Blue Collar Blues

by Rosalyn McMillan

  “‘Four. That the Plaintiff, Thyme Tyler, has been and continues to be an employee of the defendant Champion Motors, initially hiring in as an hourly employee on May twenty-two, nineteen seventy-five, at Defendant’s Rouge assembly plant.

  “‘Five. That the Plaintiff, Thyme Tyler, was first promoted to a position as a salaried employee on or about August thirty, nineteen eighty, the position being that of a Manufacturing Clerk, Salary Grade o-three.’”

  Thyme listened to her history at Champion Motors. Count by count, the lawsuit didn’t miss a beat. Every position she had held was accounted for. She’d forgotten some of the events that had occurred in the twenty-three years she’d worked at Champion. A part of her felt old. Another part of her felt as if she’d just arrived.

  Later that day Thyme called Khan. “Hey,” Thyme said, trying to be cheerful, “the Kentucky Derby is on this weekend. How’d you like to watch it with Cy and me?”

  “Cool.”

  She felt Khan’s hesitation before she spoke. “Thyme?”

  “Yes?”

  “Cy isn’t planning to try and hook me up with some white guy, is he?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Hey, I’ve got a right to ask. We’re friends.”

  “I wouldn’t set you up without telling you. I don’t keep secrets from my friends.”

  “Just your husband.”

  “That’s unfair, Khan.”

  “Damn. That shit sounded real personal. I think I’ll write in for us to appear on the Ricki Lake show.”

  “Stop, Khan. I’m serious.” Thyme was bothered by her friend’s sarcasm; she wasn’t in the mood.

  “Oh, don’t get too serious, girlfriend. Cy hasn’t done anything to make me want to come over and kick his ass, has he?”

  “Naw. Nothing like that.” Twin tears rolled down Thyme’s cheeks. “So you’ll come? We’re going to put the pontoon in the water and watch the Derby while we sit and sip on spirits. And of course I’ve got plenty of gourmet cookies for you.”

  With all the stresses she’d been dealing with lately, Thyme couldn’t wait to spend some fun moments with her young friend who could always make her laugh. “Hey, have you got a pencil handy? I’ve got the code to get in the gate so you don’t have to be announced.”

  “You kidding?”

  Thyme could tell that Khan was pleased. There were only seven homes in their small section of Bloomfield. Culturally speaking, it was a zip code that meant you’d arrived. And Khan would feel more accepted having their code—to hell with Cy and his paranoid need for security.

  “No. It’s one-three-nine-three. Got that? Just bring your swimsuit. It might get hot enough to dive in.”

  “Just tell Cy to get the chessboard out. I’m going to kick his ass.”

  “See you on Saturday.”

  * * *

  By Friday night, Thyme was exhausted. She and Cy were putting up the dishes while they listened to ABC’s World News Tonight with Peter Jennings. Then a local reporter gave an eloquent spiel on the day’s hot story, reporting from just outside the picket line at Chrysler’s Mack Avenue plant in Detroit.

  “Eight Chrysler assembly plants are shut down, including those that build the two-seater sports car, the Incognito, Chrysler’s car of the year. If the strike continues, Chrysler could lose a million dollars a day.”

  “Wow,” Thyme said. “I’m worried about our upcoming contract. If things have gotten way out of hand at Chrysler, it may affect things at Champion.” Thyme turned up the volume.

  “Hell, they should go back to work. They won’t win,” Cy stated matter-of-factly.

  Thyme was stunned. “How long has it been since you were a union brother? Don’t answer that, because I know. It’s been twenty-five years. What happened to your sympathy for the blue collar worker?”

  Cy shrugged his shoulders. “When a strike breaks out, nobody wins. The company loses money, the union loses money. The company can recoup their losses by raising the cost of cars. But the union loses ground with the company in any upcoming negotiations. Therefore, neither side goes away happy.”

  “I don’t agree with you.” She frowned. Spraying with Fantastik, she wiped down the Corian counters with a vengeance. For the next two hours they argued over hourly versus salary.

  In the past two days, wildcat strikes had broken out at General Motors, Chrysler, and Ford. For everyone in and around Detroit the strike issue was as important as the price of chicken is to Perdue.

  Thyme was surprised at how loyal she felt to the union even though she hadn’t worked hourly for almost eighteen years. Before now, it hadn’t mattered. Now it did. It was just what she needed to work off some angry sweat.

  Thyme changed into her exercise clothes and went downstairs. She ran ten miles on the treadmill and put in twelve minutes on the weight machine. She took a shower afterwards and sank her weary body into the comfort of the hot tub.

  She could hear Cy’s familiar footsteps coming toward her before she opened her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, baby,” he said, sitting down beside her. In his hand he held a yellow and white packet. Their photo album was tucked under his arm.

  “Remember when we took these?” He showed her pictures of the two of them at Niagara Falls taken last year, on their twenty-first anniversary. “Handsome couple, I’d say.”

  Thyme smiled. “I’d forgotten how much fun we had. When did you get these printed?”

  “The other day. We’re so spoiled by our computer-ROM we haven’t taken the time in years to put pictures in our album.”

  Thyme turned the pages, smiling at the memories, each more precious than the last. There was a section near the back filled with pictures of Graham from birth to age three. Thyme remembered telling Sydney that if she sent them any more pictures of her baby, she’d better send a photo album along with it.

  “Let’s not argue.” He kissed her apologetically.

  She glanced at the album. The moment had passed for her to mention the lawsuit. There was no way he would ever understand how powerless the union people felt, and how powerless she felt, unless she stood up against Champion for blatant discrimination.

  “I love you so much, Thyme,” Cy said as he stepped down into the circular sunken hot tub. When he began to remove her bathing suit, she helped him.

  Thyme loved him. She couldn’t deny those feelings. They came regardless of their differences—and there were many. “I love you too, baby,” she said as she gave in to him.

  They began to make love, though for her it wasn’t so much desire as need. The secret she was keeping from Cy was weighing on her. Was she just imagining that Cy seemed to cling to her? Was she just on edge out of her own guilt or was he more needy lately? This tension only heightened the intensity of their lovemaking. They dabbled in the sexual delights of the Kama-sutra, as well as Japanese erotica, and yet both wanted more. How much farther could they go?

  * * *

  Saturday afternoon Thyme couldn’t wait for Khan to come over for the Derby event. Thyme had been jittery, distracted by the pending lawsuit and wrestling with whether to confide in Cy. Could she trust him to stay by her side even if he disagreed? Even if it put his own job in jeopardy? She wasn’t ready to risk it.

  The Cirrus Boat Company had just delivered the open-air boat, and Cy was in the midst of planning how to get the pontoon into the water.

  The weather was perfect. It had been topping seventy degrees all week. The wind was mild and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Thyme arranged the lawn furniture on the lower level and put out the chess game and cards—their afternoon activities. Since the Derby only lasted a few minutes, they would have the rest of the day to fill.

  Just then, Khan arrived, kissing Cy on the cheek and handing him a bottle of Chivas Regal. “I figured you could never have enough scotch in the house.”

  “Hey, girl,” Thyme said, hugging Khan. “You look good in those shorts. You two chat while I cut up some veggies.”

  “How’
s your hand, Khan?” Cy asked.

  Thyme hoped Cy wouldn’t bring up the subject of Khan’s love life. Cy had always loved to tease Khan about her sexual exploits with men, especially her voracious appetite for R.C. Like Thyme, Cy had never met the infamous R.C.: he’d just heard the stories.

  As Khan flexed her fingers back and forth, she said, “I can still feel a slight tingling in my hand when it gets tired. Unfortunately, this is the hand I use for more personal matters.” She winked at Cy. “But enough about me, Cy. Tell me about your new boat . . . I mean pontoon.”

  Thyme smiled as she brought the tray down the steps. “Don’t get him started, Khan. He won’t shut up talking about his latest toy.”

  “It’s an Eight-twenty-four Special Edition and floats smoother than the flight of a dream.”

  Surprisingly, Thyme thought, Khan seemed genuinely interested in Cy’s explanation of the seats, tables, and cooler that outfitted the pontoon.

  “Okay already. What I want to know is, when do I get my turn to drive this sucker?”

  “Right about now,” Cy said, slipping on his boat shoes and handing Khan a pair. “Let’s grab some music.”

  “What you got? I don’t go for none of that Spice Girls bullshit.”

  “I’m way ahead of you, Khan.” Cy selected some music from the entertainment unit. “Which do you prefer: Lil’ Kim, Solo, Ginuwine, or Erykah Badu?”

  “All of ’em. But let’s start with some Badu.”

  Cy turned to his wife. “Coming, honey?”

  “I’ll pass. I’ve got to check on the Jell-O. I think it’s about ready for the fruit cocktail. Remember, we only have an hour before the race begins.”

  When Cy and Khan returned, Thyme had just turned on the television set and was sipping a glass of Chardonnay. She fixed Cy a shot of Chivas and poured Khan a glass of pink grapefruit Crystal Light.

  The broadcasters were introducing some of the Derby’s past winners, and Thyme felt excited as clips from last year’s race dashed across the big screen.

  The horses were at the starting gate.

  Cy, Thyme, and Khan had each picked their favorite and placed a five-dollar bet among them.

  Boom. They were off.

  The camera zeroed in on the strong front runner, named Livewire.

  “I should have bet on him,” Cy exclaimed.

  “It’s a she,” Khan spoke up.

  “How do you know?” Cy asked.

  “I just know,” Khan said quietly.

  Thyme looked at her and realized that Livewire must be R.C.’s horse. Khan looked miserable.

  Less than five minutes later the race was over. Livewire was the winner. All three of them had lost.

  As the camera zoomed in on the winner’s circle, Khan sighed audibly. “Oh, God.”

  “Damn, who’s she?” Cy asked. “She’s gorgeous.”

  Khan began to collect their plates and glasses. Thyme looked at the television screen and saw a beautiful woman dressed all in black with a peach rose attached to her bosom. A large hat covered the side of her face, but her beauty was unmistakable.

  “What?” Cy said as he half turned from the set and looked at Khan.

  The two women said nothing as they looked each other in the eye. Then the owners’ names flashed across the screen: MR. AND MRS. R.C. RICHARDSON OF PARIS, KENTUCKY.

  R.C. Richardson and Tomiko stood with their jockey next to their horse, accepting the wreath of roses in the winner’s circle.

  “Khan, are you okay?” Thyme asked her friend.

  “Yeah. But there must be a huge mistake. Weak studs finish last, not first,” she said bitterly.

  7

  __________

  “Settle down, ladies, settle down,” Khan said from her seat in the midsection of the Bel-Aire Theater. The Revenge of Cleopatra Jones, starring Tamara Dobson, had just ended, and the women had been screaming and hollering throughout the two-hour movie. Damn, there are some ghetto folks up here, Khan said to herself, shaking her head.

  It was a typical Tuesday movie night out, Khan’s weekly treat to herself, and she’d never before thought about asking for her money back. But tonight she could barely enjoy the picture for the noise.

  As the audience filed out of the theater, Khan followed slowly. Like a trained hound dog sniffing out the perpetrator’s scent, Khan spotted R.C. a few feet ahead of her. It had been a few weeks since she’d seen him on TV at the Kentucky Derby.

  At that moment, R.C. turned, and when he did Khan felt herself melt like a mother at the sight of her baby’s first tears. He wore a powder blue Nike jogging suit, a color that Khan had always loved on him. He’d never looked so handsome. Oh God, how she missed him.

  “R.C.?” she whispered under her breath.

  R.C. narrowed his eyes at Khan and turned away quickly, disappearing into the crowd.

  “She should have fucked that motherfucker’s brains out,” a woman said a few steps behind Khan, referring to the movie.

  Khan sniffed back tears. “Damn right, girlfriend.” Khan’s eyes were glued to the spot where she’d last seen R.C. “He deserved to die.”

  Walking with the crowd, she exited and felt the cool night air kiss the tears on her cheeks good-bye.

  Minutes later, she slipped inside her cranberry-colored Phoenix sports car and started the ignition. In the parking space beside her was a face she didn’t recognize.

  The man with dreadlocks had pearl-white teeth that sparkled spectacularly in the darkness.

  She turned her head and turned up her nose. Freaky bastard!

  His dreadlocks rested on his shoulders. Khan hated them. To her, dreads looked hideous. Being black didn’t mean being ignorant. She couldn’t understand why it was necessary to show America that blacks were from Africa when ninety-nine percent of the black community had never even been there. It didn’t make sense.

  As she started up the ignition, she yawned. This is one damn night I wish I had gone to bed instead of going to the movies. The image of R.C.’s cold face burned hotly in her chest.

  Once home, she considered calling her Mama Pearl, but realized it was too late. Her next thought was calling Thyme, but she shrugged that off, not wanting to invade her friend’s privacy. Her final thought was to call her Uncle Ron. No, she figured, he and Aunt Ida could be getting it on just like Thyme and Cy.

  She needed to be consoled by the wisdom of those older. To them, her troubles were probably trivial. She could hear them preaching:

  “Wait till you’re married. . . .”

  “You think you got problems. Wait till you have a husband. And children . . .”

  Which was exactly what she wanted: a husband. A family. Children.

  Why had R.C. ignored her?

  Without thinking, she went straight to the phone. He must have been expecting her call, because he answered on the first ring.

  “R.C. It’s me.”

  “I figured you’d call.”

  “You could have called me. I deserve at least that.”

  “I thought it would be better this way.”

  Khan wanted to scream “You cowardly son of a bitch!” Instead she said, “Hey, maybe you’re right. I’ve met someone my own age and my Mama Pearl is pleased as plum pudding. You know how old-fashioned she is.”

  It wasn’t entirely a lie, she thought. Julian Anderson, a computer analyst at Champion, had been bugging her to go on a date for months.

  “Yeah.”

  “Whew.” Khan wiped the lying sweat off her forehead. “So how’s your health?” Has your new wife been able to convince you to use lotion on your ashy ass yet?

  “Cut the shit. I’ve got it coming. Go ahead, cuss me out.”

  I guess not. You’re still ornery as hell.

  Her voice was low, cunning. “Why?” She took a deep breath. “I thought we were going to get married. Why would you have given me the ring?” She heard him stutter.

  Khan continued, “Well I’ve been thinking that we’re better off friends than love
rs. So, R.C., now I’m your friend. And I know you’re still my friend.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Don’t trouble yourself worrying about me. As I said, I’ve found someone too.”

  “Khan.”

  “No.” She tried to keep her voice even, gulping back tears. “I think it’s better this way. We weren’t meant for each other anyway. . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Baby—”

  You son of a bitch. How dare you call me baby when you’ve got a wife? Does she wear colorful kimonos to bed? Is that what turns you on? She took another deep breath. “I wish you and your wife all the happiness that you deserve.” You both deserve a six-day-old case of the clap.

  “Please let me explain—I had to marry her. It’s an arranged marriage to get her out of Japan. She had to leave the country. I’m just helping her out—”

  Khan didn’t let him finish. “Stop, R.C. I don’t want to hear it.” She knew he was lying. The truth was that R.C. had gotten a smell of some young Oriental pussy and he wouldn’t let go till Gabriel blew his horn. “I’ve got to go,” she said casually. “Bye, R.C.”

  Click.

  Speaking of horn, I’m going to get some motherfucker to blow mine.

  Rushing to the bathroom, she washed her face with ice-cold water. “You’re okay, girl. You’re just fine. Don’t let that bastard get his rocks off on your pain.” She splashed more water on her face. “Okay. Okay. You’re okay now.”

  Lifting her face, she looked into the mirror. Even though her face was coated with water, she could still feel the tears.

  Khan leaned her head back, raking her fingers through her two-inch haircut. Her roots were a half-inch long. “Bitch. What you need is color.” Bending down, she reached beneath the sink cabinet and sifted through the piles of junk for a box of L’Oreal hair coloring.

  Mixing the white developer with the nearly clear coloring until it thickened, she stood before the mirror and said to herself, “Okay girl, you’re ’bout to be a pretty bitch tonight. And you too, missy,” Khan said, patting her crotch. “Fuck R.C. and his young bitch. You can do without him. He’s doing just fine without you. Somebody gonna tell you that you fine. That you all that she is and more.” I can’t help it if the stupid bastard didn’t know I was the best damn woman he would ever have.