A Short Story Essay

During Maytag’s final surrender to Whirlpool, appliance parts are now in surplus. As a result, the warehouse has been shipped an overabundance of parts. The likes of which we rarely see. Because the market has gone down in flames, the demand for appliance parts is sky-high. Thus we have a beautiful supply and demand ratio between our suppliers and our customers. Since no one has the capital to go out and purchase a brand new washing machine or refrigerator, in spite of Obama’s Energy Star credit stimulus, more and more appliances are being serviced. This allows servicers to keep in business and increase profits. Their increase in business requires that they purchase more parts from us, of which we are consistently replenishing due to the business deals made by our suppliers. Thus the servicer is never thrown into hysteria over a lack of parts. Thus we keep in business. Thus we keep our jobs. We even manage to allocate overtime on occasion. I know all this because the warehouse hides nothing from me. The warehouse needs me. The warehouse is me. Or else I’d like to think. By the end of the shift we are all manifesting the last of the packages that are to be shipped out via UPS and FedEx. The trailers are closed. The semis drive off. The workers go home. I stay to close shop. I print the manifest reports and shut down the computers. I record our shipping quantities and turn out the lights. The doors are locked, the security enabled. I shut the last door before I stroll to the bus stop. The driver sees my monthly pass purchased online at the warehouse’s very own computer, addressed to my own PO box. The driver lets me on. There are a couple of folks onboard. One works at Chili Works not too far from the warehouse. The other is a Wal-Mart employee. We are all considered workers of the underclass. The only difference is that I have approximately ten grand in my savings. Most people are ten grand in dept. Of course, not too many take microeconomics as seriously either. When my girlfriend cheated on me and insurrected herself from our apartment, I decided to take control of my cash. I realized that I was spending nearly six thousand dollars a year in rent money. When the lease was up, I took the capital gained from the security deposit, including the five dollar interest they were required to give, and invested in a bicycle. Of course, I invested in the bicycle after I totaled my Pontiac grand prix. I did this because for the next year I would have to spend three thousand dollars in car payments and two-thousand dollars in gasoline. The insurance forked me four grand. At this point I was a bit of an alcoholic anyway so I decided that the car was an opportunity cost. If I wanted to continue to go to the bars each night and have my juicy burger and tray full of cigarette butts, I would need to sacrifice the Pontiac. This capital was generally inadequate when compared to my personal entrepreneurship. My taverns, my coffee and reading clubs, my model-crafting. I’m getting to the point at which I can sell World War II naval ship recreations for a profit. No one would know my storage cell housed the Battle of Midway. Then there are my books that I buy and sell later to used book stores. It may be cheaper to go to a library, but the city doesn’t give cards to homeless folk. Still, I manage. The only real resources I depend on is my own personal entrepreneurship, my labor, and the permanence of the land. The capital built up over the years is strictly a luxury. Since my supply of bar beverages is at a constant growth, the supply of such beverages usually comes at a low cost. More and more I see laid off engineers and factory machinists come night after night, drowning their miseries away. Winter approaches, so the construction jockeys are hitting Bourbon Street like an army from hell. Meanwhile, the bars are ordering more and more of their stock. More than probably necessary, as I feel they have built a surplus. Everyday I see trucks stocked with Miller products and Coors make dock. By Tuesday night the bartenders are giving drinks away, they have so much. If their bands of laid-off workers don’t make a buck soon, the bars will start to run into a massive deficit without having a stable consumer base. An unemployed man can only spend for so long. Still, I reap the benefits. And if ever there is a time when someone may ask me why it is I chose my life without shelter; perhaps an intrigued lady aroused by such mystery or a confused little boy who was always taught to work with what they got; I shall tell them both that I live in the market of the free. My entire essence is dedicated to what I want and how accessible it is to make such an acquisition. Everything else is simply an unnecessary expenditure. A Short Story Essay The cold hit him straight way, and he turned to the see the appealing glow of the gas lamp that cast silhouettes on the walls, the shadows dancing with each flicker of the small flame. The wind blew quiet but harsh and found its way through the gaps in his woollen overcoat. He turned up the collar and regretted that there was no button to keep it in place. He scurried down the well-trodden path, passing withering plants and whatever else lay in the darkness. Without warning, the headlights of an approaching illuminated him against the darkness of the forest; he threw himself to the hard ground, scurrying towards the relative safety of the undergrowth. He didn’t dare to move, terrified that any shuffle or scratching might give away his position, as the truck stopped at the side of the road. He heard the slamming of doors and the shuffling of feet. The man could see nothing but the very top of the trucks canvas roof, but he could hear their voices. One shouted out to another in German; the reply was a harsh laugh that seemed to pierce the very core of the wildlife; a large bird that has been making its way cautiously over to the man suddenly opened its wings out and took off violently from where it stood with a loud shriek that filled the deadly quiet. The man stopped breathing, covered his head with both of his hands and screwed his eyes tightly shut, willing the other men to go away. He could hear them walking over, their hard-soled boots thudding, again and again, as they made their way closer. He had attempted to bury himself in the plantation, but it was to no avail. A narrow, white torch beam, moved across the perimeter of the forest, and slowly made its way down to his level. He shut his eyes tight and willed them to leave him be, to go away. And just like that, the beam of light vanished, and the footsteps gradually died away. With the slam of two doors, the engine started, and the truck moved off. The man lifted his head slightly, just in time to see the terrifying symbol of the Swastika that would be engrained in his mind for the rest of his life.