Arts
I was positioned between two twin teenage girls name Shirley and Shirlay on the poultry line. My manager, Ken, told me that he had been looking for the right person to separate them for quite some time. "Not cuz they ain't good at pulling chickens apart," he told me. "Cuz, frankly, they're too good.... frankly speaking." I was confused. "Listen bud," he continued. "We're a class E depot, and not one of the more popular ones at that. We pull apart too many chickens, we get a backlog of chickens. And what does that mean?" He wasn't really looking for an answer. "Dead chicken meat as far as the eye can see...." I could see what Ken meant. Shirley and Shirlay were a sympatico whirling dervish of chicken ripping. Their bodies flowed as one being and they did the work of a dozen or so men with ease. There was eight of on that line. Apparently, I replaced a guy named Roger who left under suspicious circumstances. In the beginning, my entire day was spent trying to avoid get poked by the sisters as their natural motion and inclination was towards one another. But eventually I figured out that if I talked to them, they would calm down. It was in doing this that I learned they didn't know how to speak. --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/myspace/support