DOUBLE DIP

The last thing you want to do is double-dip.

That's the beginning of the end, because you can't tug a double dipper off without sacrificing time, and, therefore, another glove. And if you waste time pulling off one, well then you get another double-dipper, and when you pause to tug that one from its hand, a third double-dipper will come around, and so on. There's a knack to it - a special way to tug on every glove before the drum spins the hands back into talcum and latex.

So don't tell me that this is unskilled labor, because I know better.

In the Pull Room of the Titan Medical Products factory there are eight rows of spinning cylinders. On each cylinder, there are six rows of six stainless-steel hands. From 6:00 AM to 6:00 PM, four days a week, I pace back and forth in front of machine Number Twelve, tugging latex gloves from hand forms as they come over the top edge of the spinning drum.

When I first started working here, almost eight years ago, I didn't mind double dips. In fact, I'd sometimes let a hand dip all day: talcum, latex, shake-my-hand, talcum, latex, shake-my-hand, until, at the end of a twelve hour shift, I had an almost human hand: layers of latex and talcum, all jiggly, fleshy and pliant when I held it. I still have a few of those hands at home in a closet. I used to leave them out on a folding table next to my TV chair so that I'd have company while I watched Friends. But, back then, people, guests, would sometimes come to my home and try to slip their own hands into my hands, I mean the ones I'd made. Watching this made my skin crawl, so I put the hands away.

The other thing I don't do anymore is blow air into the gloves and make little fat-handed balloons of them. When I first started at Titan, there was a younger crowd pacing in front of the machines, and there were always five or six pudgy little hands floating the air currents produced by the fans over our heads. A lot of those people are gone now, and those of us who remain are getting older. I wheeze almost all the time. The talcum I breathe twelve hours a day, four days a week, is, I think, starting to pile up in my lungs. So I don't breathe into latex gloves to watch them float over the spinning cylinders anymore.

Now, I'm all about efficiency. I'm into spinning ol' Number Twelve up into high gear and dancing and sliding back and forth in front of her at top speed. Tug, pluck, tug, pluck. A fifteen minute break in the morning, a twenty minute break at lunch, and another fifteen minutes before I head home. Otherwise, I pull gloves. I don't have time to shake hands with a double-dipper these days. Pulling gloves at Titan is a lot like being a football player. After a certain age, you just aren't right for the job anymore. You lose the touch, or don't have the stamina. If you're going to get ahead at Titan, you have to do it in a pretty short period of time. Otherwise, you're out of luck, and most of the time, out of a job. But, for now, I'm doing OK. Twice, this month, the shop floor supervisor has come by my machine to say "Keep up the good work, Mona."

Most of my friends from the old days, the gang who started at Titan when I did, have moved on. They couldn't hack it. They didn't make the cut. One girl, who used to sit in the lunchroom and complain that she was too good for pulling gloves, still calls me. She got laid off and married, and she likes to tell me about her kids, her husband, and the latest Nordic-track-slip-and-slide-tae-bo-o-matic machine she's bought to help her finally drop all that weight she gained with her babies.

I went out with her brother once. He was a nice guy. He bought wine, and told me to order the most expensive thing on the menu, which I did, because I like to be accommodating. Unfortunately the most expensive thing was veal, and I don't eat veal, just on principle. When he kissed me, he said I tasted like a rubber glove. Since then, I haven't dated much. I've put on a few pounds, but I don't mind because I wear stirrup pants most of the time, and I don't have to worry about buttons or snaps that won't fasten. So, I have that going for me. I cut my hair really short, because I have to wash it every day, and even after a good scrubbing, it smells like latex. I figure if I have less hair, I'll smell less like a latex glove, but I don't know. I'm not a scientist.

What I am is a damn good glove puller, but I know that won't go on forever. My phone friend with the husband and the workout equipment wasn't too good for her job, her job was too good for her. That's what happens at Titan. After a few years, most girls get laid off or moved out of the Pull Room to some lower-paying job. I don't want to end up one of those old ladies who sit in folding chairs, under the eaves, on the top floor of the shop, folding gloves into pairs and piling them into boxes.

I'm thinking about finding myself, or at least looking for myself. Forty-eight hours a week, I think of nothing but pulling gloves. My concentration, when I'm pacing in front of Number Twelve, is unshakeable. The problem is, when I leave Titan at night, or when I have my three days off during the week, I think about nothing. Literally, nothing. Sometimes a whole day will go by and I'll do nothing but sit in my TV chair and look out the window behind my TV.

I thought about looking into religion, but, like I said: these days, I'm into efficiency. I thought about going to college. There's a vo-tech right here in town, and I drove over there one day, to find out about being a dental hygienist. The woman behind the desk in the adult education department sniffed the air. "Do you smell something?"

I knew what she smelled, but I said, "Nope."

She gave me a glossy, fold out brochure about the dental hygiene program, and told me I'd have to take classes in history, art, and literature, to satisfy some general education requirements, before I could even take my first class on cleaning teeth. Nothing efficient about that, in my opinion. While I was there, I visited the bookstore and bought a t-shirt, and a textbook, just for practice. The book, Essentials of Dental Radiography for Dental Assistants and Hygienists (6th Edition), is on the folding table next to my TV chair, now. Sometimes, I flip through it during commercial breaks.

Yesterday, on the lunch room bulletin board, I saw a job posted that made me think about my future. There's an opening in the Order Entry department at Titan. I've seen the Order Entry girls. They're a little clique; all dressed in creased slacks or pleated skirts. They carry these neat Tupperware lunch boxes to work every day, except for Friday. On Fridays, they all go together, in two cars, to the Chinese Buffet for a long lunch. They work together in a long, narrow room, lined on both sides with gray metal desks. On each desk is a computer monitor, a keyboard, a telephone with an attached headset, and a big, hinged binder, which I assume, holds lists of all of Titan's medical products. At the far end of the room, there's a little card table. Every day one of the Order Entry girls brings in a snack to put on that table for everyone to share. The Order Entry room is air conditioned because of all the computers, and silent air filtering machines suck all the talcum out of the air. I know this because I've wandered into that room by mistake a couple of times, and because I once overheard one Order Entry girl tell another that she couldn't imagine having to work in the Pull Room where it is hot, and where the air is white with powdered talcum. I think I would fit in well in the Order Entry department. Today, I went into work thirty minutes early so I could talk to the shop floor supervisor about the job.

"You're not happy in the Pull Room, Mona?"

I realized, pretty quickly, that this might be a mistake. "I'm very happy in the Pull Room. I'm just thinking its time I started planning for my future." I smiled nervously. "No one can pull gloves forever, right?"

"Do you feel like you're slowing down? Having a hard time keeping up with your machine?"

"No, nothing like that." The shop floor supervisor and I sat in folding chairs in the lunch room facing each other. I leaned way over in my chair, so my chin was almost touching my knees and looked up at him. "I'm just thinking I'm ready to try something different."

"So you feel like you're too good for the Pull Room?"

Now, that is the kiss of death at Titan. Girls who think they're too good for any job at Titan eventually find themselves out of a job at Titan. "No, no, that's not how it is at all. I saw the job on the bulletin board, and I thought it would be fun to work in Order Entry. You know, get to know all the different products, talk to Titan customers on the phone. I thought I'd enjoy that." I looked up at the shop floor supervisor expectantly.

"Well, I'll go up to Human Resources, when the girls get in at 9:00 and have them pull your file. Are you sure you want to do this, Mona?"

I sighed with relief. "I'm sure. I'm sure I'd like to, at least, look into it."

So now I'm pulling gloves and my concentration is shot. I keep glancing over my shoulder to see if the shop floor supervisor has left his little pedestal in the middle of the room to go up to Human Resources. I've got a double dip problem going on, and I'm thinking I have to just let it go and smuggle the floppy, hollow hand out of here with me when I leave tonight. Bobby, the kid whose job it is to keep all the vats filled with liquid latex, seems to be forgetting me. I'm starting to get pissed off, because he gets paid to do one thing, that is keep me in latex, and he's off somewhere being a slacker. My gloves are getting shorter and shorter, until, finally, a row of latex fingertips, with no palms at all, comes over the top of my drum.

I shut down my machine, and walk over the shop floor supervisor's pedestal. "Where's Bobby? I'm out of dip."

"Bobby's not here. I put a note on your machine. You have to watch your own dip today, and let me know when it gets low." The shop floor supervisor seems a little pissed off, himself.

"I didn't see a note, and I'm out of dip."

The shop floor supervisor starts walking toward the storeroom. "C'mon. Since you shut down, you can help me get the drums and fill everyone's vats."

I follow him across the floor, annoyed because I'm a glove-puller, I'm not some half-wit hired to fill the dip vats. I look at my watch. It's 1:30. "Did you get up to Human Resources, like you said?"

"Mona, when the hell was I going to get up to HR? I'm running my ass off keeping you all in dip, plus doing my own job."

So I go to the storeroom, and I help the shop floor supervisor roll two drums of latex onto two dollies. He shows me how to put the spout into the side of the drum, and tells me to follow him with a dolly. He shows me how to open the dip vat at the back of each machine, and how to tilt the drum of latex "like so," so that more latex goes into the vat than onto the floor. He tells me to fill the vats on the left; he'll take the ones on the right. The girls at the machines make some smart-ass comments, saying "Hey Bobby, where've you been all day," or "Gee Bobby, you look different today," and I fill all their vats and walk back toward my machine.

The shop floor supervisor is standing in front of Number Twelve, tugging my super double-dipper off its metal hand. "What happened here, Mona?" Now, he's jiggling the rubbery hand in front of my face.

"Oh," I say, "I was looking for Bobby. I lost my groove for a minute."

The shop floor supervisor frowns, he looks at the cuff of the latex hand, where he can see all the layers of latex and talcum. "This looks like it's been running all day. You been looking for Bobby all day?"

"Nahhh," I say, because, really, what else is there to say? I wish he'd leave the hand though, because it's an interesting one, with really thick fingertips tapering to a smooth, thin palm. I'm thinking I'd like to slip my hand inside it and feel how it is to have dense fingertips.

The shop floor supervisor tosses the hand into the scrap bin, "Your vat's filled now. Keep your mind on the job, Mona." He walks back to his little pedestal in the middle of the floor.

I pull the fingertips off all the exposed hands, and start my machine again. I'm pulling and sliding, and trying to stay focused, except I know he's watching me, and I imagine his eyes are like metal fingers pushing into me.

At 5:30 the shop floor supervisor comes back over to Number Twelve. "Do me a favor, Mona. Shut down early and make sure all the vats are filled before you go."

I like to be accommodating. I usually don't mind doing what I'm told. But, I'm having a bad day, and I mumble, "Goddamn it."

"What's that Mona? Do you have a problem?"

"Nahhhh," I say. Because, really, what else is there to say.

So I shut down Number Twelve, pull the last gloves from the metal hands, go back to the store room, put the drum on the dolly, put the spout on the drum, and walk around the Pull Room filling vats and flipping up my middle finger at the world while the girls say things like, "Hey Bobby, nice stirrup pants."

Tomorrow's my day off, so I'm feeling better as I walk out to the parking lot. Driving home, though, I start thinking about my day, about the double-dipper, and the latex I spilled all over the floor in back of machine Number Eight. I'm feeling kind of down, again, so I pull into the convenience store around the corner from my place, and buy a six pack, and a bag of barbeque corn chips. The smart ass clerk sniffs the air when I walk up to the counter. "Just get off work?"

"Yeah," I say, staring at the hot dog cooker over his left shoulder.

"I love the smell of latex in the morning," he says.

"Funny," I say. I take my corn chips and beer and go back to my car.

It's Tuesday night, and I don't really like any Tuesday night television shows, so after I open a beer, and pour my corn chips into my snack bowl, I sit in my TV chair, pick up my dental hygiene textbook. I read about bitewings and panoramic x-rays, and about how there are two different kinds of latex allergies that complicate the hygienist's job, making it difficult for her to place the x-ray film in the patient's mouth. A little after midnight, I put down my textbook, take a long hot shower, wash my hair with Lava soap and slide into bed.

I dream about being a dental hygienist, and about wearing giant, hollow hands with thick, gummy fingertips while I slip x-ray film into my patients' mouths. I dream about being an Order Entry girl, and about trying to press item numbers into the keyboard on my desk with dense, unwieldy fingers. I wake up in a cold sweat, the room is still dark, and I smell latex. I turn on the lamp next to bed and look at my watch: 4:30 AM. Even with the light on, I smell latex.

I get out of bed, open my closet door, and get down on my knees. I smell my hands, the ones I made, I mean, and I dig around in the back of the closet until I find them. There are six of them, altogether. Two of them are gummy, the way latex gets when it's kept in the wrong environment. Two of them are cracked. Little spider veins move up from the cuffs to the fingers, and I know, if I try to put them on, they'll break apart. The other two, the ones closest to the wall, are still firm and pliant, and these I slip onto my own hands before I pull myself to my feet.

I spend the rest of the day, my day off, wearing these hands. I use them to eat, to wash my dishes, to turn the pages in my dental hygiene textbook, and to press the buttons on the television remote control. I like the way the latex smell is sticking to everything I touch, and I like the way I'm starting to feel. I'm not so worried about the double-dip at work yesterday, or the spilled liquid latex hardening on the floor behind Number Eight. I even have an idea about how to get myself moved up to the Order Entry room.

Before I go to bed, I wash my hair with my hands still on. The smell outdoes my shampoo. I put on my t-shirt from the vo-tech, and finally take off my hands. I slip into bed, burrowing in my sheets and into the sharp, dense, smell of latex. I could be camping out next to Number Twelve, the smell is so deep. I sleep without dreaming.

It's Thursday morning, and, on my way to work, I stop at the bagel shop, which opens at 5:30. I'm going to be late for work because of this stop, but I've never been late before, and this is my future I'm working on, so I have to take a risk. I buy a dozen bagels and two containers of cream cheese, one plain, one "veggie." I put the cream cheese in the 6-Pack cooler with my lunch and tuck the bagels under the passenger seat of my car. I get to work fifteen minutes late.

At 6:20 the shop floor supervisor comes over to Number Twelve just as I'm spinning into high gear. "You were late," he says.

"Uh-huh," I dance in front of Number Twelve, pulling gloves, and don't even turn to look at him.

"You going to skip your morning break to make up the time?" He asks. I know it's not really a question.

"Nope. I can't. I've got to do something at 9:30. I'll skip my afternoon break." I'm feeling invincible this morning. I'm breathing deep, long breaths of talcum, and I feel like I own the world.

"Just make it up." I hear his rubber treaded footsteps squeak back to his little pedestal in the middle of the shop floor.

At 9:30, I shut down Number Twelve, go out to the parking lot and get the paper bag from my car. I go back into Titan and ride the elevator to the second floor. I march right into the Order Entry department, straight down the middle of the aisle to their little card table and leave my offerings next to a paper plate covered with crumbs. I turn to face the Order Entry girls. "Girls," I say. "I'm very interested in the job you've got open up here right now." I look at the one desk at which no one is sitting. "Is that the spot?" I sit down in the wheeled chair, and lean way back, letting the lumbar support do its trick. I spin around once. I run a hand over the big black binder anchored to the corner of the desk, and leave a trail of white talcum fingerprints behind. I press the letters of my name into the keyboard: M-O-N-A. I take a long deep breath, smelling the nothing-smell of the air-conditioned Order Entry room. No one in the room says anything. I stand and pat the back of the wheeled chair. I walk back toward the door to the hallway. "Anyhow, girls, if I get the job, there's plenty more where that came from." I point to the card table at the end of the room, where I've left my bagels and cream cheese. I wave. "See you soon."

I go back to the Pull Room. Before I can start my machine again, the shop floor supervisor comes over. "Oh good, you haven't started, yet. Bobby's not around, can you fill the dip vats before you get started?"

"I saw Bobby. He was in the parking lot at break." I'm thinking, 'That little half-witted creep, he's slacking off, and I'm paying for it.'

"Well I don't see him and the vats are low. Can you get that done, please?" The shop floor supervisor walks away before I can argue again.

So I go to the storeroom, put the drum of latex on the dolly, put the spout on the drum, and go around filling everyone's vats. The girls at the machines just smile and say "Thanks, Mona."

After I finish filling the vats, it's lunch time, so I go out to the parking lot, sit in my car, and eat my peanut butter sandwich, which tastes like latex, since I made it last night while I was wearing my hands. Two girls from Order Entry walk by my car and point at me. I can't hear what they're saying, but I'm glad they know who I am.

After lunch, I go back to Number Twelve and start it up again. I'm thinking about what's going on up in Order Entry, and how I really made an impression, and I'm feeling good and pulling gloves like there's no tomorrow, or at least, like there's no afternoon break, which there isn't. The shop floor supervisor comes over to Number Twelve.

"Shut down, Mona." He looks annoyed.

I shut down the machine, and start pulling the gloves off the top row.

"Never mind that," he says. "Did you go up to Order Entry on your break?"

I face him, my hands full of gloves. "Uh huh." I say, because really, what else can I say?

"And you left bagels there?"

"Uh huh." I'm almost waiting for him to tell me I've got the job. I'm hoping he'll say he doesn't even need to go to the Human Resources Office now to get my file pulled, because the Order Entry girls want me to start immediately.

"Do you think they vote or something on who gets the job? Is that what you think, Mona?" He's looking at me like I'm some sort of half-wit.

"Nahhh. I just wanted to make a good impression." I'm beginning to suspect that it wasn't such a good idea to barge into the Order Entry office in my pilly stirrup pants, smelling like latex. I'm thinking about the fact that no one said a word while I was up there. I'm thinking I've made a mistake.

"Mona, you scared them half to death. Do you know those girls? Do they know you? All they saw was some stranger mucking with their snack table. I'm not going to HR for you until this blows over." He walks off, rubber soles squeaking on the concrete floor and takes up his post at the little pedestal in the middle of the shop floor.

I'm pulling gloves again, but my heart's not in it. I've got a serious double dip going, and I don't give a shit. I can't wait for the 6:00 buzzer to go off, so I can get out of here, because my head is pounding, I can hardly breathe, and I feel like I'm going to throw up.

Finally, its quitting time. I drive home, and first thing, as soon as I walk in the door, I put my hands back on-- I mean the ones I made. I start to feel better almost immediately. I eat a peanut butter sandwich for dinner. It smells and tastes like latex, and I start to breathe normally again. After dinner, I sit in my TV chair and read my textbook. I read how everyone should have a panoramic mouth x-ray done every three to five years to check for bone loss. I can't remember ever having one done, and I start to worry a bit. With my rubber hands still on, I floss my teeth. I get every crevice and space, and my mouth is filled with the taste of latex. Before I go to bed, I make a batch of brownies for the Order Entry girls. I make them with my hands on, so I know they'll taste like latex. I bet they ate my bagels even as they complained about me.

Friday morning. I get up early, cut the brownies into squares, with my hands still on, and put them in a plastic bag with handles on it. I take off my hands and put them in the freezer. I'm thinking how it will be to wear stiff, cold, hands when I get home tonight. I drive to work, park my car, ride the elevator to the second floor and hang the brownies on the handle to the Order Entry office, along with a note: "Sorry I bothered you. From, Mona."

I take the stairs back to the Pull Room, punch-in at the time clock, and make my way through the maze of spinning drums and dipping hands until I come to Number Twelve.

I see him before he sees me.

Bobby is pacing in front of Number Twelve, slipping, sliding and pulling gloves from my drum. He's a whirlwind, faster than I've ever seen anyone pull before. His arms seem to stretch out from his body, as if they aren't bound by bone or flesh, and reach each end of the drum to pluck the gloves just as they peek over the top. I'm not angry or jealous, I'm awe-struck.

The shop floor supervisor comes up behind me. "Mona, after you fill the vats with dip, can you sweep out the storeroom?" Bobby glances over his shoulder at me. His arms are still flying from side to side at top speed.

I say, "uh-huh," because I like to be accommodating, and, really, what else can I say?

There's a knack to it - a special way to tip the drum so the latex dip comes out of the spout and not out of the top. The last thing you want is for the dip to come pouring out of the top of the drum. That's a mess. You get a puddle of dip on the floor, and while you're wasting time cleaning it up, the other vats are running low. Then you start rushing to fill the other vats, and more dip gets spilled because you're in a hurry and the girls are yelling for you, and you end up spending more time mopping and scraping up spilled dip than you do filling the vats.

So don't tell me that this is unskilled labor - I know better.

§ § §

Jill Mountain is a mother, wife, full-time student, and card-carrying member of the PTA. She lives on Long Island with her husband, son, and three cats. The three cats were born and are being reared on "The Island," but the rest of the family is, originally, from the mainland. When she isn't cramming for some fill-in-the-dot exam, Jill spends her time making long to-do lists. In her last life, Jill wrote press releases and marketing copy. She still enjoys writing fiction, and has only recently begun working on stories of her own. "Double Dip" is her first published story.



She can be reached at: jillmountain@yahoo.com .

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