Sitka or Bust: Commute The World

I don’t get it, honestly. We make cars. People who make cars are covered in grease and paint and soap and grit. I don’t even work where people get really dirty, but I still come home every day with dirty knees and sleeves coated in gray like I’d spent all day drawing with graphite and then erased it all with my arm. My shirt cuffs have perfect little circles all over them from the end of the bolt spinning on the cloth when I’m bolting a metal bracket in place.

There are metal shavings inside my breast pocket. Luckily I don’t reach in there, but every once in a while one will work its way through my shirt and poke me, irritating me to no end. Its like the world’s worst underwire split into tiny little bits. Boob skewers.

I wear a pocket protector. That’s a fashion faux pas right there. But why? Why do I care about ink staining my uniform when I’m literally covered in grease?! Two of my “brand new” uniforms were already ink-stained when I tried them on. Ink on the leg. How does that even happen? I still haven’t solved that one.

I wear a green hat, orange earplugs, white uniform, and gray steel toes. My shin guards are child sized and dig into my calves. I wear Kevlar sleeves so I don’t somehow slice my arms on anything and my big bulky padded gloves protect everything but the precise millimeter under my knuckle that I hit every 11 seconds.

We are still a sea of white uniforms though, well maybe a sea of greasy white uniforms.