The Prize Nobody Wants

The forklift driver's face was carved from stone. Permanent scowl. Shoulders hunched like he carried the world's grievances on his back. He slammed pallets down with unnecessary force, each crash a declaration of his discontent with existence itself.

Macario nudged me, watching the same scene unfold.

"If there was some prize for being angry," he said, "I'd be the champion. Gold medal, all day, every day." He grinned at his own joke.

But there is no prize. There is no trophy. There is no reward.

That angry driver finished his shift the same way he started it. Miserable. Alone. The pallets moved regardless of his mood. The warehouse hummed on without caring about his internal storm.