My right-hand, crippled by pain, had swelled like a water balloon. I could barely grip my knife. Aches and pains seemed to circulate throughout my body.
But I couldn't stop.
A labyrinth of conveyors ceaselessly carried the neverending slabs of filleted fish through the damp, frigid plant. Employees, indistinguishable in their white overcoats, hairnets, and yellow rubber boots, lined both sides of the conveyor with knives in hand. In symphonic fashion, we cut, sliced, and trimmed one fillet, with barely enough time to cut, slice, and trim another. Occasionally, someone would cut, slice, and trim a finger.
We lived and worked in cramped quarters. Sixteen-hour workdays came at the expense of sanity. Little annoyances and disagreements often escalated into confrontations, sometimes physical—and on one occasion with knives.
What the fuck did I get myself into? I didn't sign up for this. I lived and worked at the behest of fish. Fish so stupid, they swim upstream. What did that make me?
I had little respite other than meal breaks, which I looked forward to. They made the excruciatingly long day far more manageable. To be fair, I never had a bad meal and always had more than enough to eat.
At the end of the workday, after slaving my tits over a conveyor belt, wielding a knife, I retreated to the shower, then to my room.
My accommodations had all the charm of a horse stable—including the odor. I shared a windowless room that consisted of two twin beds made from plywood. Both beds had worn mattresses and a pillow.
The rooms were separated by wood panel walls. So, not only did I hear my neighbors snore, I heard everyone who snored. Despite the less than hospitable living arrangements, I slept well.
After three torturously long weeks, with no days off, the volume of fish had dwindled, and so had the number of people processing them. A few days later, the conveyor slowed to a stop. Only a few employees remained.
I had made it.
