“I’m not going to fuck it up,” Donnie said.
“Well, that’s reassuring,” was my response, but I’m not sure he caught the sarcasm I had sprinkled on top. I’m not even sure he cared about my opinion. But seriously, how can someone think of walking into something this dangerous with such a weak mindset?
“You know that almost everyone who tries this ends up getting torn apart,” I insisted. “Why even bother?”
He looked at me confidently before spouting his stupid answer: “Almost everyone.”
I don’t remember ever rolling my eyes so hard. Not that it mattered, he wasn’t even looking at me. He just kept cooking something in his big pan and started whistling.
Why should I care? I thought. I love him, but I said what I wanted to say, and it’s not like I can force him not to do it.
And yet, none of that stopped my brain from looping the same insane question, creeping through my mind since this fucker had made his intentions clear. I tried not to think about it and gave it another shot:
“Almost everyone,” I echoed, “and you really think you’ll be one of those who make it out without getting fucked in the end? One of the 0.1%? Or 0.01%? Or whatever the hell it is?”
He kept whistling over the quiet hiss of the oil, then started pulling out his greasy meatballs. “Yes. And honestly? Even if it doesn’t work, it’s been a long time since I had a good fuck.”
I couldn’t really argue with that. We’d been in that factory for almost a year by that point, and we’d met almost no other people during that time. People were said to start fucking sheep and horses when they spent too long in the farms and factories. We hadn’t reached that kind of desperation yet, but we also didn’t have any animals in our factory.
Donnie finished packing up his greasy meatballs, still whistling like it was a fucking picnic. I knew that, if he really made up his mind, he was going to leave at any moment. So the insane question finally formed clearly in my head.
Should I go with him?
Before making what could’ve been the most important (or stupidest) decision of my life, I wondered why I was even considering it.
It’ll be a shitshow. He’s a tough guy — maybe he won’t die — but everyone knows that going alone makes the chance of failure even higher.
Just a little help from me might’ve been enough. I didn’t think he expected it, given the risk, but we’d always been there for each other, long before we started working in the factories. I felt a bit guilty at the thought of leaving him alone.
And yet, it was another thought that finally convinced me to go. I’m not proud of it, but it’s the goddamn truth, and I don’t see why I should try to hide it now.
What if he makes it?
Yeah, what if? What if he succeeds — if he gets to reap all the goods that come with having risked it — and I’m still here, stuck in the factory, working my ass off to absolutely no end? And even if he doesn’t come back, do I really want to continue this life alone, or even worse, with some total stranger replacing Donnie?
“I’m leaving,” he announced.
“I know,” I told him. “I’m coming with you.”
He took the lunchbox and smiled. “Let’s hope there are enough meatballs, then.”
And so we left — inebriated by the dream, sure, but especially happy to leave that fucking factory.
Even if it meant the possibility of never coming back.