Jon Told Me

by Julie Badger

My coworker Jon told me he didn’t have much hope for humanity one raw and grey late February day. We stood in an oddly scaffolded section of the warehouse, camped around the receiving desk which was painted barn-red with our company logo centered in what was once stark white. Low, ambient noise whirred out from a little black radiator, glowing red through bent grates, propped up on a stool. Through the winter I’d always see at least a pair of worn, wet working gloves sitting in front of that heater, drying out. Always grey, or khaki, some sun-bleached color on tough canvas- as stubborn as the guys who refused to throw them out and get a new pair. I’ll name no names, and it wasn’t Jon’s, but someone kept around a pair with more holes than thread left intact. I’d seen them lying around in places, even in a pile of dust out in the yard- but they never got thrown away. That made me laugh. Jon’s words made me quiet. He didn’t say it with despair, he said it with disgust, bitten back behind a scoff and a laugh and a jolted movement- walking away to collect burlap and twine to protect and tie up some displays of seed potatoes, which were outside too early in the season. I followed him toward the doubled hinged doors, watching his face because his words got serious. He paused silently before we headed through, eyes heavy, “they bombed a maternity ward…there’s just no sense…to any of it.” 

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