Johnny Forklift
Society branded him blue collar, but Johnny had no idea what his collar had to do with it. As a man he wasn’t much for labels and norms, except when he was behind the fork.
“Behind the Fork” is what Johnny calls being at the wheel and command of a heavy forklift. The domain of the licensed operator. Wresting pallets, hoisting loads and wrestling with volatile centers of gravity.
Is the job dangerous?
Fuck yeah, but not when Johnny’s at the forks.
There are stories of fighter pilots changing their given names to match their call signs, but this is the only story of anyone who has legally changed their surname to Forklift.
“That’s what everyone kept calling me… so I got ‘er done!” Johnny Forklift said to an iPhone held by a TikTok influencer. The rest of the plant couldn’t believe the influencer was here. She was the farthest thing from this world, in her designer tee and hoop earrings, flying in from the Coast in pursuit of Johnny Forklift shifting supplies inside a Midwestern warehouse.
But the way Johnny Forklift ran the forklift was so smooth. So very very smooth. Johnny’s forks never slipped. Never tampering product, never splintering a pallet, only sliding through and lifting supply. Perpetually.
The influencer recorded as Johnny expertly spun the lift, lowered the forks and penetrated a pallet of Charmin Ultra. A pyramid of toilet paper was one of the lightest loads Johnny could haul and was the perfect beacon of his brilliance. The influencer held her phone steady as the pallet lifted, and the feather-light toilet paper remained motionless.
Applause echoed off the walls of the warehouse and wannabes tried replicating Johnny’s stunt. But every time the Charmin shifted. Because nobody had the tactical mastery of Johnny Forklift, not even the most seasoned operators on the job.
The influencer uploaded the video and within minutes it was trending. By that afternoon Johnny Forklift was a star.
And it was the worst thing that could’ve ever happened to him.
Johnny kept telling himself “Don’t get me wrong.”
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Often he’d form prefaces in his head: “Don’t get me wrong, the endorsements are nice, BUT I no longer have any Johnny time.”
The weight of celebrity grew so severe it felt as if a balloon was expanding inside Johnny’s head, about to violently burst in aneurysm. It was amazing how quickly the perks of fame wore off, how quickly Johnny no longer cared about any of his clout, or any of the products he sold.
Hell, he couldn’t even enjoy his morning burrito at McDonald’s. “Yo, Johnny Forklift!” was the typical cat-call he faced down every day at 6 a.m., working his way through a mob that gathered outside Mickey D’s like it was Black Friday at Walmart.
Johnny thought about quitting TikTok, but his videos were so smooth and soothing. Obliterating the niche of ASMR with added visuals. He was a hero to his fellow Midwesterners. A fucking icon to the salt-of-the earth people who worked hard, drank beer and ate cheese. How could Johnny deny them an escape from their high-cholesterol lives? Johnny never anticipated the fame. Or the guilt that came with it.
The guilt was worse because it was so inexplicable. Johnny was just doing his job, forking loads from one end to another. But for some reason fame was punishing him for his penchant. Each day the guilt grew and threatened to overtake Johnny. Each day his commute to work was filled with roaring crowds, his pounding heart and pounding head.
But once he was inside the warehouse, away from the mob, he could work his artistry. Johnny didn’t work fast. He worked efficient. The mileage on his forklift bared the results. His odometer read lower than any in the fleet. It’s what made Johnny Forklift Johnny Forklift. He never wasted movement and his forks never varied an inch. Straight-in, straight-up, straight-down and straight-out.
But when the workday ended, the circus began.
Johnny signed so many autographs on the way to his truck his wrist gave out. He had to order his groceries curbside. When he finally reached home, there’d be naked people in his bed, hoping to get “forked” by Johnny Forklift.
Johnny never thought he’d strike it rich as a forklift operator. Hell, he thought it was just a summer job in 2019. But that’s the funny thing with undeniable talent being so exceedingly rare, the regrets of not utilizing it far outweigh the regrets of not having it at all. So Johnny leaned into the celebrity. Started wearing “Get Forked” t-shirts. Becoming an ambassador of his own brand. He attended parties. Snorted cocaine. Meth. Licked some ass cracks. Adopted 25 rescue dogs. Attended summits. Had lunch with Bill Gates.
Then suddenly, nobody gave a fuck about forklifts.
Soon Johnny went home to an empty bed. Waking up to hangovers from drug withdrawal and pounding headaches from 25 barking rescue dogs. The world of celebrity dropped him from its orbit. He was able to procure sausage burritos in peace.
A peace he found frightening. He’d become so accustomed to the trappings of celebrity that when the door shut, he desperately wanted back in. He started a podcast. Only his mom listened. He tried influencing, and companies sent him cease and desists. Johnny was colder than a frozen hot dog and nobody wanted him. The world was off forklifts. The only views he received were from people lost on the platform.
At night his dogs barked and howled as Johnny burnt the midnight oil searching for a new niche.
He was a blue-collar hero who had no idea what his collar had to do with it.
And that was his downfall.
