Abrahán and I are not on good terms. We have argued heatedly the last two nights. On Wednesday, it was about whether workers should discuss wages openly with each other. Last night, because he tried to get me to stop recycling. I am discouraged by this sudden falling out. I like him. He's charismatic, a hard worker, wants to be a counselor, and he's a young (20) father. I am more upset about our Thursday confrontation.
That night, in my quixotic attempt to change the shop's recycling culture, I was digging through trash, collecting plastic cups.
Suddenly, Abrahán approached me and said, "You don't need to do that!"
Earlier that evening, he rekindled our Wednesday argument by barging into a conversation between Rurik and I, to ask the Serbian if workers should discuss wages openly. I was convinced that Abrahán harassed me about picking through the trash can for recyclables strictly to antagonize me.
To his, "You don't need to do that! I responded with a, "Yes, I do! The shop is not recycling so I am going to do it!"
"You are supposed to be doing your job!," he responded.
That wasn't the first time someone said that to me in this shop. I turned around and pointed at each one of the machines I was in charge of. They were all in the middle of their cycle times.
"Look at my machines Abrahán! What am I supposed to do while they run?"
Abrahán didn't respond to that. At least not in words. His body said plenty.
Him and I operate different machines. Unfortunately, his job requires for him to be engaged one hundred percent of the time. All the time, he's either feeding tools into the mouth of the machine, measuring them, retrieving, or packaging, finished material, replenishing his machine with water, or maintaining his machine. But he still spends plenty of time chumming, horsing around, and waging rubber band wars.
Sensing his loss of this battle, he retorted, "It's not in your job description!"
"Job description? I didn't get one!," I told him, and asked if he had one. He lied and said he did.
"Does it include shooting rubber bands at your co-workers and running around the shop protecting yourself from the ones that are shot at you?," I asked him.
Angry, he crumpled the plastic cup he'd just used, threw it in the trash and, spitefully exclaimed, "Recycle this!"
"I will!," I said.
He stormed off and I picked the plastic out of the can.