Those dumb Americans messed it up pretty bad this time. 

We usually order our “MADE IN CHINA” stickers from a company in Bichian, just over the boarder. Saves on shipping. But those Americans insisted on some nowhere little company in Aira’ia. We’d used them before and they screwed us over, so we expected the same this time. And we were right. Thanks, Seattle. 

We got the order in February: three million Patty Petunias (C) to be delivered to some company in Washington. We could manufacture and ship by March, and they’d be on shelves before Easter. It’s October now. And we’re saddled with three million Patty Petunias (C), each with “MADE IN AIRA’IA” stuck to her behind. 

It’s nothing a couple of million dollars can’t fix. But we can’t sell until we get those stickers freakin’ off. So we sent the merchandise to some other nowhere little factory in Pai-ban. They’ll take care of it, quick and easy.

__________________ 

Neesa’s fingers were cramping. And her nails, her beautiful fingernails, were covered with sticker gunk.

It was noon. Ten hours until she could leave the factory. In two, she could eat something. A boy came around every twenty minutes with latex gloves. With the constant scratching, they wore out in five. She didn’t dare to ask for new gloves. She kept her head down and scratched the hours away. 

Sticker-scratching was the first work Neesa had managed to get since her husband died. The factory had been converted while she was gone. She’d left as a button-sewer and come back as a sticker-remover. She had thought she disliked sewing and the constant finger-pricking. But the sticker gunk was worse. Like damp flour, it forced itself  under her nails and stayed there.

Her nails – her beautiful fingernails! While she was in mourning, her family had taken care of her and her daughter. Her nails grew long and smooth. Now they were ragged, worn down to her fingertips. And still she scratched away. 

Ten and a half hours later, Neesa entered the tiny room she shared with her daughter, Laila. The child was curled up on the cot in the corner. Neesa crossed the room in a few steps and squatted to kiss Laila’s head. She knew better than to touch the child. The sticker gunk was still on her fingers. She covered her hand with the hem of her dress and reached under the cot. She brought out a child-sized thermos. Michael Jordan, faded and plastic, winked at her from its surface.