Forklift Operator Certification Test

The neon sign outside Taco Toro flickered like a dying star, casting a greasy glow over the cracked sidewalk. Metrospire's downtown buzzed around us—cars honking, street vendors yelling—but inside, it was just me, Jake, and a plate of $2 tacos steaming between us. I slid the tray across the chipped table, the smell of carne asada and cheap hot sauce hitting me like a victory lap. "There you go, man. Debt paid," I said, grinning. "One taco-assisted door rescue, officially squared."

Jake snatched a taco, his lanky frame slouched in the booth. "You're a saint, Ry. Should've seen your face when Khalid barked at you—thought you were gonna pee yourself." He took a messy bite, salsa dripping onto his wrinkled Titan uniform. "Good call not touching that forklift, though. Lawsuit city."

"Yeah, well, you're my knight in shining forklift armor," I shot back, grabbing my own taco. The restaurant was a dive—sticky floors, a jukebox crooning some old salsa tune—but the vibe was perfect. After my first week at Titan Storage Co., I needed this: a night to breathe, chew something that wasn't ramen, and forget the warehouse weirdness for a few hours.

Jake pulled a deck of cards from his backpack, smirking. "Rummy? Loser buys the next round." I nodded, and we dove in, the table turning into a battlefield of aces and taunts. The guy's a shark—probably cheated his way through that dumpster scavenger hunt back in the day—but I held my own, winning two rounds before he slapped down a run of spades and cackled, "Pay up, logistics boy." I groaned, tossing a crumpled five at the counter guy for more tacos, but I couldn't stop grinning. The city's chaos faded into the background, and for once, life felt light.

Mid-game, my phone buzzed. I glanced at it—a rental alert from some app I'd forgotten I'd installed. "Student apartment, 1 bed, 600 sq ft, $900/mo. Beachside, 10 min from Metrospire CC. Showing Friday, 2 p.m." My heart did a little flip. Beachside? Affordable? I squinted at the photos: hardwood floors, a tiny balcony with an ocean view, no mildew stench implied. It was a unicorn in Metrospire's overpriced jungle. My lease was up in three weeks, and I'd been dreading another semester of death-metal roommates. This… this could be it.

"Yo, check this out," I said, shoving the screen at Jake. "Apartment by the beach. Showing's in a few days. Think I should go for it?"

He squinted, mid-chew. "Nine hundred? Dude, that's a steal. You've got the Titan cash now—jump on it. Beats living with that guy who screamed Slayer lyrics at dawn."

"True," I said, bookmarking the listing. The idea of my own place—waves crashing nearby, no shared fridge battles—lit a fire under me. If that forklift course bumped my pay like Lars promised, I could swing it. I pocketed my phone, refocused on the cards, and let the night roll on, tacos and trash talk carrying us into the early hours.

The forklift license day hit like a freight train. Monday morning, 7 a.m., Titan Storage Co.'s warehouse loomed ahead as I pedaled up, legs still sore from the 49-minute ride. The air was crisp, Metrospire's skyline a hazy smudge in the distance. I locked my bike, adjusted my hoodie, and stepped inside, name tag pinned crookedly to my chest. No customers today—the floor was cleared for the course, a dozen of us milling around near a roped-off section of shelves. Lars stood by the door, chatting with a guy who screamed "outsider" in his pressed khakis and clipboard: the examiner.

His name was Mr. Voss—tall, wiry, with a buzzcut and a voice like gravel. "Listen up," he barked, silencing our chatter. "This isn't a joyride. Forklift certification's serious—OSHA regs, company policy, my rules. Eight hours, three phases: written, practical, endurance. Fail any, you're out. Pass, you're licensed. Questions?" His eyes scanned us like a hawk picking prey, and nobody dared breathe. I swallowed hard. This wasn't some community college pop quiz—this felt like a trial.

The written test hit first, in a cramped office off the warehouse floor. Forty questions, multiple choice, but devilishly precise. "A 2-ton load on a 36-inch pallet shifts 4 inches off-center. Calculate the maximum safe lift height before tipping, accounting for a 3-degree floor slope." My logistics brain kicked into gear, pencil scratching formulas I'd crammed last semester—load balance, center of gravity—but half the room groaned, heads in hands. I finished with ten minutes to spare, sweating but alive.

Next came the practical, back on the warehouse floor. Voss had rigged a gauntlet of real-world chaos: a narrow aisle flanked by towering shelves, a pallet of loose lumber to lift, and a tight drop zone marked with tape. "Move the 600-pound load," he snapped, pointing at the splintery stack. "Forty feet, no sway, no damage, under two minutes. Go." I climbed into the forklift, hands shaky on the controls I'd barely touched. The lumber rattled as I raised it, and I had to inch along, adjusting the forks mid-turn to keep it steady. A shelf loomed inches from my left mirror, but I threaded the needle, dropping the load square on the tape with eight seconds left. Voss grunted—approval, maybe?—and waved me off. One guy, a twitchy dude named Paul, clipped a shelf, sending a plank crashing down. Voss's glare was lethal.

The endurance phase was the real beast. Four hours straight, no breaks: lift a 400-pound crate, stack it on a 12-foot shelf, retrieve it, repeat, with Voss throwing curveballs. "Simulate a power surge—throttle sticks at 60%!" he'd yell, forcing me to wrestle the controls. Then, "Left fork's jammed—adjust the load one-handed!" My arms burned, sweat stung my eyes, but I leaned on every logistics trick I knew—shift the weight, ease the momentum—until it was second nature. By the end, my hands trembled on the wheel, and my back screamed, but I'd made it. Paul, though, fumbled a stack, nearly tipping the forklift. Voss scribbled furiously.

The lunchroom buzzed at 3 p.m., post-exam. We'd survived—barely—and someone had hauled in a coffee pot and a box of donuts. I grabbed a mug, the bitter brew scalding my tongue, and slumped at a table with the other course survivors. "To licenses and not dying," one guy toasted, raising his cup. Laughter rippled, a rare lightness after Voss's gauntlet. The room was packed—not just us, but other Titan workers on break. The sour ones hovered near the vending machines, arms crossed, muttering. "Two years, no course," one hissed, shooting me a look. I sipped my coffee, pretending not to hear.

Then there were the zombies. A few of them, scattered like statues—stacking trays, wiping counters, moving in that eerie, mechanical rhythm. One, a lanky guy with hollow eyes, refilled the coffee pot without a word, his hands steady but lifeless. Another, a woman with limp hair, stood by the sink, staring at nothing. Same vibe as the nine-foot freak from my first visit. My skin prickled, but I shook it off.

Across the room, I spotted her—the girl from the scissor lift. She sat alone at a corner table, picking at a sandwich, her short dark hair catching the fluorescent light. Our eyes met, and she smiled again—soft, real, like a lifeline in this sea of weird. I nodded back, caught off guard, and she looked away, still smiling. Who was she? No name tag from here, but that spark stuck with me.

The moment broke when Grayson strode in, flanked by two suits—higher-ups, judging by their polished shoes and clipped tones. He zeroed in on me, waving me over. "Ryan, a word." I followed, coffee sloshing, and he handed me a crisp packet. "New contract. You've impressed us—first week, now this course. Twenty-two an hour, effective next shift. Sign here." My jaw dropped. Twenty-two? That beach apartment was mine. I scribbled my name, grinning like an idiot, and Grayson clapped my shoulder. "Keep it up, kid."

Back on the floor, Voss called us in at 4 p.m., his clipboard clutched like a judge's gavel. We stood in a ragged line, the warehouse's low hum underscoring the tension. My legs ached, my hands still buzzed from the forklift's wheel, and every face around me mirrored the same mix of exhaustion and dread. "Results," Voss said, his gravelly voice cutting through the quiet. "This was a strict exam—high standards, no room for error. You all pushed it." He paced, eyes flicking over us, pausing just long enough to make my pulse spike.

"Ten of you passed outright," he continued, tapping his clipboard. "Licenses issued tomorrow. Congrats." Relief crashed over me like a wave—I'd made it through the gauntlet. My mind flashed to that $22-an-hour contract, the beach apartment, a future snapping into focus. But Voss's boots kept clicking on the concrete, and he stopped in front of Paul, the guy who'd clipped the shelf and fumbled the endurance test. Paul's shoulders slumped, braced for the axe.

"Paul," Voss said, his tone flat as steel. "You were one point short. One. Shelf hit cost you three, endurance dragged you down two more. Should've been a fail." The room went dead silent, every breath held. Paul's head dropped, hands balling into fists, and I felt a pang—guy looked like he'd just lost everything. But then Voss's mouth twitched, a rare crack in his stone face, and he waved a hand. "Lucky for you, I'm in a good mood today. Sun's out, coffee's decent. One point's close enough—you're licensed too. Don't make me regret it."

Paul's jaw dropped, a choked laugh escaping as the tension shattered. A few of us clapped, grins spreading, and even I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. Voss tucked his clipboard under his arm, a ghost of a smirk lingering. "All of you, dismissed. See you out there."

The weight lifted, but the warehouse still hummed with its own secrets. I glanced at the lunchroom door where the girl had been, her smile flickering in my mind. Titan Storage Co. was a maze—zombies, glares, and all—and I'd cleared one hurdle. But as I headed for my bike, Paul's shaky grin and Voss's unexpected mercy stuck with me, a small win in the chaos, hinting at more twists to come.