Blue Collar Blues

by Rosalyn McMillan

  They were getting ready to go see The Man of La Mancha, which was playing at the Fisher Theater. Robert Goulet was the featured star. Tomiko remembered reading the play in Japan in her eleventh-grade literature class. She always loved it and looked forward to seeing the play on stage.

  “Friday then,” Tomiko volunteered. “I could leave early Friday morning and be there by one.”

  “I can’t leave Friday, either. If you wait until Saturday I can drive down with you.”

  A huge shipment of Mishimoto’s Muresame sports cars was due in at two of R.C.’s dealerships on Thursday. And Champion’s hot new Atlantic was a week overdue and expected to arrive at four of R.C.’s dealerships on Friday. Angry customers had been waiting for the cars they had ordered in July, and it was now September. R.C. was adamant that he wouldn’t rest until his customers were driving their new vehicles.

  “By then the weekend will be half over.” She began undressing him. “Please. Please, R.C. This means a lot to me. I haven’t had a weekend off in months. And you know we both could use some time off. C’mon, fly down Saturday night.” She had him down to his shorts and shirt by then. “You can drive back with me.”

  He gave in, of course, and Tomiko figured it was the best she could do to get him out of Michigan.

  Taking special care to dress, Tomiko slipped into a Louis Féraud black bugle-beaded bodice that exposed her midriff. The outfit was cutting-edge vamp. As she moved, she showed off her sexy ankles and shapely legs. R.C. was pleased. She’d even helped him pick out a new winter-white wool three-piece suit at Jack’s Place in Southfield for the occasion. No one could tell the Richardsons they didn’t look suave.

  “You know what?” Tomiko teased. “You and I are looking so fine tonight, the actors in the play are liable to step off the stage and compliment us on our slamming clothes when they see us walking down the aisle.”

  “There you go bragging again. You beginning to sound more and more like a soul sister when she thinks she’s looking spiffy.”

  They arrived late and, sure enough, heads turned when they walked into the theater. But Tomiko stopped when she saw a face midway down the aisle.

  It was like an itch that she couldn’t scratch. She wanted to ignore it but couldn’t. It was somewhat of a relief to see a man sitting beside the woman.

  When Tomiko saw a blond-haired woman smiling at her, she slowed and nodded to the woman and the dreadlocked gentleman seated beside her. Though Tomiko had never seen Khan, she remembered Bonnie’s description of her: “Darla” smile, short blond hair, and tiny body. Tomiko’s instincts told her that this had to be Khan. Tomiko couldn’t tell what R.C.’s response was, but he didn’t miss a step behind her.

  “Good evening,” Tomiko whispered to Khan. The man sitting beside her with his arms around her shoulder smiled and returned the greeting.

  Throughout the night, Tomiko barely watched the play she had so longed to see. Her mind and heart were on the woman behind them, the one in the background who had threatened their marriage. Was she still a threat? Tomiko wondered.

  When the play was over and they rose to leave, she felt relieved to see that Khan and her date had already left the theater.

  * * *

  On Friday morning, Tomiko rose while it was still dark and had coffee with R.C. before he left for work and she headed off to Kentucky at five.

  R.C. hesitated outside the front door after he’d kissed her good-bye for the fifth time. “I charged an extra battery for your cell phone. It’s in the glove compartment, as well as the Triple-A road service card in case you have a flat or something.”

  “You told me.” She fell into his arms and hugged him tight.

  “And the map. I’ve made several markings for alternate routes just in case—”

  “You showed me.” Tomiko opened the door and shoved him back inside. “Now I’ve got to get going. I’ll be fine. I’ve got everything . . . more than everything I need.”

  R.C. pretended he was trying to remember one more thing.

  She spoke in her sexiest voice. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  “What? Tell me.”

  “It’s better if I show you.” She felt his smile when he kissed her again. “I’ll call you when I get to Cleveland, and the moment I cross the Kentucky state line. Okay?”

  “Tomiko . . .” he said, softly stroking her chin.

  “I love you, too.”

  Forty minutes later, Tomiko was on the interstate. The highway was clear except for some minor construction. And when she reached the Cleveland city limits, she kept her word to R.C., calling him at the designated times until she made it to the ranch by lunchtime.

  The next morning she should have felt exhausted, but instead she felt exuberant. Sunshine coated the tops of golden and russet trees. The air was warm and sweet for autumn. She mounted the mare Caleb tacked up for her and they roamed the acres of countryside R.C. owned. And with each breath she took, Tomiko couldn’t have felt freer. So free, in fact, that she hadn’t noticed until the setting sun was as vivid as gold, orange, and purple on painted glass how quickly the day had passed.

  Back at the ranch, the housekeeper was preparing a light supper of chicken salad with homemade French bread. Tomiko could smell the bread baking in the oven the moment she finished riding the mare and exited the barn.

  After taking a shower, she changed into a black brocade shift and cigarette slacks. By then it was just after seven. R.C. would arrive in less than thirty minutes. She spent the time standing by the window watching for him.

  When she saw him, she felt a strange tightening feeling in her chest that she’d begun to feel each time they came together after a separation. At times, some of her former insecurity and distrustful feelings would surface. But when she saw his lovely smile greet hers, she couldn’t have felt happier.

  Later that night, Tomiko surprised R.C. with yet another game—this one called Sexual Secrets. She also had purchased Sinful Cinnomon Spanish Fly Aphrodisiac and Dirty Dice.

  But R.C. was refusing to play.

  After watching R.C. read the directions for a fourth time, Tomiko said, “What’s wrong, R.C.?”

  He was now on his feet, pacing in the large living room. “I’ve got to tell you what’s going on. Four times this month I won between fifty thousand and a hundred thousand bucks. A couple of times I didn’t spend it on nothing but gas and food, ’cause I lost it the very next day.” He stood up, pacing back and forth, placing his hands in and out of his pockets and occasionally rubbing his head. He stopped. “I remembered asking God to help me. I promised that this would be the last time.”

  Tomiko smiled at him reassuringly. “I’m glad you realize how serious this is, R.C. I’ve read about all those people gambling over in Windsor having to file bankruptcy.” She shook her head. “There are so many sad stories. People are refinancing their homes to feed their gambling habits.”

  “Not just that. They’re losing their lives. A few weeks ago a young man jumped off the Ambassador Bridge on his way home from the casino.” His voice was quivering. “I knew that man, Tomiko. It hit home. I have to stop, or I’ll be next.”

  Tomiko couldn’t help it. She started to cry, shaking her head from side to side. Then she felt R.C.’s arms around her. “I love you, R.C. I always want you to be a part of my life.”

  “I went to The Male Health Center to see a Dr. Agnew. He’s a urologist. I found out that I don’t have that problem. You know . . . what you’d thought before.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Dr. Agnew said I’ve just been under too much stress. Gambling and the excessive drinking didn’t help, either.” She laid her hand against his cheek and caressed it. “Anyway. I’m fine now, so we won’t be needing this.” He took the Sinful Cinnomon Spanish Fly and tossed it in the trash can.

  Tomiko took the cue and lay down on the bed. She stretched out her arms for him to join her. “We’ve toyed and joyed with each other, but my love for you goes much deeper.”
>
  * * *

  The next morning she was awakened by the smell of coffee. When she entered the breakfast room, Tomiko saw that R.C. was already reading the paper. Wearing only one of R.C.’s sleeveless T-shirts that barely covered her thighs, Tomiko leaned down to kiss him. “Morning,” she said.

  He was working on a crossword puzzle. “Forty-two down, is . . .” She took the pencil from his hand and wrote in excitement, the answer to the clue, then sat across the table from him. “Mmm, that’s how I feel this morning.”

  “Thanks.” He reached over and stroked her naked thighs, then began to ponder another word.

  “What?” she asked, pouring a cup of coffee from the decanter. “You need some more help?”

  When she sat back down he said, “Tomiko? You should know . . .” He shuffled for the rest of the words. “My money problems are pretty serious. We’re going to lose the ranch.”

  “I didn’t marry you for your money, R.C.”

  “There’s something else. You know my friend Oxford?”

  Tomiko nodded. He’d called a couple of times over the last few months. Unlike some of R.C.’s friends, Oxford had always been very polite with Tomiko, always asking when she and R.C. would fly out to Seattle for a visit.

  “Well, Oxford and I go back to the Vietnam War. Right after the war was over, I had to borrow money from Oxford to get my first business up and running. But I lost all of it. I was never able to pay him back, but Oxford let it go. When I started developing my horse business, I convinced Oxford to invest. I promised him he’d double his money. So now losing the ranch means I’ve screwed Oxford over again.”

  “Is that why you seem to avoid him?” Tomiko asked gently.

  “Yeah. I’m avoiding my own buddy, and it doesn’t feel good.”

  “R.C., we’ll handle it together. I’m making good money now.” R.C. didn’t look as relieved as Tomiko expected. “What’s wrong, R.C.? Is there something else?”

  “No, no. You’re such a sweetheart, I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He smiled, caressing her face.

  When the doorbell rang, Tomiko jumped up to get it. Outside in the circular drive, she saw two green plain-looking cars. She could tell there was writing on the doors, but it was hidden by dust. The man standing in front of her held up a badge.

  Tomiko noticed that they wore guns, but they were dressed in street clothing.

  “Can I help you, sir?” She thought they might be there because of R.C.’s bankruptcy.

  “I’m Special Agent Milford from Kentucky Immigration. Are you Tomiko Richardson?”

  33

  __________

  The heat was on. Everyone was ready. Including Khan. It was going to be ugly, but it was too late to turn back now.

  “Are we going to stand for this bullshit? Scabs coming in here stealing our jobs?” one man shouted.

  “Hell no!” A woman spoke up. “Fuck that shit. I got kids to feed.”

  Khan didn’t know all her co-workers by name, but in the five years she’d worked at Champion she’d come to know their voices and their faces.

  Khan’s eyes wandered the crowd. She could see broken bottles and signs being held high in people’s hands. When she turned back around she spotted Monica, a member of the Jehovah’s Witnesses, which was a well-represented group at the plant. Standing next to her was Nelson, a member of the prayer group that sometimes opposed them. They were chatting with each other, holding up their signs. This is what Uncle Ron meant by solidarity, she thought. People whose personal lives may be oppositional but who came together in crisis; union brothers and sisters coming together for one goal. She forged ahead in love and prayer.

  Ron elevated his strong voice above the noisy crowd. “What are we going to do about it, then? Are we going to show Troy Trim that the union workers won’t stand for this bullshit!”

  “Damn right.” Khan joined in. “Let’s show ’em.” Caught up in the moment, she was ready to fight. Being surrounded by so many people she worked with every day, now unified, was seductive. Everyone was adding to the momentum to keep that emotion going, that adrenaline flowing.

  “I’m ready to kick some ass!” someone shouted.

  “Let’s do it! Yeah! Yeah!” the phrase reverberated through the crowd until everyone was shouting the same words: “Let’s do it!”

  It was the time to defend families and exact revenge. The strikers ran toward the closest scab van with vengeance on their minds.

  By now several police cars had entered the scene. And in the far distance Khan could see more police coming on horseback.

  There must have been twenty-five cops, many on horseback, trying to control the crowd, but it was futile. The union workers were growing in number every minute and already vastly outnumbered the police. The workers pushed against the line of cops. The cops pushed back. It was only a question of time before there came one push too many from either side.

  Taco José screamed, “Let’s cream those sons of bitches!”

  A scab worker yelled from the van as the union workers surrounded it, “Hey, we’ve got families to feed too! Don’t get mad at us. Your problems are with Troy Trim.”

  “Then get your own fucking job to take care of your families,” a union worker shouted. Enraged, the union men hurled beer bottles toward the opened window.

  Smash! The scab worker ducked inside, narrowly avoiding being hit. But the bottle connected with the window and cracked it. The scab workers in the van huddled together, knowing that the next bottle thrown would break through the glass and leave them utterly defenseless.

  At that moment, Khan noticed more police arriving with sirens blasting, lights flashing. Squad cars and more police on horseback began to establish a line of defense.

  Khan was terrified. She wasn’t willing to challenge a twelve-hundred-pound animal. The sight of the mounted police trotting fearlessly near the fence only further fueled the anger of the men and women whose lives depended on the outcome of events here tonight. The union workers, black and white, were fighting for their rights. And if the big man refused to acknowledge them, it was time for war. This time everyone had something to lose. And color was invisible here. Salvation and survival reigned.

  “We don’t want to hurt anyone. Please, people. Get back!” yelled one police officer armed with a billy club.

  It was too late. Hundreds of union members swarmed the scab vans, attacking with kicks and shouts. To her horror and amazement, Khan found herself among them.

  Crash! Scab workers screamed. More union workers hurled bottles and whatever else they could find at the vans. Finally the first scab was hit. His limp body leaned against the broken window. At that moment more union workers swarmed the van. Feet, bats, fists, stones, and multitudes of bottles rained down, a monsoon, most directed at the already wounded man.

  “We’re going to war, motherfuckers. You are fucking with our gig!”

  A sharp jolt shook the van. “What the hell are they doing?” one scab asked.

  “We getting ready to kick y’all’s ass,” Khan yelled behind a horde of men who, with their backs and shoulders against the van, were now beginning to rock it.

  “Omigod, omigod!” one scab shrieked. The others in the van soon joined her in panic as the van slowly rocked back and forth. The suspension of the van began to creak and bend. The angry mob pushed harder and harder, tipping the van a little more each time.

  “They’re going to tip us over—I have to get out of here!” Khan heard a shout and saw a man bolt for the rear door. Khan could see inside the van. Two men tried to restrain him, but his insane rage had served to strengthen him. He pushed them aside, leaping through the door and into the arms of the mob. The other scabs stared at the action, perhaps wondering what had been going through the poor man’s mind. The beating he received was bad enough to bring even Evander Holyfield down.

  The van was nearly overturned now; it needed just the final nudge. Khan stood watching the mob and yelling along with the rest. “Kill
’em, kill the bastards!”

  An officer on horseback beside her stayed still, probably knowing he was powerless to stop the mob unless he shot at them. There were far too many workers. “Hey, why don’t you go home, little nigger bitch.” He sneered at Khan.

  “Fuck you, pig!”

  “Why you little piss-ant.” He pulled out a can of pepper spray and squirted Khan in the eyes. She screamed. The pain, the burning were more than she could bear.

  At that moment all she wanted was to stop the burning of her eyes.

  Khan stumbled. All around her she heard screams and cries. The scent of pepper spray was everywhere. It filled the air. She pushed herself to her feet, took one step, and fell down again. Her hands frantically clawed at the pavement as she attempted to rise. Tears rushed down her cheeks as she struggled to breathe and clear her vision. The tears made the noxious spray burn even more. She felt as if someone had poured acid in her eyes. She opened them as best she could and ran toward the next van, eyes still burning but mad as hell.

  Boom! She rammed her shoulder into it. The weight of her small frame added to the others’ and the van tipped over. A mounted cop moved toward the overturned van. Khan swiveled, only to see a flashlight shining in her face and a horse rearing back on its hind legs.

  To her right, she could see bodies climbing all over the vans like roaches. She could hear the thud of the policemen’s billy clubs pounding against flesh, followed by cries of pain.

  On and on it went. Khan lost all track of time. Red and blue lights flashed on the backs and faces of workers. Everywhere she dared to look, she saw people she knew lying on the ground. Their faces and bodies were dirty, and some were covered with blood. There was no way she could know if they were dead or alive.

  The sky above took on the eerie glow of a wartime.

  Where was Ron?

  In agony, she knew she still had to forge ahead. She refused to lie down and give up the fight.

  Between the workers and the cops, it was like a game of cat and mouse. The cops, union members themselves, treated the strikers as though they were criminals when they were just trying to protect their jobs, to survive.