The Ratchet Life

The bell echoed across the technical area. A single, chirpy ding that marked the halfway point of the shift. It always seemed to sound way more hopeful than it had any right to be.

Elena slipped off her stool, stretched, and walked towards her usual exit, through the door with the broken closer that always made it sound like it was sighing dramatically when you opened it. The heavy metal creaked, then groaned like an old man with bad knees.

The heat hit her like a lazy slap. Dry, golden, almost affectionate. She let the door fall shut behind her with a metallic thunk that echoed off the rusted metal drums stacked nearby like rubbish that had never been collected. They’d become just part of the landscape now. Like industrial art against the desert sand.

She walked forward, into the sun and away from the building. She settled onto the edge of the low concrete barrier that boxed in the parking lot. The desert ground was hot, silent, and shimmering like a mirage drawn in sand and dust.

Her role as a watch assembly technician signified a huge achievement for her and she sort of loved this little job. The company was new and scrappy, the watches quirky and full of personality. Not luxury, but not junk either. A very respectable graduation/retirement/major birthday milestone gift. Some customers even collected them, writing to the team with phrases like “number thirty-six in the series” and “hoping to snag a limited green-dial next drop.”

The company itself felt good. Felt right. The founder, a thirty-something woman who lived in joggers and oversized hoodies, knew everyone by name. She remembered birthdays and little life moments when chatting with people. No one had ever left this company. Maybe the location was a contributing factor to that, but people just liked how this place made them feel.

No, this wasn’t ikigai for many. But it was something good. And it was galaxies better than many of the teams past lives.

Some had escaped civil wars. Some had crossed oceans and fences and airports to get here. Still, life wasn’t perfect. “Immigrant” was a four-letter word spoken with five letters, and suspicion trailed most of them like a second shadow. There were days when even kindness felt like it came with a receipt.

But the ideological wars here were fought with hashtags and weighted newsbytes. No one was hiding in cellars or rationing bread. Compared to where some had came from, America’s dysfunction was almost quaint.

The wind picked up, warm and dry. It carried with it the scent of hot asphalt, faint diesel, and something vaguely like pepper. Elena closed her eyes and tilted her face to the sun. Just breathing. Letting the safety settle a little deeper in her bones.

A car passed on the road beyond the lot, kicking up a cloud of dust that shimmered like a curtain in the heat. From the convenience store next door, someone exited with the unmistakable velocity of a customer who hadn’t been sufficiently validated. She looked over just in time to see a woman in her mid-forties with full highlights and loud leggings storming out while shouting something about “calling corporate.” The poor teenage cashier stood blinking behind the glass like he’d just survived a natural disaster.

A knowing, crooked grin spread across Elenas face.

Next to her, one of the rusted metal drums had been turned into a makeshift planter, filled with desert grass that clung to life with the same stubbornness she admired in herself.

She raised her hand and lightly waved across the lot to someone from the fulfilment team. A knowing glance that they’re both in the same situation. Neither need to converse to communicate their general content.

Here, in this sun-blasted, windblown corner of nowhere, she was starting to feel… not happy, exactly, but safe. And that was no small thing.

She pulled her lunch from the brown bag she’d folded just right. A sandwich with more mustard than necessary, an apple, and a small chocolate bar she’d saved for last. The sandwich was average, the apple was fine, and the chocolate was medicinal.

She sat there a while longer, legs swinging off the edge of the barrier like a kid on a bench, savouring both the food and the moment.

Then, with a soft sigh that echoed the door’s earlier one, she stood.

Back to the workbench. Back to the tiny tools and the satisfying click of properly set gears.

Back to building watches.

And maybe, just maybe, back to building something that looked like a life.

Desert sun on skin
not her dream, but something close.
Peace blooms, slow and sure.