“Sugar, we ain’t spent no time together since Easter and that was over a month ago.”
“I’ll do what I can,” she mumbled, then screeched out of the driveway. Their two sons were in their third and fourth years at Columbia University. She and Omar had worked hard for the last twenty years to save enough money for their children to go to a top college. But ever since they’d moved away, Luella no longer felt the need to keep up the pretense of being the good wife. She wanted her boys to finish school so she could retire early and have some real fun. But now she had to go to work and fight for more overtime—after all, Columbia was expensive.
When Luella arrived at work, she was disappointed to find that Valentino had been transferred out of their unit for the day. With no one to distract her, Luella finished her ten hours of production by eleven o’clock.
Just as she was leaving, dreading going home to her husband, Allister offered her two more hours of overtime, which she readily accepted. An hour later, she cruised by the new job postings listed on the bulletin board. Although she hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, Luella had bid on a job for a receiving inspector in Quality Control, which would take her out of production altogether. The position paid $1.10 more an hour and there were fewer people to fight with about overtime.
After checking in the front office on the status of her application, she stopped back by Khan’s machine. It was a quarter after twelve and the noon news was on.
“Pull up a seat, Luella. There’s a story on about Oprah’s new movie, Beloved.”
As they listened to the female anchor reel off all of Oprah’s accomplishments, Luella squirmed with envy. Luella popped another Dexatrim, chasing it with sixteen ounces of water. She didn’t realize that Khan was watching her.
“Is that a diet pill, Luella?”
If I didn’t like you, I’d cuss your Barbie-looking little ass out. What the hell you think it is? “No. Vitamins.” She felt her stomach bubbling and thanked God that she would soon be excreting the fig bar she’d so foolishly eaten earlier. The sound of applause from the television brought her attention back to Oprah. Luella rolled her eyes at the slim television sensation as she began to describe her new movie.
“I remember back when they were calling her Okra.”
“Stop, Luella. You know you ain’t right,” Khan chastised.
“Hell, I’m tired of them talking about that bitch like she’s the greatest thing since Johnny Carson. I remember when she wore a three-x. So now Okra’s skinny and wearing designer clothes ’cause they don’t come in alphabet sizes,” Luella huffed.
Khan turned off the TV and said to Luella, “Hey, what you doing for Memorial Day weekend? Will your boys be driving home or are they catching a plane?”
“They can’t,” Luella said sadly. Perhaps that’s why she was in such an ornery mood today. She missed her sons.
“You know how much I love to look at pictures, Luella. I ain’t seen them babies’ photos since they graduated from high school.”
Luella blushed. “They ain’t babies, child.” But Luella couldn’t resist showing them off. Khan and Luella both knew good and well that Khan had seen pictures of them at her sister’s wedding last year and had commented on how handsome they were. It was Khan’s love of family that had tied the bond of their working friendship from the very beginning.
“My, my, these are some sexy-looking dudes. Are they both still making the dean’s list?”
“Yep. Cole’s a four-point-o, majoring in pre-law, and Reese is holding steady at three-point-seven in archaeology. They both have real good jobs this summer in New York City.” Luella looked at the photos of her sons. “I don’t know how I ended up with such brilliant children.” At least Omar was good for something.
Just as she was about to insert the photos back into her wallet, two more pictures fell out. Khan grabbed the one closest to her foot.
“Luella, what you been hiding this fine-ass man for? I ain’t never even heard you talk about him. You think some of these women gonna steal him?”
Luella quickly took the picture from Khan. “Who, Omar? Not really.”
“His name is Omar? He don’t look like an Omar. Mmm, girl . . . and I thought Valentino was handsome—Omar’s a fox.”
“Granted, he’s good-looking, but he can’t fuck worth a damn. Got an itty-bitty dick. His tongue is longer than his shit is. That’s how I ended up with his sorry ass. As usual, I was the last one in high school to find out.”
“You lying, Luella. Even so, you still got a husband. Shit, I wish I had one, especially one this damn pretty. I think I’d get an orgasm just lying in bed beside him.”
“I’ve tried everything. Nothing’s worked. He ain’t satisfied me in years, but he don’t know it. You think he’s pretty. A lot of women do. But nobody knows that I have to get out the Pine Sol after his stinking ass leaves the bathroom. Nobody knows that I have to put Spray ’n Wash in his drawers before I wash them.” Luella paused, turning up her lips in a mock smile. “And when he wakes up in the morning with crust all around his mouth and his breath smells worse than dog shit . . . girl . . . he ain’t pretty all the time.”
9
__________
The iridescent bronze patent-leather pumps Thyme wore hurt her feet. They were brand spanking new, along with the silk and linen cream silk suit she wore. Last week, in preparation for Thyme’s meeting today with Champion’s division managers (the group who mandated all production decisions that affected Champion’s various plants), Cy had taken Thyme shopping. Thyme loved it when her husband picked clothes for her; it was the one indulgence he never refused. He had selected the empire-waist three-quarter-length jacket with matching skirt at Sherri’s in Bloomfield and had even chosen the bronze and cream print scarf, which she had casually draped around the jewel-necked collar. A Mikimoto Cherry Blossom gold brooch held the scarf in place.
At this moment, the confidence she wore on her face was more important than the clothes on her back. Thyme felt certain no one could tell she was nervous when she stepped inside Champion Motors’ new headquarters. She felt a trickle of sweat slip down between her breasts as she clutched her briefcase and pressed the elevator button.
Since Troy Trim had lost the bid for Allied Vespa’s new business, Thyme had put together a proposal to address production issues. In the meantime, Thyme was told that three of the car lines sewed on the afternoon shift would be leaving Troy Trim; one of Champion’s other facilities would be assuming those jobs. She received no explanation as to why, nor did any new business come into Troy Trim to replace the loss. Without wasting any time, Thyme decided to be proactive and develop a proposal that would anticipate any more cutbacks at Troy Trim.
She had discussed her proposal with Cy, and he felt that she’d done an excellent job figuring out how both to increase production and cut costs—without eliminating jobs. Discussing her proposal with Cy had made Thyme feel closer to him than she had in weeks. She still had not summoned the courage to tell him about the lawsuit, hoping that she might not have to; if the managers supported her proposal, they would surely give her a promotion.
Her meeting was on the fourteenth floor—the same as Cy’s office. Of course, as one of the division managers of Trim, Cy would be at the meeting.
“Hello,” Cy’s new secretary said. “And you’re here to see . . . ?” she asked, while offering Thyme a seat with an outstretched hand on the beige leather sofa.
“I’m Mrs. Tyler. Mr. Tyler’s wife.” She put a heavy accent on the “wife.” “I’m sure he’s expecting me.”
Thyme watched the woman’s attitude change as she turned red and paged Cy. “Of course.”
You look surprised to see me. And of course you couldn’t tell by the tone of my voice that I was black. At least I’ve solved one mystery today. She’s about as attractive as an anteater.
Three minutes later Cy was standing in front of Thyme. They hugged and Thyme felt temporarily soothed.
“Good morning. You look
beautiful, Thyme,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “Are you ready? Everyone’s waiting.”
“Wait, honey.” Sitting her briefcase on the floor, she faced her husband and straightened his striped tie. “There. Now it’s perfect.” She raised her eyes slowly toward the secretary, who was watching them out of the corner of her eye but trying her best to be discreet. “Show me the way.”
Once in the conference room, Cy gestured toward a chair across the table from him. Eleven other division managers were gathered around the burled wood table. There was only one other woman in the room: Mrs. Candice-Marie Avery, the fourth wife of the financier Allen Jeremy, whose firm, Nelson, Avery, and Goldberg, owned Fairlane Town Center as well as several other multimillion-dollar businesses in Dearborn. Thyme knew that Mrs. Avery had been a division manager when she married her husband, and, to everyone’s surprise, continued working. Rumor had it that her prenuptial agreement kept her from Allen’s millions. Now she sat beside her husband on Champion’s board of directors.
Introductions were made, and then it was Thyme’s turn to make her pitch. “As you know, Champion Trim is seeking new business—”
“What happened to the Pughmont Corporation that toured Troy Trim last month?” Candice-Marie cut in.
“It was Allied Vespa, not Pughmont. Unfortunately, we were outbid by General Motors.” Thyme looked at Cy, whose face was expressionless. She was certain that everyone in the room knew what had happened with Allied, so why was Candice-Marie asking? Thyme continued without pausing. “We’re running full on one shift, and half on the second. Several of the luxury units are piggybacked, but we have room for at least four more car lines.”
Looking at the stoic faces around her, Thyme suddenly realized that everyone in this room, including her husband, knew why the jobs had been taken away from Troy Trim, but clearly they weren’t going to tell her what was going on.
“This is what I suggest,” she said, keeping her voice steady as she handed each of them a copy of her proposal to sew headrest covers in Troy Trim. Thyme went on to explain the ideas that she planned to bring more business into the plant. The proposal included information on the cost of raw materials and the product they could produce for other facilities.
“How exactly can you secure new business?” one manager asked.
Without waiting for her response, another manager asked, “How do you plan on staying competitive?”
No sooner had she started to answer that question, another question flew at her. She was being railroaded. A sudden sense of betrayal came over her. Something made her keep her eyes away from Cy’s.
“Can your plant handle that much new business and still keep the same level of quality and maintain our Q-one rating?”
“I’m trying to do the job you pay me for, gentlemen. Run a profitable plant and produce a quality product.” She ignored Candice-Marie, who wouldn’t even look her in the face when she spoke to her. “Bringing in new business at Troy Trim is first and foremost.”
Cy hadn’t spoken a word since the meeting began. He hadn’t asked a single question or commented on her proposal. What was going on? She wrapped up her proposal and summarized her ideas. As she shook hands with everyone and thanked them for their time, she fought back tears. Glancing over her shoulder, she caught Cy huddled with his boss, John Sandler. He didn’t make a move toward her.
Why hadn’t he stuck up for her? They’d talked about her proposal several times at home and he’d agreed with her ideas. Why not now? Why not here?
Thyme walked out of the meeting without showing the least bit of tension. As she got on the elevator, she had a broad smile pasted on her face for everyone to see, including Cy.
Once in her car, she began to drive, going nowhere in particular, radio tuned to 97.9 WJLB. She found herself cruising around Palmer Park, still trying to unwind. What had happened in there? Why hadn’t Cy warned her about how the board would react? What was going on?
Was he keeping something from her? Why wouldn’t he have hinted at the board’s position if it was so steadfastly against developing any new business at Troy Trim? Why would he purposely set her up to fail?
For the rest of the afternoon, Thyme drove around Detroit. She and Cy had made plans to go to an elegant dinner in Bloomfield that evening at Giovanni’s Supper Club. Thyme went to get a manicure and then a pedicure—anything but go home and confront Cy.
In part to lift her spirits, in part to shock Cy, Thyme dressed that evening in a body-plunging black evening gown, which highlighted the deep curves of her body while starkly underlining the nakedness of her skin. She’d never had the nerve to wear the dress before.
Giovanni’s was filled to capacity. There was a slight traffic jam at the front desk where other expensively dressed patrons hoped for a table. Cy and Thyme were seated beneath a beautiful Impressionist painting by Joaquin Mir Trinxet. Several other paintings, including works by John Singer Sargeant, Max Liebermann, and Mary Cassatt, added drama to the high-ceilinged room. But not as much drama, Thyme ascertained, as the glances she was receiving from some of the men in the room. Throughout the evening Cy pretended not to notice, while Thyme enjoyed the fine wine and rich food.
“I made a call to Hasbro today. They’re sending me some additional information on my G.I. Joe pricing lists. I have big plans that one day my collection will be worth hundreds of thousands.”
Thyme looked up at him for a moment, paused, and grunted, “Uh-huh.”
“Yeah, sweetie, the more I get involved with this G.I. Joe stuff the more impressed I am from a financial standpoint.”
With today’s events still fresh in her mind, Thyme didn’t want to listen to her husband’s pleasantries. Instead, she found herself admiring the cute shoes the little girl across the room had on. She could tell the child was well mannered by the one tiny hand that rested in her lap while she ate.
“What do you think about those vintage comic books I just purchased?” Cy asked.
“I’m sorry, Cy. What did you say?”
Cy and Thyme spent the remainder of the evening discussing safe subjects: their pontoon, the landscaping in their backyard. Even the neighbor’s new dog seemed to be a delightful topic for Cy.
The next day, as Cy was getting ready to leave for his bowling tournament in Reno, Nevada, Thyme backed out of accompanying him on the trip at the last minute. She just wasn’t up for it. She was sick to death of their faux politeness with each other. She was ready to argue. Dammit, she wanted to scream at Cy. Hell, she wanted to slap the shit out of him.
The moment Cy left for his trip, Thyme picked up the phone and called Khan. Before Thyme could speak a word, Khan broke in with her own problems. “I’m sick of this shit. It’s on every television station, the main topic of conversation over the radio.”
“The strikes?” After the strike at Chrysler, the union had ordered strikes at several more Chrysler plants around Detroit. The pressure between the hourly workers and the company chiefs was building.
“Yes, and now more violence.” The violence at the various auto plants had become a regular feature of plant life ever since January, when a worker at Ford shot his wife, her lover, and then killed himself after a heated argument. Then on a Sunday in March, a skilled tradesman killed a security guard, then himself, because the guard had been harassing the tradesman’s daughter. Next, a thirty-year-old female employee shot and killed her nineteen-year-old lover after he threatened to end the affair.
Nearly every day for the past two months, the headlines had read: SHOOTING AT CHRYSLER. SHOOTING AT FORD. TWO DEAD AT GENERAL MOTORS. How long until there’d be shooting at Champion too?
What was even more alarming to Thyme was that all the crimes occurred during overtime hours. It was becoming more and more clear that as the workers sought the increasingly elusive overtime, the increased tension between them led to violence. There was an unmistakable pattern. And the fact that the violence went unchecked meant that none of the plants provided enough security and the c
orporate hierarchy refused to respond to the situation. It was as if the corporate offices encouraged tension among its hourly employees.
“It’ll be over soon,” Thyme said to Khan, not quite believing herself. Three days earlier, eighty-eight hundred Menzi Packard electrical system workers who made wiring harnesses for virtually all Champion cars and trucks built in North America walked off their jobs. The labor relations between company and union continued to worsen. A strike by Local 2207 of the International Union of Electrical Workers in Lorain, Ohio, could shut down all Champion assembly plants in the United States, Canada, and Mexico.
The walkouts came as a strike occurred by six-thousand United Auto Workers at Champion’s pickup and truck plant in Wayne, and as the forty-two hundred workers in Lawton, Oklahoma, entered their third week on the picket line.
“That’s not what Ron says. He says the UAW has to strike or we’ll lose everything,” Khan said nervously.
Thyme’s retort was swift. “Someone always has to make that sacrifice for others to reap the benefits.”
“Girl, you sound like one of us,” Khan commented.
Thyme wondered again whose side she should be on—white collar or blue collar. What did it all mean anymore?
Thyme said good-bye to her friend, promising to check in with her over the weekend. It was early June and still not too hot to lie outside. All Thyme wanted to do for the next two days was lounge on her back patio and finish the novel she was reading. Without Cy around, she might even be able to get some rest.
* * *
Monday morning came all too quickly. It was only eleven and already Thyme had a raging headache. She gulped two Excedrins and hoped her headache would retreat. Today she wore a knee-length silk chiffon dress, the upper half teal, and the lower a bright orange, with variations of gold dots imprinted all over it. Sometimes wearing brightly colored outfits helped lift her spirits.
Blue Collar Blues Page 11