper class\u2019 lower bodily functions, \/ Not to engage their minds but to wipe their asses, \/ Kiss their cunts on demand, suck cocks for tips.\u201d<\/h5>\nThe lower you\u2019re on the ladder, the more buttocks you have to stare up at, the more shit you must deal with, the more unpleasantness you\u2019re forced swallow, and this goes for entire societies, and that\u2019s why plastic recycling is only feasible in a poorer country like Vietnam.<\/h5>\nOur sorters work at their own pace and, to leaven their days, chatter and joke, so you\u2019ll hear laughter episodically, for felicitous language is the cheapest entertainment. Visiting large factories, I\u2019ve witnessed assembly lines and isolated workstations where humans functioned like machines, but that\u2019s the whole point. Their mind is supposed to be blank, and their spirit snuffed out, so there is nothing left but the task. They can\u2019t slow down or even speed up. Just do it! I\u2019m glad we\u2019re more primitive.<\/h5>\nRepeatedly overburdened by loads<\/a><\/span> beyond their stature and calling, some men quit, sometimes after mere days, though most are way tougher than their size suggests. This place stinks. A young man throws up, a woman must lie down and well tucked metal shards will cut through rubber sandals and draw blood, but days will go by uneventfully, tediously, as folks soldier on, waiting for pay day.<\/h5>\n<\/a>We bring nearly three tons of plastic garbage<\/a><\/span> a day, so we swim and wade through the stuff. Trash, we live garbage<\/a><\/span>, with a smile.<\/h5>\nThough the oldest at our plant at 55, I\u2019m the foreman, so don\u2019t have to bust my ass like the others. Still, it\u2019s a half marathon. A constant sweater, I rehydrate myself with Zero Degree iced tea, hot matcha tea or an ungodly concoction of hot water, spicy instant noodle seasoning and soy sauce. Though obviously nutrition-free, this broth yields a jolt of energy, or at least quickens my senses, thus lessening fatigue.<\/h5>\nOne of our strongest workers likes to reward himself with plenty of beer or rice wine after work, but Diep has missed two days already this week, so should be fired tomorrow. It\u2019s unfortunate, since I\u2019ve drank and eaten with this guy, and find his conversations alert and funny.<\/h5>\nMany among us get together<\/span><\/a> to feast<\/a><\/span>, get drunk, joke, share stories and sing<\/span><\/a> songs of love and loss going back half a century. With a shared heritage, our lives have meanings, and that\u2019s why we work, not just to eat. A poet may leave us with just one memorable phrase, but that\u2019s enough, and he should do at least that. Often, there\u2019s a woman who takes pride in outdrinking any man.<\/h5>\nDiep reminds me of a Philly friend, Jay, for not only would they drink themselves out of a job, but they\u2019re both good looking enough to expect someone to accommodate them always, so if a door should close, another must soon open. They imagine life to be an endless series of open legs. It is rare to be blessed with such a curse. For such a man, even pussies can get tiresome.<\/h5>\nJay was my housemate for a year, and we were on the same housepainting crew. In the morning, we\u2019d leave the house together, but once, Jay lagged behind on the walk to the bus stop, so missed the bus, and was fired.<\/h5>\nWe actually occupied an unheated loft, over a printing shop that steadily exhaled noxious fume through our floorboards. Like us, Jay\u2019s two cats often froze. When Betty became gravely ill, Jay had to deliver her from this earth with a soiled pillow. We were trying to become artists.<\/h5>\nIt\u2019s apt for American bars to pitch afterwork boozing \u201chappy hour,\u201d for it is the happiest, though many drink sullenly, alone, like Johnny the Hat at my old neighborhood haunt, Friendly Lounge. Enough Jamesons downed, the 55-ish car mechanic would cordially say goodbye to each before weaving home, but sometimes, he\u2019d turn nasty, as when he growled at Aurelia, \u201cWhen did they let you out of the zoo?\u201d<\/h5>\nAt 19, I heard some old guy wheeze, \u201cI like to work because it makes my food taste better, and I sleep better,\u201d and I do agree that physical exhaustion makes just about anything delicious, and sleep become heavenly, but what I had for lunch today may challenge this thesis.<\/h5>\n<\/a>I wiped the dirt off my hair, face and neck, then sat down in my grimy tank top to enjoy Cung Dinh [Royal Palace] brand\u2019s Kool Spaghetti<\/a><\/span>, and on the label, there\u2019s a convincing image of some firm and long pasta covered with a crimson meat sauce, with even fresh basil on top. Opening the plastic lid, your kingship discovered that it\u2019s just ordinary instant noodles, with two seasoning packets. Combined, they yielded a measly, greasy paste that\u2019s slightly sweet and almost tomato free. Paying only 60 cents for this mess, I had no right to kvetch, and I did in fact wolf it down, like a poofed, famished dog.<\/h5>\nThe poetry quoted above was published in Harper\u2019s, my one appearance in that magazine, and I was surprised they had wanted such a naked depiction of working class life. I\u2019ve never been a Harper\u2019s reader and didn\u2019t submit. In my early 20\u2019s, I did subscribe to the New Yorker and New York Times, but the social milieus they depicted, especially in the ads, seemed super exotic to me. What fanciful travels, restaurants and nightclubs, and what preposterous prices, even those touted as bargains! It\u2019s a different world.<\/h5>\nOccupying the top half, many will vehemently defend the bottom, in theory, without any intimacy with it, with some openly despising it, but these ignorant trash must be spoken for, so exclaim the righteous snobs.<\/h5>\nIllegal immigration is a classic example of this. Although this stream of cheap labor benefits the ownership class while hurting the poorest, it is presented, often earnestly, as an act of solidarity with the downtrodden. Blacks, brown citizens and legal immigrants are among illegal immigration\u2019s worst victims, and of course, poor whites, but if these dare to demand their lowly jobs back, they must be racists! No wonder so many are killing themselves.<\/h5>\nI\u2019m across the globe from all that. Here, 9\/11<\/a><\/span> came and went without anyone remembering anything. It\u2019s someone else\u2019s fairy tale.<\/h5>\nIt\u2019s past five, so I\u2019m done. I can\u2019t wait to eat, then lie down.<\/h5>\nTomorrow, I\u2019ll get up before four to read some, then be at Mrs. Ha\u2019s<\/span><\/a> cafe as dawn<\/a><\/span> pales over our negligible village. Each morning, a hen leads her chicks across our empty gas station<\/a><\/span>, with each bird perusing the ground, when not pecking. Penned cocks crow. Since it\u2019s rice harvesting time, tractor trucks bring Rade farmhands to paddies. Black peppers wait their turn. Durians<\/span><\/a> drop. So much land and work to fill just one scrawny belly.<\/h5>\nSlumped in a corner where my head can rest<\/a><\/span>, I\u2019ll have two cups of slow drip Perfect coffee with condensed milk, plus unlimited green tea, free of charge. The tin tea pot is labeled Phoenix. I am indeed royalty. Once, I showed up with my shirt inside out and my fly unzipped, but no one said shit. I\u2019ve discovered my true calling as the village idiot. When not serving customers, Mrs. Ha lies on a hammock or laughs as she watches dating shows on television.<\/h5>\nHer cafe is also a tiny store<\/a><\/span> and parking garage<\/span><\/a>, and she charges just 22 cents a day for commuters to park a motorbike.<\/h5>\n\u201cThis is just the country<\/span><\/a>, uncle.\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cAnd they can keep it here until what time?\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cSeven or eight.\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cAnd if they don\u2019t pick it up by then?\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cI\u2019ll just lock up, then go to sleep. Sometimes, though, a man would get drunk, show up in the dark to bang on my gate.\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cAnd you\u2019d let him have his bike?\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cOf course, but that\u2019d the last time he parks here!\u201d<\/h5>\n<\/a>Sharing my plastic table will be a motorbike taxi man<\/a><\/span>. Once a cop, he was fired for marrying a tribal woman, a security risk. Seeing me, he rarely fails to gleefully shout, \u201cHow many cups already? Two? Four?\u201d Whenever I tried to introduce a new topic, he\u2019d just grin, this worn man of few words. Practically mindless, perhaps he\u2019s a Zen master? Last week, I spotted a T-shirt, \u201cTHINK LESS LIVE MORE.\u201d Deep, man.<\/h5>\nLuridly dressed as if going to a party, with a large, blood red rose on the back of her black jacket, a middle-aged lady will totter on the cheapest high heels across the road, to wait for a bus to deliver her to her daily toiling. She\u2019ll bend until she\u2019s bent.<\/h5>\nAt 6:40, I\u2019ll stroll to mine.<\/h5>\nLinh Dinh\u2019s<\/em><\/strong> latest book is <\/em>Postcards from the End of America<\/span><\/em><\/a>. He maintains a regularly updated photo blog<\/span><\/a>.<\/em><\/h5>\n
The lower you\u2019re on the ladder, the more buttocks you have to stare up at, the more shit you must deal with, the more unpleasantness you\u2019re forced swallow, and this goes for entire societies, and that\u2019s why plastic recycling is only feasible in a poorer country like Vietnam.<\/h5>\nOur sorters work at their own pace and, to leaven their days, chatter and joke, so you\u2019ll hear laughter episodically, for felicitous language is the cheapest entertainment. Visiting large factories, I\u2019ve witnessed assembly lines and isolated workstations where humans functioned like machines, but that\u2019s the whole point. Their mind is supposed to be blank, and their spirit snuffed out, so there is nothing left but the task. They can\u2019t slow down or even speed up. Just do it! I\u2019m glad we\u2019re more primitive.<\/h5>\nRepeatedly overburdened by loads<\/a><\/span> beyond their stature and calling, some men quit, sometimes after mere days, though most are way tougher than their size suggests. This place stinks. A young man throws up, a woman must lie down and well tucked metal shards will cut through rubber sandals and draw blood, but days will go by uneventfully, tediously, as folks soldier on, waiting for pay day.<\/h5>\n<\/a>We bring nearly three tons of plastic garbage<\/a><\/span> a day, so we swim and wade through the stuff. Trash, we live garbage<\/a><\/span>, with a smile.<\/h5>\nThough the oldest at our plant at 55, I\u2019m the foreman, so don\u2019t have to bust my ass like the others. Still, it\u2019s a half marathon. A constant sweater, I rehydrate myself with Zero Degree iced tea, hot matcha tea or an ungodly concoction of hot water, spicy instant noodle seasoning and soy sauce. Though obviously nutrition-free, this broth yields a jolt of energy, or at least quickens my senses, thus lessening fatigue.<\/h5>\nOne of our strongest workers likes to reward himself with plenty of beer or rice wine after work, but Diep has missed two days already this week, so should be fired tomorrow. It\u2019s unfortunate, since I\u2019ve drank and eaten with this guy, and find his conversations alert and funny.<\/h5>\nMany among us get together<\/span><\/a> to feast<\/a><\/span>, get drunk, joke, share stories and sing<\/span><\/a> songs of love and loss going back half a century. With a shared heritage, our lives have meanings, and that\u2019s why we work, not just to eat. A poet may leave us with just one memorable phrase, but that\u2019s enough, and he should do at least that. Often, there\u2019s a woman who takes pride in outdrinking any man.<\/h5>\nDiep reminds me of a Philly friend, Jay, for not only would they drink themselves out of a job, but they\u2019re both good looking enough to expect someone to accommodate them always, so if a door should close, another must soon open. They imagine life to be an endless series of open legs. It is rare to be blessed with such a curse. For such a man, even pussies can get tiresome.<\/h5>\nJay was my housemate for a year, and we were on the same housepainting crew. In the morning, we\u2019d leave the house together, but once, Jay lagged behind on the walk to the bus stop, so missed the bus, and was fired.<\/h5>\nWe actually occupied an unheated loft, over a printing shop that steadily exhaled noxious fume through our floorboards. Like us, Jay\u2019s two cats often froze. When Betty became gravely ill, Jay had to deliver her from this earth with a soiled pillow. We were trying to become artists.<\/h5>\nIt\u2019s apt for American bars to pitch afterwork boozing \u201chappy hour,\u201d for it is the happiest, though many drink sullenly, alone, like Johnny the Hat at my old neighborhood haunt, Friendly Lounge. Enough Jamesons downed, the 55-ish car mechanic would cordially say goodbye to each before weaving home, but sometimes, he\u2019d turn nasty, as when he growled at Aurelia, \u201cWhen did they let you out of the zoo?\u201d<\/h5>\nAt 19, I heard some old guy wheeze, \u201cI like to work because it makes my food taste better, and I sleep better,\u201d and I do agree that physical exhaustion makes just about anything delicious, and sleep become heavenly, but what I had for lunch today may challenge this thesis.<\/h5>\n<\/a>I wiped the dirt off my hair, face and neck, then sat down in my grimy tank top to enjoy Cung Dinh [Royal Palace] brand\u2019s Kool Spaghetti<\/a><\/span>, and on the label, there\u2019s a convincing image of some firm and long pasta covered with a crimson meat sauce, with even fresh basil on top. Opening the plastic lid, your kingship discovered that it\u2019s just ordinary instant noodles, with two seasoning packets. Combined, they yielded a measly, greasy paste that\u2019s slightly sweet and almost tomato free. Paying only 60 cents for this mess, I had no right to kvetch, and I did in fact wolf it down, like a poofed, famished dog.<\/h5>\nThe poetry quoted above was published in Harper\u2019s, my one appearance in that magazine, and I was surprised they had wanted such a naked depiction of working class life. I\u2019ve never been a Harper\u2019s reader and didn\u2019t submit. In my early 20\u2019s, I did subscribe to the New Yorker and New York Times, but the social milieus they depicted, especially in the ads, seemed super exotic to me. What fanciful travels, restaurants and nightclubs, and what preposterous prices, even those touted as bargains! It\u2019s a different world.<\/h5>\nOccupying the top half, many will vehemently defend the bottom, in theory, without any intimacy with it, with some openly despising it, but these ignorant trash must be spoken for, so exclaim the righteous snobs.<\/h5>\nIllegal immigration is a classic example of this. Although this stream of cheap labor benefits the ownership class while hurting the poorest, it is presented, often earnestly, as an act of solidarity with the downtrodden. Blacks, brown citizens and legal immigrants are among illegal immigration\u2019s worst victims, and of course, poor whites, but if these dare to demand their lowly jobs back, they must be racists! No wonder so many are killing themselves.<\/h5>\nI\u2019m across the globe from all that. Here, 9\/11<\/a><\/span> came and went without anyone remembering anything. It\u2019s someone else\u2019s fairy tale.<\/h5>\nIt\u2019s past five, so I\u2019m done. I can\u2019t wait to eat, then lie down.<\/h5>\nTomorrow, I\u2019ll get up before four to read some, then be at Mrs. Ha\u2019s<\/span><\/a> cafe as dawn<\/a><\/span> pales over our negligible village. Each morning, a hen leads her chicks across our empty gas station<\/a><\/span>, with each bird perusing the ground, when not pecking. Penned cocks crow. Since it\u2019s rice harvesting time, tractor trucks bring Rade farmhands to paddies. Black peppers wait their turn. Durians<\/span><\/a> drop. So much land and work to fill just one scrawny belly.<\/h5>\nSlumped in a corner where my head can rest<\/a><\/span>, I\u2019ll have two cups of slow drip Perfect coffee with condensed milk, plus unlimited green tea, free of charge. The tin tea pot is labeled Phoenix. I am indeed royalty. Once, I showed up with my shirt inside out and my fly unzipped, but no one said shit. I\u2019ve discovered my true calling as the village idiot. When not serving customers, Mrs. Ha lies on a hammock or laughs as she watches dating shows on television.<\/h5>\nHer cafe is also a tiny store<\/a><\/span> and parking garage<\/span><\/a>, and she charges just 22 cents a day for commuters to park a motorbike.<\/h5>\n\u201cThis is just the country<\/span><\/a>, uncle.\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cAnd they can keep it here until what time?\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cSeven or eight.\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cAnd if they don\u2019t pick it up by then?\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cI\u2019ll just lock up, then go to sleep. Sometimes, though, a man would get drunk, show up in the dark to bang on my gate.\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cAnd you\u2019d let him have his bike?\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cOf course, but that\u2019d the last time he parks here!\u201d<\/h5>\n<\/a>Sharing my plastic table will be a motorbike taxi man<\/a><\/span>. Once a cop, he was fired for marrying a tribal woman, a security risk. Seeing me, he rarely fails to gleefully shout, \u201cHow many cups already? Two? Four?\u201d Whenever I tried to introduce a new topic, he\u2019d just grin, this worn man of few words. Practically mindless, perhaps he\u2019s a Zen master? Last week, I spotted a T-shirt, \u201cTHINK LESS LIVE MORE.\u201d Deep, man.<\/h5>\nLuridly dressed as if going to a party, with a large, blood red rose on the back of her black jacket, a middle-aged lady will totter on the cheapest high heels across the road, to wait for a bus to deliver her to her daily toiling. She\u2019ll bend until she\u2019s bent.<\/h5>\nAt 6:40, I\u2019ll stroll to mine.<\/h5>\nLinh Dinh\u2019s<\/em><\/strong> latest book is <\/em>Postcards from the End of America<\/span><\/em><\/a>. He maintains a regularly updated photo blog<\/span><\/a>.<\/em><\/h5>\n
Repeatedly overburdened by loads<\/a><\/span> beyond their stature and calling, some men quit, sometimes after mere days, though most are way tougher than their size suggests. This place stinks. A young man throws up, a woman must lie down and well tucked metal shards will cut through rubber sandals and draw blood, but days will go by uneventfully, tediously, as folks soldier on, waiting for pay day.<\/h5>\n<\/a>We bring nearly three tons of plastic garbage<\/a><\/span> a day, so we swim and wade through the stuff. Trash, we live garbage<\/a><\/span>, with a smile.<\/h5>\nThough the oldest at our plant at 55, I\u2019m the foreman, so don\u2019t have to bust my ass like the others. Still, it\u2019s a half marathon. A constant sweater, I rehydrate myself with Zero Degree iced tea, hot matcha tea or an ungodly concoction of hot water, spicy instant noodle seasoning and soy sauce. Though obviously nutrition-free, this broth yields a jolt of energy, or at least quickens my senses, thus lessening fatigue.<\/h5>\nOne of our strongest workers likes to reward himself with plenty of beer or rice wine after work, but Diep has missed two days already this week, so should be fired tomorrow. It\u2019s unfortunate, since I\u2019ve drank and eaten with this guy, and find his conversations alert and funny.<\/h5>\nMany among us get together<\/span><\/a> to feast<\/a><\/span>, get drunk, joke, share stories and sing<\/span><\/a> songs of love and loss going back half a century. With a shared heritage, our lives have meanings, and that\u2019s why we work, not just to eat. A poet may leave us with just one memorable phrase, but that\u2019s enough, and he should do at least that. Often, there\u2019s a woman who takes pride in outdrinking any man.<\/h5>\nDiep reminds me of a Philly friend, Jay, for not only would they drink themselves out of a job, but they\u2019re both good looking enough to expect someone to accommodate them always, so if a door should close, another must soon open. They imagine life to be an endless series of open legs. It is rare to be blessed with such a curse. For such a man, even pussies can get tiresome.<\/h5>\nJay was my housemate for a year, and we were on the same housepainting crew. In the morning, we\u2019d leave the house together, but once, Jay lagged behind on the walk to the bus stop, so missed the bus, and was fired.<\/h5>\nWe actually occupied an unheated loft, over a printing shop that steadily exhaled noxious fume through our floorboards. Like us, Jay\u2019s two cats often froze. When Betty became gravely ill, Jay had to deliver her from this earth with a soiled pillow. We were trying to become artists.<\/h5>\nIt\u2019s apt for American bars to pitch afterwork boozing \u201chappy hour,\u201d for it is the happiest, though many drink sullenly, alone, like Johnny the Hat at my old neighborhood haunt, Friendly Lounge. Enough Jamesons downed, the 55-ish car mechanic would cordially say goodbye to each before weaving home, but sometimes, he\u2019d turn nasty, as when he growled at Aurelia, \u201cWhen did they let you out of the zoo?\u201d<\/h5>\nAt 19, I heard some old guy wheeze, \u201cI like to work because it makes my food taste better, and I sleep better,\u201d and I do agree that physical exhaustion makes just about anything delicious, and sleep become heavenly, but what I had for lunch today may challenge this thesis.<\/h5>\n<\/a>I wiped the dirt off my hair, face and neck, then sat down in my grimy tank top to enjoy Cung Dinh [Royal Palace] brand\u2019s Kool Spaghetti<\/a><\/span>, and on the label, there\u2019s a convincing image of some firm and long pasta covered with a crimson meat sauce, with even fresh basil on top. Opening the plastic lid, your kingship discovered that it\u2019s just ordinary instant noodles, with two seasoning packets. Combined, they yielded a measly, greasy paste that\u2019s slightly sweet and almost tomato free. Paying only 60 cents for this mess, I had no right to kvetch, and I did in fact wolf it down, like a poofed, famished dog.<\/h5>\nThe poetry quoted above was published in Harper\u2019s, my one appearance in that magazine, and I was surprised they had wanted such a naked depiction of working class life. I\u2019ve never been a Harper\u2019s reader and didn\u2019t submit. In my early 20\u2019s, I did subscribe to the New Yorker and New York Times, but the social milieus they depicted, especially in the ads, seemed super exotic to me. What fanciful travels, restaurants and nightclubs, and what preposterous prices, even those touted as bargains! It\u2019s a different world.<\/h5>\nOccupying the top half, many will vehemently defend the bottom, in theory, without any intimacy with it, with some openly despising it, but these ignorant trash must be spoken for, so exclaim the righteous snobs.<\/h5>\nIllegal immigration is a classic example of this. Although this stream of cheap labor benefits the ownership class while hurting the poorest, it is presented, often earnestly, as an act of solidarity with the downtrodden. Blacks, brown citizens and legal immigrants are among illegal immigration\u2019s worst victims, and of course, poor whites, but if these dare to demand their lowly jobs back, they must be racists! No wonder so many are killing themselves.<\/h5>\nI\u2019m across the globe from all that. Here, 9\/11<\/a><\/span> came and went without anyone remembering anything. It\u2019s someone else\u2019s fairy tale.<\/h5>\nIt\u2019s past five, so I\u2019m done. I can\u2019t wait to eat, then lie down.<\/h5>\nTomorrow, I\u2019ll get up before four to read some, then be at Mrs. Ha\u2019s<\/span><\/a> cafe as dawn<\/a><\/span> pales over our negligible village. Each morning, a hen leads her chicks across our empty gas station<\/a><\/span>, with each bird perusing the ground, when not pecking. Penned cocks crow. Since it\u2019s rice harvesting time, tractor trucks bring Rade farmhands to paddies. Black peppers wait their turn. Durians<\/span><\/a> drop. So much land and work to fill just one scrawny belly.<\/h5>\nSlumped in a corner where my head can rest<\/a><\/span>, I\u2019ll have two cups of slow drip Perfect coffee with condensed milk, plus unlimited green tea, free of charge. The tin tea pot is labeled Phoenix. I am indeed royalty. Once, I showed up with my shirt inside out and my fly unzipped, but no one said shit. I\u2019ve discovered my true calling as the village idiot. When not serving customers, Mrs. Ha lies on a hammock or laughs as she watches dating shows on television.<\/h5>\nHer cafe is also a tiny store<\/a><\/span> and parking garage<\/span><\/a>, and she charges just 22 cents a day for commuters to park a motorbike.<\/h5>\n\u201cThis is just the country<\/span><\/a>, uncle.\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cAnd they can keep it here until what time?\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cSeven or eight.\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cAnd if they don\u2019t pick it up by then?\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cI\u2019ll just lock up, then go to sleep. Sometimes, though, a man would get drunk, show up in the dark to bang on my gate.\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cAnd you\u2019d let him have his bike?\u201d<\/h5>\n\u201cOf course, but that\u2019d the last time he parks here!\u201d<\/h5>\n<\/a>Sharing my plastic table will be a motorbike taxi man<\/a><\/span>. Once a cop, he was fired for marrying a tribal woman, a security risk. Seeing me, he rarely fails to gleefully shout, \u201cHow many cups already? Two? Four?\u201d Whenever I tried to introduce a new topic, he\u2019d just grin, this worn man of few words. Practically mindless, perhaps he\u2019s a Zen master? Last week, I spotted a T-shirt, \u201cTHINK LESS LIVE MORE.\u201d Deep, man.<\/h5>\nLuridly dressed as if going to a party, with a large, blood red rose on the back of her black jacket, a middle-aged lady will totter on the cheapest high heels across the road, to wait for a bus to deliver her to her daily toiling. She\u2019ll bend until she\u2019s bent.<\/h5>\nAt 6:40, I\u2019ll stroll to mine.<\/h5>\nLinh Dinh\u2019s<\/em><\/strong> latest book is <\/em>Postcards from the End of America<\/span><\/em><\/a>. He maintains a regularly updated photo blog<\/span><\/a>.<\/em><\/h5>\n
<\/a>We bring nearly three tons of plastic garbage<\/a><\/span> a day, so we swim and wade through the stuff. Trash, we live garbage<\/a><\/span>, with a smile.<\/h5>\n