Working for Oscar Mayer 
in Wisconsin
submitted by Ron Davidson, 6-20-01

     Okay -- this may be unfair.... 
     Six years ago I was trying to finish my master's degree program in Madison, Wisconsin.  I went into the program bemoaning the parochial arrogance of my California buddies who had asked me what in the hell Wisconsin had to offer, either educationally or culturally, to a God-blessed native of the Golden State. 
     I had never seen the campus or even set foot in Wisconsin prior to moving there for the 2-year stint.  But I was sure that whatever Wisconsin was, it was going to be new, different and broadening, and I couldn't wait to get going.  In a way I was like one of the characters in "The Deer Hunter" before Vietnam.
     Skipping now almost 2 years forward:  I've dropped out (to finish my
thesis without having to pay the astronomical out-of-state tuition -- there's no way in the fucking world a student from out of state can become a resident of Wisconsin) and am hired by a temp agency to work at the Oscar Mayer factory. 

This is the national headquarters, the home of the Wienermobile -- which is parked right outside my office.  It's next to the on-site sewage treatment plant that fogs up the grounds with unspeakable odors every day. (Despite this stench everyone was cheering about the great air of the place.  It was apparently vastly improved since the days when they slaughtered animals there.)
       I work in a warehouse a couple hundred yards from the meat packing plant in the middle of the compound.  The plant is the real heart of the action.  Inside it, I imagine, sprawls a vast, five-story, labyrinthine assembly line on which animal flesh is reduced, by a thousand pairs of white-gloved hands wielding shiny steel tools, from essentially whole animal carcasses to little ready-to-eat slices that are put in boxes of "Lunchables" (the big new product that had just come out in the market).  I am promised a tour of this facility, and am quite interested in the prospect.  But the tour is later cancelled due to "security".

While the cows are rendered in the plant I sit in a small office in the warehouse playing computer solitaire and "Minesweeper" 6-7 solid hours a day.  I am waiting for trucks to come in and drop off machine parts, which I dump on a shelf and add to a computer inventory.  Deliveries are rare and take no time at all to put away.  I set an Oscar Mayer record in "Minesweeper" and get an idea for a screenplay.  I am not looking for the idea, and am not an aspiring screenwriter. 
     As unnecessary as I feel, I am not alone.  There are a lot of us wasting time in the warehouse.  I share the space with a group of ancient mechanics and machinists who had imagined their whole lives going back to the crib that they'd have retired by this time and would be spending their golden years tossing back crappy Wisconsin lager and cheese and fishing on some mosquito-encrusted lake in Oshkosh.  But they haven't because when Kraft bought the company a few years before they cut their benefits. 
     I feel sorry for them.  They're bitter.  Old, bitter, slow, lazy.  The only thing they hate more than Kraft is California.  The O.J. trial is in full bloom.  But it's deeper than that:  they hate California as a way of life in Wisconsin. I'm Californian.  They put up with me. 
     My supervisor, Rhinehart, is well-named because a large, coarse, horn-like hair juts out a good inch on his nose.  He ought to have been called "Rhino" but they call him Rhinehart.  He wears torn shirts and huge rolls of flesh dip out of them.  His desk and filing cabinet are covered with dust and dead flies.  He sometimes puts his sandwiches down on these surfaces between bites.  When he exits the computer solitaire program and stands up from his chair (which is usually not before quitting time), the V-shaped wedge in the middle of the seat cushion is wide enough for me to sit on.
     Pretty soon I'm bitter too.  There's no way to keep a sweet disposition when you wake up at a coal-black, sub-freezing 5:30 a.m. every day through a Wisconsin winter and take a bus to work at the Oscar Mayer factory.  No bloody way in hell.
     Still, I remember the faces of people in the factory who seemed basically content with their lot in life.  The cashier at the cafeteria, for example.  He had a big, twinkly-eyed sort of face.  You expected him to joke around with you.  That's why it seemed strange to me that he didn't.  He never even said "You're welcome" when I said "Thank you."  Every day the same routine:  I pay for my food, say a polite "Thank you" and get silence. Perhaps not even eye contact.  It is one of the smallest mysteries of life, something I forget about until the next day when I come upon that good old buddy face and pay for lunch and say thank you.
     Meanwhile O.J. hangs heavy in the air. California is banging around like a loose nut on fender, it might fly off any minute.  Too many homosexuals, killer ex-football stars, Mexicans, liberals, divorcees.  The Oscar Mayer jury came in on O.J. before the trial even began:  "They should have taken him out back of the jail and shot him. Would've solved it." 
     Now I've been there a few months.  (I worked there for 6 total).  I've gotten to know some of these sensible, down-to-earth Wisconsin people better.  I've attended the office birthday party when they unveiled a large, 80 dollar, custom-made turd cake.  I've been confided in by the grandmotherly secretary who worries about the effects of electricity on her houseplants.  The plants are terrified of electricity.  And if you prune one, the plants next to it will wither with fear.  I've ascertained that none of them, at least admittedly, is a member of the national "UFO lobby" based in nearby Fon du Lac.  I've met the quiet German mechanic who works by himself in the dark "nuts and bolts" supply room musing, perhaps, about his days as a Nazi soldier patrolling the streets of Prague. I've gotten used to the shame of being from flaky California, which is now running amok with killer celebrities and Mexican homosexuals.
     One day the Rolling Stones played a concert in Madison.  I was on the field straight out a hundred feet from the stage.  It was the greatest thing in the world.  They sang "Monkey Man" and "It's All Over Now", two of my favorites I never I thought I'd hear live.  Mick Jagger welcomed everybody from all the local cities, including "J-J-J-J-Janesville". Janesville, down the road a piece from Madison, had just been in the news because of some Ku Klux Klan activity there.  And in the Wisconsin City Journal the next day the concert reviewer "sized up the Rolling Stones" and concluded in his best blasé, big-city tone that they were all right. 
     It was on the front page of that same paper (months later) that the Oscar Mayer cashier's twinkly-eyed face appeared in a large photo.  The story explained that he'd shot and killed his estranged wife and kidnapped their son.  He later surrendered to the FBI. 
     Another day this paper had a story about the Arby's about a quarter mile from my dorm.  One employee had tied up another, then put electric tape over mouth and nose and let her suffocate to death. 
    Another day the paper had a story about the owner of the pet store about a half mile from my dorm.  The owner -- I remembered him well because the only time I went in there he happened to be holding a tarantula in his hand -- had attempted to kill his girlfriend with a knife.  She survived the attack.
     The pet store, incidentally, was 2 blocks from the house Thorton Wilder grew up in.  It's a red brick house with ivy on the walls.  It has been converted into a small hotel.  A plaque out front lets you know its history.
     And as any Wisconsinite will tell you, Madison is an "Our Town" kind of town -- small, a community of sensible people who go to church every week and have their priorities straight.  Envy that, California.