Blaine Fired Me Beside The Museum Of Failed Trays

Blaine fired me beside a mushroom tray that had failed under the weight of one pear.

I had kept that tray for eleven months. Its white tag said, Held Until Load Test. Next to it stood a bottle cradle with a split seam and a corner block that had grown green spots in the drying room.

The crew called that shelf my museum.

I was twenty-six, an Indian American man with brown skin, narrow shoulders, thick black curls, and safety glasses that left dents beside my nose.

At Rillcap Packaging in Bend, Oregon, I worked as a fungal-packaging quality technician. I grew small test batches, checked moisture, weighed samples, and crushed finished pieces to see where they broke.

We fed clean wood waste to fungal threads called mycelium. The threads knit the waste into shapes inside molds. Heat stopped the growth. If we did our work right, the result could protect a lamp or a jar through a truck ride.

If we rushed, it could fail under a pear.

"We need a cleaner story for the buyer," Blaine said.

He nodded at my shelf.

Blaine Mercer was a tall white man of forty-five with sandy hair, pink cheeks, and spotless brown boots.

He wore those boots past bins of damp sawdust without getting a mark on them. I had always wondered how.

"Those are test records," I said.

"Sure. But look ahead, Pranav. Big week. Big future."

He spread both arms. That was how he sold things: air first, details later.

Morrow Basin Products planned to buy our factory assets on Friday. Blaine had taped blue arrows on the floor for its tour. He had also taped a paper leaf over a roof stain.

"Your position is being removed," he said. "Effective today."

It was Monday. Beyond the loading door, frost still lay in the shade.

"Who will sign off on the moisture checks?"

"The buyer has systems."

"And my back wages?"

His smile grew patient.

"We have talked about that. You got experience here most young men would pay for."

"You owe me eight thousand six hundred forty dollars."

"Deferred compensation. Different bucket."

"Twelve weekly amounts of seven hundred twenty dollars. Earned wages."

For twelve weeks, he had paid only $480 of my $1,200 weekly pay. Each Friday he had said an investor wire was close. After the last short check, he had handed us an emergency payroll agreement.

I had signed because I needed the job. I had read it because I needed the money.

"You signed the experience program," he said.

"That isn't its name."

"Don't get stuck on names."

He handed me a termination letter and a check for my current wages. The letter said nothing about the old debt. I checked both sides.

"No severance?"

"We all made sacrifices."

Through his office window, I could see a sample of the new company badge on his desk. It had his name under the word Adviser.

"Can I take my failed samples?" I asked.

He laughed with relief.

"Absolutely. Take your little museum."

I packed the pieces in a produce box. Beneath the pear tray, I placed my calipers and the cheap notebook where I wrote batch numbers before entering them into the plant system.

Blaine watched me remove the white tags without tearing them.

"That's your trouble," he said. "You keep things that no longer matter."

I looked toward the mold room. Eight aluminum molds stood on a rack against the wall. Their stamped numbers ran from M-04 through M-11.

Those numbers also appeared on a page in my apartment.

"Sometimes they matter later," I said.

He clapped my shoulder.

"There's the spirit."

I drove home past low junipers and a line of cars heading toward the mountains. Snow had touched the peaks west of town. At a stoplight, I worked out my rent, my car insurance, and the groceries I could skip.

Quiet anger did not make my bank balance larger.

At home, I set the museum on a bookcase. Then I took a flat blue folder from the drawer under my stove towels.

Inside were the emergency agreement, a secured note, the mold schedule, and a state filing receipt. I had paid the filing fee myself after reading the instructions twice.

Blaine had sent the whole packet back when I asked for his signed copy. His email said, Here you go, professor. Now let's grow something.

I had printed that too.

The note's due date had passed on September 30. My two written requests for payment had received no answer.

I found the number of a commercial attorney whose office handled small business disputes. Her receptionist gave me an appointment for the next morning.

Then my phone rang again.

"Mr. Bhat? This is Mara Ennis at Morrow Basin Products. Our title review found a filing under your name. Can you tell me why you have a claim on the production molds?"