Zeroes and Heroes
an excerpt

Stu sighed at the sound of the clock as he slid his card through. The daily grind, he thought, and grinned bitterly at the term. He walked out onto the factory floor. The large central hall was noisy as always. Shadows of bottles on a line slid across the grey concrete floor. The gurgling sounds of machine FD-004, the Filler as they called it, echoed at him as he passed it on the way to his chair. He rubbed his eyes against the TL tubes.
His location was a small cabin aligned with the line of bottles. There were several huge boxes with caps, constantly floating to the bottles and clamping on. Not on their own, though: that was the job of Stu, and whoever was working the evening and night shifts.
Right now, it was an old man with bushy white brows and a discolored baseball cap that didn’t suit him. The old boombox next to him was playing some sort of ragged jazz music.
“Time’s up, Frank,” he said quietly at the thin, pale man. “My turn to take the seat.”
“Oh, that time already, young Steward?” Frank was in his early sixties, Stu estimated, and long due for retirement. “I got caught up in my music.”
“As always,” Stu said. “Come on, shift’s over, and mine’s starting.”
“Of course, young Steward.” Stu hated it when the old timer called him that. And he always did. “You go ahead, my boy. I will see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, see you, Frank.” Stu sat down in the chair. It felt like it might have been comfy when it was new, but the cushioning was worn down, completely gone at places, which made it feel bumpy, like harsh beach sand. Stu shifted into his least uncomfortable position and picked up where Frank had left off. Bottle caps floated to the production line and twisted onto the bottles. Stu filled a plastic cup with water, popped an aspirin in his hand and swallowed it quickly. He just hoped he wouldn’t get a headache today. One of these days, he thought, I’m gonna keep on asking the boss why this place hasn’t been automated yet. If my brain don’t fucking rupture before that time, that is.

“Stewie?”
Stu looked up at the gritty man. He was wearing a heavy leather jacket, had a cig behind his ear –Stu always wondered why he kept a cig there as he never smoked it- and a roughly square jaw that displayed a wide, humored grin. Stu sighed. “What do you want, Carl?”
“I saw your little request form there, Stewie. You want a week off? Somewhere in the upcoming months? For a wedding?” Carl didn’t stop grinning. God, how Stu loathed this man. His Class badge, indicating a clear and plain L, was always hidden on the street, Stu knew, but not when he wanted to get Stu worked up. When he was in that mood he displayed it open and clear, reminding Stu of the truth: I am above you and you won’t be able to change that, you pathetic little O class.
“Well, I’m very sorry, Stu, but we might have some trouble with that. Maybe in, say, 9 months, or a year maybe? Free time isn’t something people earn easily in this company, and it’s something you’ve… earned… not.” During each of the last words, Carl brought his face a little closer to Stu’s. He straightened himself and said with the same malicious grin: “I’ll be needing some time to get to know your little bride a bit better, you know? Get more acquainted with your little Cassie.”
“You keep your fucking fingers off of her!” Stu lunged to his feet. The face of his boss seemed to be that of a demon now, spiteful, malevolent, downright evil.
Carl just laughed. “Oh, I don’t know ‘bout that, Steward, old buddy. She’s damn high class, you know? High maintenance too. She doesn’t need an O like you, Stewie. She’ll be needing someone with more class.”
“You’re saying your filthy pig face has more class than me?” Stu felt the heat shoot into his face. His vision became slightly blurry as he tried to get himself under control. He knew these tantrums all too well. Usually they didn’t end up in anything good.
Carl prodded in his chest. “Says so on the badge, mate. You know what that means.”
Stu spat to the floor, but the spittle kept afloat inches above the floor. So did several bottle caps. Carl looked at it with the same mean grin. “Aww, he’s trying to lift his little caps. How many can you lift before it gets too heavy, Stewie? Ten? A dozen?”
“You shut your face, Carl. I’ve had enough of your crap!” Stu let the caps whirl around him. It went easier when he was mad. It felt good. Carl just laughed in his face again.
“Just look at you, you little piece of shit!” he shouted into Stu’s face. “You’re nothing! You can make fucking bottle caps float! Whoopdidoo! I’ve had about enough of your whining, Stewie. It’s time you pack your bags.” He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out in a long, thoughtful puff.
Stu concentrated on the smoke. It packed up and charged right back into Carl’s nose. He coughed, wheezed, gurgled and spat a black clump of slime onto the ground. “Goddammit, you little prick! You’ll pay for that!”
“How will you make me pay, pig face?” Stu grinned madly. “All you can do is control the machines around here. If we were in an army deposit I’d be pretty fucked, but here? What are you gonna do? What are you gonna do?”
“I’ll show you, you prick,” Carl grunted, stepped forward and launched a blow at Stu’s face. He hadn’t seen it coming. The blow was aimed well and Stu felt his nose shatter. Blood sprayed from his nostrils as his head snapped back. He stumbled back, tried to regain his balance, but there was a box in the way. He went sprawling, his head missing the steel edge of the control panel by an inch. Dark blots exploded into his vision and he tried to blink more than he could. The blow had pushed the air from his lungs and when he sucked it back in, it was raspy and hot.
“Clean away the stuff you own around here and get the fuck out!” Carl shouted. “I’d sue for assault if that little cunt of yours wasn’t with the fuzz. Get the fuck out of my face! You’re fired!”