Back when I was working at the factory (or really, "produce redistribution plant", but 'the factory' rolls off the tongue easier), there was only one female forklift operator in the whole plant. This story isn't about her, the point here is that it was a very male-dominated workplace.
Seeing them swoop by day in and day out, you got used to the forklifts, which were all more or less identical with each other save for some scrapes and bangs and signs of wear, except for one, which had a tiny, sparkling Hello Kitty -sticker on the side, scarcely larger than my thumb.
One night shift there were only two gatherers at work beside me, and only one forklift operator. On a particularly quiet moment of that particularly quiet night, the forklift driver and I were the only ones in the break room, and though we'd never really talked before, I remarked that he got the Hello Kitty one.
He, a sturdy man in his fifties, grinned in a way that made the ends of his moustache tilt up, made a pointed look around the obviously empty break room and leaned in towards me like men that age do when they've got a great and splendid secret to share.
He asked me, had I ever noticed that it was almost always him who is driving the Hello Kitty forklift? I had not, but that did not swing his glee about this to either direction. He nodded. That was his favourite forklift, it's the one that turns the smoothest, the one with the most even brakes and most comfortable seat. He had put the sticker on it, he had borrowed one from his granddaughter.
Ever since, even if he hadn't shown up to shift as the first guy on the job, his favourite was almost always still available. Like a magical, protective ward, the little sparkly sticker kept the other men away from his favourite machine.
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