Now you’ve gone and fucking wrecked the pallet.
You weren’t looking at the cantilever’s middle beam and when you went to drop the bunk of bi-fold doors, it busted and now it’s teetering on the forks for dear life.
Officially up shit creek.
Nice he gave you the chance, but why’d you let Rick talk you into using the forklift without a license?
“You don’t want to stall it, Marky-Mark, don’t cut it so hard,” he yells at you as he crushes his cigarette out on the forklift’s propane tank. “They’d fuckin’ fire my ass if they saw me smoking on the job! Well they can shove it!”
If you make sense of what’s yelled at you, you might could save half the load.
“Pretty sure there ain’t any cameras back here. Don’t worry, they’d pink slip my sorry mug before they ever get rid of you.”
Rick lights up another and offers you one, and though you won’t take it, you will want that cigarette in the way you should want the district manager’s forgiveness if this all goes wrong.
What is retail without a little wrongdoing?
“Fuck it, brother,” Rick says and takes a hard drag. “Swing it around and who cares if the shit-kicker falls, right? I’ve been working this for way too long. They schedule me for 11 every night, but I still leave at 10, ‘cause I got my other job in the morning.”
You back the forklift into the racks of 5/4 inch decking behind you while the engine squeals as you’ve never heard it squeal before.
“Give it all you’ve got, Marky-Mark. Tear it up. It’s all fucking coming down without you anyway.”