Blue Collar Blues

by Rosalyn McMillan

  Cy shuddered and released the fluid that expressed his pent-up passion.

  In the dark, Graciella smiled and said, “Now, my darling, I will make love to you tonight in such a way that you have never experienced before . . . not even with me.”

  What had happened to his promise?

  11

  __________

  As slowly as shadows creep at the setting of the sun, weeks passed in the Richardsons’ household. It was now mid-June, and in some ways Tomiko felt more adjusted to Detroit. R.C. had finally taught her how to drive, so she wasn’t as dependent on Herman and Bonnie to do everything for her.

  With Magic Markers, R.C. highlighted the best shopping centers, the supermarkets and hairdressers, on her map. She practiced daily, and before long she knew exactly where to go and how to get there. R.C. was proud of her for insisting on her independence.

  And he’d also come through on her working papers. She hadn’t yet received her so-called green card, but she had been doing some commercials for R.C.’s dealerships. She liked the work, but she was more worried about her marriage. There was something seriously wrong and Tomiko didn’t know what to do.

  Tomiko felt out of sync.

  R.C. had been spending more and more time out of the house. He talked nonstop about his horses, especially Livewire, who had not placed in the Preakness. Most weekends Tomiko didn’t even see R.C., and sometimes he wouldn’t come home until the wee hours of the morning, when she’d already gone to bed.

  Tomiko had only Bonnie to brighten her weekends. Yesterday had been a perfect Saturday in June. The sun sparkled like the color of burnished brass, and Bonnie suggested that she and Tomiko go shopping. They dressed in their most colorful outfits and went to all the best stores. Bonnie even took Tomiko to Birmingham’s Bishop & Company, style and wardrobe consultants. When Tomiko noticed that the proprietor’s name was Sydney Bishop, she raised an inquisitive brow.

  “Bonnie, isn’t she the one who stars in the Champion commercials?” Sydney had just walked into the store, and immediately the workers scrambled to greet her.

  “Sure is.” Bonnie turned, browsing through a rack of silk dresses that were similar to the ones that Tomiko owned. “Pretty smart lady, that one is. She also owns a chain of Champion dealerships.”

  “Oh, so that’s why R.C. is so interested in her. She’s his main competition.” How interesting, Tomiko thought.

  This morning, Tomiko couldn’t budge from bed. R.C. hadn’t even come home last night. They were making love less and less often. Now he was shutting her out again. Things were so strained between them that Tomiko was beginning to wonder if he was seeing another woman. Worried, Tomiko talked with Bonnie, who assured her he’d come around.

  Tomiko couldn’t reach R.C. He talked about the Derby race day in and day out. He ran the tapes over and over. It was an obsession, the kind of obsession that Tomiko wanted to be for him. Though she had no idea how much he had won or lost gambling on the thoroughbreds, she knew their marriage deserved more of a shot.

  Dawn’s shell-pink fingers reached through the tightly closed blinds, unlatching a new day. Tomiko turned over, then stretched her long body. Turning her head to her right, she noticed that the pillow beside her bore no sign of use. It was the third time he’d done it. What was going on?

  The sound of birds chirping merrily outside her window gave her the motivation to leave the bed. Looking in the mirror as she brushed her teeth, she stopped in midstroke. After washing her face, she went into the kitchen and scavenged the cabinets. She found what she was looking for and put on a kettle of water.

  Everyone kept telling her how young she was, she thought, as she placed chamomile tea bags over her puffy eyes, but she wasn’t stupid. Lately, she looked like shit. She couldn’t help but wonder if her husband was avoiding her because he was having a problem performing sexually.

  Tomiko spent most of Sunday cooking a special dinner for R.C., waiting for him to come home. At around two in the afternoon, he sauntered into the house without so much as a word of explanation. He looked terrible. His shirt was unbuttoned, his pants unzipped, and his eyes were bloodshot. He went downstairs to his private study and Tomiko didn’t see him for the rest of the afternoon.

  After they ate her elaborate dinner quickly and in silence, the phone rang. R.C. picked it up and Tomiko heard him laugh as he’d never laughed with her.

  Trying to keep herself busy, she flipped through the newspaper to the movie section. She loved American movies. By watching movies, she could learn more about Americans in two hours than she could reading a four-hundred-page textbook. Bonnie’s advice to rent ethnic movies had turned out to be a fantastic way to learn about African American culture.

  Later, she heard the hearty sound of his laughter, and assumed he was still using the phone. She quietly picked up the extension and listened. But the only gossip she gleaned was a dial tone.

  “Dammit, Bonnie!” he shouted. “Where’s my whiskey?”

  “Let me fix it for you, R.C.” Tomiko ran to the head of the steps.

  “Never mind. Bonnie’ll get it.” The tone in R.C.’s voice sent chills down her spine.

  Tomiko couldn’t bear any more. “I’m going to bed. I’ll see you in the morning. Good night, R.C., Bonnie.”

  Tomiko was in a deep sleep when the phone awakened her. The voice mail answered before she could.

  Sensing that something was wrong, Tomiko got out of bed to check the voice mail.

  “This is Sergeant Peters at the Seventeenth Precinct in Detroit,” the message said. “We have Mr. R.C. Richardson in our custody.” She could hear him clearing his throat. “R.C.’s been charged with a misdemeanor and is unable to make this call himself. I suggest you contact his attorney.” Tomiko had no idea who R.C.’s attorney was. She knocked loudly on Bonnie’s door, waking her. Sleepy but calm, Bonnie located the number for R.C.’s attorney.

  “Tomiko, I think we should wait until at least seven A.M. to call.”

  “Okay, okay,” Tomiko said nervously.

  When the clock struck seven Bonnie dialed the home of Mr. Bellows. No answer. They waited another hour and called Mr. Bellows’s office. Bonnie spoke for Tomiko. It took a few minutes before they were referred to the cell phone of his personal secretary, then his voice mail, then back to his secretary again.

  “This is very important,” Bonnie screamed into the receiver. “Mr. R.C. Richardson, one of Mr. Bellows’s biggest clients, is in jail in Detroit. I would appreciate it if you had a forwarding number.”

  Bonnie rolled her eyes. “Mr. Bellows is out of state until Wednesday,” she repeated to Tomiko. “She wants to take a message.”

  “Can she connect us with Mr. Bellows’s associate?” Tomiko asked.

  When they finally reached Mr. Bellows out of town, he assured Tomiko that he would have R.C. released that morning.

  Exhausted, Tomiko went back to her bedroom. She took a seat on the sofa. A new movie had just begun: Indochine. The countryside reminded her of home, and it made her so sad she began to cry. Before the movie ended she dialed her parents.

  “Hi, Dad. Did I wake you?” It was 10:00 A.M. here, the middle of the night in Japan.

  “It’s okay, Tomiko,” Mr. Sugimoto said, his voice thick with sleep. “You know we love hearing from you. Anytime.”

  “How’s Mom and the rest of the family?” When he said everyone was asleep, she asked, “How are things over there?”

  “The economy is suffering here, Tomiko. We’re all a little nervous.”

  “Are you in trouble, Dad?”

  “Oh, we’ll be fine. The commercial horse business is on its way back up. If things continue this way, we may turn a profit this year. How are you?”

  Tomiko wanted desperately to tell her parents of her trouble, but she was afraid her mother would only give her a critical “I told you so.” So she didn’t say anything.

  “I love it here.” She forced herself to sound cheery. “Wait until you see the lovely pict
ures of our home in Michigan and the ranch in Kentucky.” She felt like a hypocrite, lying to her parents. Fighting back tears, she ended with “I love you, too. I’m so happy.”

  When she hung up, she turned to view herself in the mirror. Her skin was blotchy in spots. The exotic eyes that she hoped would win her a career were red rimmed. She looked terrible. She remembered that her mother had always told her how important it was to keep your husband happy. But the traditions she’d been taught in Japan didn’t work for her in America.

  Hurrying to the bathroom, she splashed her face with cold water until she felt her skin tingle with pain. Once again she looked in the mirror.

  You will not embarrass your parents. You will not judge your husband. It is not your place.

  Close to five o’clock that day, R.C. was released from jail. His clothes were wrinkled and dirty, and his breath smelled like white lightning whiskey. His little Afro looked like it was in the beginning stages of growing dreadlocks. In short, R.C. looked like an old man. Tomiko tried not to be repulsed. She had never seen him like this before. He looked not only old, he looked beaten.

  He had been incarcerated for gambling at Blind Pig, an illegal joint. R.C. never discussed his arrest, and Tomiko knew that meant it could happen again.

  Two days later, R.C. was still acting as if nothing had happened. Yet she knew R.C. felt guilty when he presented her with a brand-new bright red Algeron convertible. It wasn’t what she would have selected. It was so flashy she felt self-conscious driving it.

  12

  __________

  “Twenty dollars!” Khan said scathingly. “Shit. How come so much, Melanie?” She opened her wallet and handed Melanie her last juice . . . a lonely Andrew Jackson. “You know no one has any extra money these days. For God’s sake, we may be the next strike target!”

  “We’re planning a big retirement party for Huey,” Melanie explained as she handed her the card to sign and added, “We want to give him an all-expense-paid trip to Egypt.”

  Khan wanted to say, “Hell, I’d like one of those vacations my damn self.” Instead she said, “That’s so sweet.”

  Melanie held an old bobbin box taped on the sides with a small slit cut on top. Huey’s name was written all over the box in bold black marker. “We’re asking everybody for twenty dollars instead of the usual five, otherwise we won’t have enough money for everything we planned.”

  Khan didn’t hear Julian Anderson come up behind them. “Hey, Khan, Melanie. What’s up?”

  At least once a month, Julian asked Khan out on a date, and she kept putting him off. Momentarily, Khan thought back to the lie she’d told R.C. about being romantically involved with Julian.

  Melanie spoke up. “Do you know Huey Spear?”

  “The gentlemen who’s worked over forty years in the carpenter shop and who is always, and I mean always, smiling? Who doesn’t know him?”

  “Then get your money out.”

  After Melanie left, Julian started in on his spiel. “I came to ask you if you’d like to go to Second City Saturday night. Solo is supposed to be appearing on stage to sing some songs from their new album.”

  Khan thought for a minute. She studied him up and down in a matter of seconds. He was no Billy Dee Williams, that was for sure. But the brother was good-looking, dressed exceptionally well, and obviously had cachet. But for some reason, he turned her off. Maybe it was the large gold tooth always shining at her when he spoke. Shit, he didn’t ask me to marry him, and Lord knows I could use a change of scenery. Hell, she could use a real date right about now. And a quick fuck wouldn’t hurt either. Still . . . “What time?”

  Just as he was about to speak all hell broke loose behind them. Luella and Valentino were inches apart and the spit was flying.

  “Excuse me, I’ve really got to go,” Khan said to Julian, then scribbled her number on a piece of paper. “Call me later?”

  Luella, with one hand on her purse as though reaching for a weapon, was all up in Valentino’s face. Valentino had a fist balled up and was pointing a finger in her face.

  Oh hell, let me stop these fools before someone gets hurt.

  “Look guys, this shit ain’t funny.” Khan clamped her hands on her hips and leaned her small body in between Valentino and Luella. She was getting fed up with refereeing their constant bickering. All they ever did was argue about who got overtime. Didn’t anyone enjoy going home to see their family every once in a while?

  It’s too damn hot to be fighting, Khan thought.

  Two weeks earlier, Luella had been returned to Khan’s sewing unit, and every day since, Valentino and Luella had been at it like Popeye and Bluto.

  At first, Khan had welcomed her back. But now she had to admit that, even though it took her longer to finish, she had been less stressed out working with her other sewing partner. And here was Luella now, proving Khan right. Luella loved drama.

  The three of them were two machines back from the front of the unit. Luella was always teasing Valentino, with her forty-four-D breasts bouncing off him like beach balls, watching his penis rise as she did it.

  It was Friday afternoon and their foreman, Allister, who also ran the knitting operation, had gone home before lunch with a stomachache. He had left specific instructions as to who was to work the two hours of overtime in the unit today, as well as the ten hours Saturday on the knitting machine. The hourly workers worked at different stages to inspect the raw yarn that was weaved into the knitted vinyl. Most of this product was sold to other businesses for stadium seats, lawn furniture, and boat seats. It was in such high demand that Champion needed workers to do overtime on Saturdays and usually Sundays.

  “Luella, are you on your period? Or do you just need a good fucking?”

  Luella rolled her eyes at Khan, her huge chest heaving up and down. She didn’t respond.

  “Tino, are you on yours?” Khan looked at him as if she weren’t kidding. He didn’t answer. “Fine. Since ain’t none of y’all on the rag, forgive me for saying that I’m on mine, and I’m in an ornery damn mood. Don’t get me in the middle of this shit today.”

  “We don’t need you.” Luella began pulling her hair back into a rough-looking ponytail. “I told you before, blondie—stay out of this. ’Cause somebody’s going to get hurt up here.”

  “And I told you to stay out of my business, Luella.” Valentino pointed his cocked finger in front of her heart and let it rest a hair’s breadth away. “You got a problem with my overtime, take it up with the boss.”

  Khan could smell the smoky scent of Luella’s Eternity cologne rising from her breasts like steam. “Look, guys—”

  With her arm curved like a shovel, Luella pummeled Khan back out of the way. “I’m not going to tell you again, Khan—”

  Khan saw the anger on Tino’s face before he spoke. “You keep your hands off of her.” Tino yanked Khan toward him. “I don’t want to have to hurt you, girl. I don’t fight women. But you keep this shit up, and I might change my mind and put my foot up your ass.”

  Half the unit had left, but the people who were still around were now sitting on top of their sewing machines watching the argument. Khan yelled, “Brother, sister, hold on for a minute!”

  “I’m warning you, bring your sorry butt two inches farther this way, and I’ll show you how Luella can kick some ass.” Luella was standing in a fighting position, her weight on the balls of her feet.

  “Luella! Tino! Y’all know better than this shit. Let’s try to resolve this without violence. Do y’all want to get fired for fighting?” Khan implored.

  Neither said a word. But Khan could see that both were contemplating her words. Company policy stated that employees were automatically fired for fighting. Usually the union could get their jobs back, but the company made them suffer between two and four weeks with no pay.

  At least eight inches shorter than Luella and a foot less in height than Valentino, Khan stepped between them. With one palm pressing into each chest, she shoved them back a fo
ot. “Settle down,” she said, wiping the sweat off her forehead. “Just settle down.” It was eighty degrees outside, and at least a hundred inside the plant. Only the break areas and cafeterias were air-conditioned.

  Valentino looked at Khan and then said, “It’s over.”

  Luella agreed with a slight nod of her head.

  As Luella started walking away, Tino turned back to Luella and said, “I work every Saturday, Luella. And you know it.” His voice was tight with anger.

  Luella reached her hand back inside her purse, clutching it to her bosom. “That’s exactly why nobody else can get any overtime around here. You and your A-team buddies are sucking up all the overtime. The rest of us are tired of the politics going on behind our backs. It’s bullshit!” She moved closer to his face, shouting, “I got bills, too!”

  “Maybe we should talk to Ron,” Luella said in a mocking voice. There was a tense pause before she continued. “He can straighten this out.”

  “Bullshit,” Tino fumed.

  “You sure you two ain’t fucking?” Khan asked, knowing that sometimes you had to go out on a limb and confront people on their shit. Khan had learned from her Mama Pearl that oftentimes what was really going on between a man and a woman was masked.

  Luella’s only response was to turn and charge off toward Ron’s office.

  “This is a bad time to talk to Ron, Tino,” Khan said, falling into step with her cousin. “Maybe you should let her have the overtime. One Saturday won’t make or break either one of you.” She wanted to say more, then stopped.

  Several strands of Luella’s hair were sprinkled along the floor ahead of them. Valentino glanced at Khan and began to laugh. He whispered, “Luella makes enough money to get a better weave than this, don’t you think?”

  “She stopped getting weaves; she’s started this new infusion shit that glues the hair on.” She tried to stop Valentino as he broke out again in laughter. “Shhh, she’ll hear you.”