Chapter 3 — Esam

Esam Faruq loved his job. Actually, it wasn’t the job itself that he loved, it was the fact that the job was in America. He had filled out the paperwork, stood in the lines, gone through interviews, and was eventually given a permit allowing him to enter this great country and go to work.

Finding a job in America had not been easy, even with help from the U.S. Coptic community. The prejudice against Syrians was deeply entrenched here, and his Arabic sounding name and appearance made him a target. He had even been put in the hospital once by a group of men in New York who hit, kicked, and spat on him because he was a ‘camel-jockey.’ But a beating in America was preferable to being shot by an AK-47 in his home village; His people were not well-loved by the Arab militias.

Even though his salary was small by American standards, it seemed like a fortune to Esam. He didn’t need a phone or a computer or a television or a fancy car. He lived in a rented room, ate inexpensive meals that he prepared on a hotplate, and wore clothes he had purchased at a thrift shop. His money went into savings and soon he would have enough to bring his wife and child to live with him. He needed to get them out of Syria as quickly as possible. A bullet from an AK-47 would kill his wife or child just as surely as it would kill him.

Esam worked as a warehouse forklift driver for Superior Solutions, in Milford Ohio. He worked forty or more hours a week but was only allowed to show thirty hours on his timecard. Every day he had to go to the time clock and punch out at the end of his official shift even though he was staying to work extra hours. The thirty-hour limit meant that he didn’t get overtime, health insurance, a retirement plan, paid sick leave, or other benefits, but Esam wouldn’t get those in Syria either. It was better to keep his mouth shut than to risk his job by making waves.

His day generally consisted of moving around barrels of chemicals. He was either taking them out of big trucks and moving them into the warehouse or taking them out of the warehouse and moving them into small trucks. The facility where he worked was divided into sections. Each section was for a different chemical and identified by a code, such as F-7. He didn’t know what was in the barrels; he barely even knew the English alphabet. But Esam was a quick study and soon became familiar with how the strange alphabetic symbols related to the layout of the warehouse.

The forklift was propane powered, which should have been clean burning. But after an eight-hour shift, there was always a thin layer of greasy soot covering him. As soon as he got home, he had to put his work clothes into a plastic bag so he wouldn’t get soot all over the room, and then brush his teeth and gargle to get the oily taste out of his mouth. He knew that the soot was getting into his lungs, but his foreman assured him that it was harmless. Esam didn’t believe it was harmless but figured that a little soot in his lungs was better than being unemployed, and certainly better than laying under the Syrian sun with a bullet in his brain.

When Esam arrived at work today he found a note attached to his timecard with a paperclip. There was just one word on the note, “Boss”. Esam may struggle with the English alphabet, but he had seen that arrangement of letters before and he knew he needed to go see the facility manager, Mr. Allen.

Mr. Allen, or Chet as he preferred to be called, came across as a friendly guy; he was always smiling and asking about your weekend plans or how your family was doing. But really, it was all a façade. Whenever Chet shook your hand, it was a sure sign that he wanted something.

“Come in, Esam,” said Chet, extending his hand. “Have a seat. There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

Esam shook hands, careful not to react to how sweaty Chet’s hand was, then sat down on the wobbly folding chair in front of the manager’s large desk. His life in Syria had given him plenty of experience in dealing with authority. The way to survive was to look as non-threatening as possible. He lowered his eyes, rolled his shoulders forward, and clenched his hands in his lap. If he could have made himself shrink six inches, he would have done that too.

“Esam, we had a little accident here last night. I’m afraid the forklift operator on duty wasn’t properly trained, and he ended up rupturing a couple of barrels in section H-9.”

Esam nodded his head, reviewing the words he had just heard. He must have misunderstood. The warehouse was closed at night, and as far as he knew there was no section H-9.

Chet put on his biggest smile. “Today, instead of driving the forklift, I’m going to have you help clean up that mess. It’s really no big deal. We had some large orders come in and everyone else is busy today. Besides, I know you appreciate your job, and you’ll do good work for me. Now, go see Bobby and he’ll get you all set up.”

As soon as the last word left his mouth, Chet turned to his computer and began to type. Esam took this to mean that the meeting was over, so he stood to leave the room. “Yes, sir, Mr. Chet. I like my job. I do good work for you. Thank you.”

Esam didn’t have to look far to find Bobby; his blonde, blue-eyed foreman was waiting right outside of Mr. Allen’s office. He knew that Bobby didn’t like him. It wasn’t just that he was always given the worst forklift, or that he frequently ended up working later than anyone else. Bobby went out of his way to knock him into the wall if they crossed paths in the hallway, and on a couple of occasions had tried to trip him in the break room. Esam understood this and preferred it to the way Mr. Allen behaved. At least he always knew where he stood with Bobby.

Bobby led Esam to unmarked double doors at the back of the warehouse. Esam had passed by these doors numerous times since he began working here, but they had always been chained and padlocked. Today the chain lay in a heap on the floor. Esam had no idea what was on the other side, but his nose told him it was bad. It smelled like mothballs soaked in scorched motor oil. Even with the doors closed the stink was so strong it covered the fog of stale beer and cigarettes that always surrounded Bobby.

“Here’s some crap that Chet told me to get for you,” said Bobby, pointing to two small plastic bags sitting on the floor. “There’s an empty barrel in there. Scoop up as much of the spilled crap as you can and seal the barrel, then use the hose to rinse the rest of the crap down the drain. I’ll be back in two hours with a power washer.”

Bobby grabbed Esam by the arm and looked straight into his eyes. “Listen, crap-head. If you want to keep working here, you’ll do this job and keep your crappy mouth shut about it. Do you understand me? Chet stuck his neck out hiring you and he doesn’t need some crappy sand-monkey running his mouth, complaining about the work.”

Bobby walked off, leaving Esam to examine what was in the bags. He pulled out a box showing a woman wearing bright yellow gloves as she washed dishes. Next came a plastic dustpan. There was a pair of thin rubber boots that looked like you should pull them over your shoes. Finally, there was a pair of large plastic glasses and a small white dust mask meant to cover your mouth and nose.

Esam put on this minimal protection and went into section H-9. The smell was overpowering. His mouth suddenly tasted like he had gargled with a mixture of diesel fuel and vinegar. Even with the glasses and mask on his eyes were watering and his nose was running. It felt like he was in a room full of poison gas. Esam understood poison gas; he had lost his mother and father to it.

Unlike the rest of the warehouse, the barrels here were old and showed signs of corrosion. Instead of resting on wooden pallets, some were just sitting on the concrete floor. Two barrels lay on their side, ruptured, their contents spilled onto the floor. Esam could see many old stains on the floor and knew that this was not the first time a barrel had leaked in this room.

Much of the oily liquid had already gone down the drain in the middle of the floor. Esam thought it was silly to try to save the rest, but he had to make an effort. However, after the third scoop with the dustpan Esam gave up. He turned on the hose and began to wash the noxious liquid down the drain. He would put water in the empty barrel to make it seem like he had saved some of the chemicals. Hopefully, they wouldn’t open the barrel once he sealed it, and if they did then so be it. He needed a job, but he wouldn’t be able to bring his family to America if he were dead from poison gas.