by Ann McMan
El opened a bottle of wine, and we took our glasses into the living room to sit and relax while we waited for our dinner to finish heating up. Fritz had already inhaled his bowl of kibble and lay sprawled out on the floor at El’s feet, happily chewing on a tennis ball. We were listening to Pandora again. It was Rosemary Clooney this time. I was giddy that El seemed to share my fondness for retro music. Most of my friends just thought I was a nerd with geriatric tastes.
“So.” El angled her body around on the sofa to face me. “You wanna tell me about whatever it is that’s going on at work?”
I sighed. This was as good a time as any. I got up, walked over to my desk chair, and pulled the fat envelope from Don K. out of my backpack. I thumped it against my palm a few times before walking back to the sofa to join El. I handed it to her.
“What’s this?” She took the envelope from me.
“I think it’s what you’d call a bribe.”
She raised an eyebrow and turned it over. “It’s unopened.”
I nodded.
She lowered the letter to her lap. “You haven’t looked at this?”
“Nope.”
“When did you get it?”
“Yesterday.”
“Yesterday? You mean, before the fish fry?”
I nodded.
“Why haven’t you opened it?”
I shrugged.
“You aren’t curious about what’s inside?”
“Not really. I think I know what it contains.”
“And that is?”
I sighed. “Don K.’s flimsy attempt to buy my loyalty, and entice me to enlist in his union-busting army.”
“You talked to him?”
I nodded. “He summoned me to his lair near the end of my shift yesterday.”
“Really?” El sounded impressed. “He must think you hold some sway with the rank and file in his company.”
“I guess.”
“In a perverse way, this is pretty flattering for you,” she observed.
“Flattering? I don’t know . . . it kind of makes me feel cheap.”
“Cheap? Why?”
I waved a hand. “Oh, come on, El. He can’t hold me in very high regard if he thinks he can buy me off with some sleight of hand and a token promotion.”
She seemed to think about that. “Do you care about his regard?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why are you offended?”
I knew my frustration was starting to show, but I was having a hard time controlling it. “Maybe because, against all reason, I wanted to believe that things would change when OTI took over.”
“Maybe they will.”
I looked at her. “Whose side are you on?”
“Yours. Of course.”
“God.” I raised a hand to my forehead. “I don’t know what to make of any of this. It all used to be so simple. Now it’s just . . . complicated. I don’t know which end is up any more.”
“That’s easy, Friday Jill. What’s up is the same end that’s always been up. You just need to regain your equilibrium so you can recognize it again.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you need to consider this offer and make the best decision you can—for you.”
“I used to think I knew what that looked like. Now, I’m not so sure.”
El sighed. “One thing I’m fairly sure of is that most people who get to work for Japanese owned and managed companies end up with few regrets.”
“What about the union?”
“What about it?”
I shook my head. “Wouldn’t you say that getting a union at OTI is what’s best for me?”
“For you? Not necessarily. For people like T-Bomb and Luanne— definitely.”
“I don’t follow your reasoning.”
She sighed. “Unions can do a lot of good for people who need help and protection—for people who don’t have a voice. Or for people who have a voice, but don’t know the best ways to make use of it. Collective bargaining can be the only hope many workers have to gain living wages and better access to things like health care and the protections of family leave. And I’m talking about large classes of people who, through twists of fate or the predilections of biology and geography, have narrower paths and fewer options open to them than college graduates like you. You choose to work at OTI, but you have other alternatives and better choices available if ever you decide to walk away. Therefore, you don’t necessarily need or stand to benefit from the things a union has to offer. So it’s possible that a union can solve problems for many, and create them for others. Does that make sense?”
I sat staring at her for so long she finally snapped her fingers in front of my face.
“Hello? Did I lose you?” she asked.
I shook my head. “No. I’m just mesmerized by what you must have been like in front of a classroom.”
El laughed. “Don’t be. It’s not rocket science.”
“I’m not sure I agree with that.” I pointed at the letter. “Wanna open it?”
She held it up. “You want me to do the honors?”
I nodded.
“Okay.” She turned it over and broke the seal. “Let’s see what Mephistopheles has prepared for you.”
She pulled out two sheets of paper. One was noticeably shorter than the other. She held it up and examined it. Her eyes grew wide.
“This is a personal check from Don Krylon for ten thousand dollars,” she explained. “Made out to you.”
I took it from her. “You’re kidding?”
“Not so much,” she said.
I poured over the check while El quickly read through the letter.
“Well. It’s pretty textbook. There are no direct references to any agreement that you will support their efforts to keep the UAW out, but it’s clear that the promised promotion to management and the enclosed signing bonus are rewards for your demonstrations of company loyalty.” She read on. “He’s offering to make you a production manager at an annual salary of eighty thousand dollars, with generous 401K contributions.” She passed the letter to me. “That’s not exactly chump change.”
I didn’t reply. I was still staring at the check.
“Friday Jill?” El asked. “Are you considering his offer?”
I looked up at her. “Not really. But I am considering how many paint jobs ten thousand dollars would pay for.”
El laughed. “I think those might be mutually exclusive.”
I handed the check and the letter back to her. “I think you’re right.”
She took them from me, refolded them, and placed them back inside the envelope. “You really need to put your revulsion for Don K.’s tactics aside and think carefully about this offer. Remember that it’s OTI you’ll end up working for, not Krylon.”
“I know. Right now, that feels like a difference with little distinction.”
“It won’t always.”
I shrugged.
“So what now?” she asked.
The oven timer dinged.
I smiled at her. “Now we eat Grammy’s Bisquick creation, then try to find new ways to keep each other awake all night.”
She smiled back at me. “Is that an invitation?”
“Nope.” I took hold of her hand and tugged her forward for a kiss. “It’s a promise.”
Chapter 10
Downtown Albion was swarming with people.
“This is ridiculous,” El declared. We’d just made our fifth circuit around the courthouse square, looking for a place to park. “It’s like Walmart on the damn Friday after Thanksgiving.”
“Welcome to Pork Day,” I explained.
“I’ve never seen so many pickup trucks in my entire life. I see now why you wanted to ride in this thing instead of my rental.”
“Welcome to Southern Illinois.”
She was still staring out the passenger window. “What’s a Catholic girl from Buffalo doing in the middle of this madness?”
“Welcome t
o Fantasy Island.”
“Is it always this hot on Fantasy Island?”
Grammy’s old Ram didn’t have air conditioning.
I opened my mouth to respond.
“If you say welcome to anything one more time, I’m going to clock you with one of those ham shanks people out there appear to be munching on.”
“Those aren’t ham shanks. They’re pork chops. Bone in.”
“Pork chops?”
“Yep.”
“From what? Pigs that are raised near nuclear retention ponds?”
I laughed. “We take our pork products seriously in these parts.”
“Apparently.”
“Word to the wise: be careful when you bite into your pork chop sandwich.”
El’s eyes grew wide. “They have bones in them?”
I nodded.
“I think I just became a vegan.”
“Oh, cool!” I exclaimed. “Here’s a space. Right next to Doc and Ermaline.” I pulled off onto a patch of grass about the width of a Smart Car. We were shoehorned in between Doc Baker’s El Camino and the town water tower. I turned off the engine and unclipped my seat belt. “Let’s go. We have ten minutes to find Grammy.”
El sat there staring at me. “Seriously? How do you suggest we get out of this thing? Crawl through the back window and hop out of the bed?”
“Oh, come on. It’s not that tight.” I tried to open my door. It swung out about five inches before it bumped up against one of the metal support legs on the tower. “Um.” I closed my door. “How’s your side looking?”
El glanced out her window.
“Doc and Ermaline appear to smoke a lot of Camels. Judging by their floorboards, they’ve saved the wrappers from every pack they’ve purchased since Joe Camel was in short pants.” She looked back at me. “It ain’t happening.”
I sighed. “We’ll never find another space.”
“Then I guess we’ll have to enjoy the festivities from here.”
I looked over my shoulder at the sliding window on Grammy’s Ram.
“For-get it,” El cautioned. “I am not climbing out the back window of this truck.”
“Come on, El.”
“No. Not happening.”
“Please?”
She shook her head.
I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel. Then I got an idea. I started the truck.
“What are you doing?” El asked.
I put the truck into reverse. “I’m backing up so you can hop out.”
“Then what?”
“Then I’ll pull back in and climb out the window.”
El shook her head. “You are one bossy woman.”
“Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.” I moved the truck back far enough to clear the El Camino and stopped. “Okay, hop on out.”
“Before I do,” she said, “I want to make sure you’re aware that the bed of this truck is full of something that smells vaguely like manure.”
“That’s not manure, it’s peat moss. Not the same thing at all.”
“Riiiight.” El opened her door. “One thing before I hop out.”
“What?”
“This.” She took a quick look around, then leaned forward and kissed me. The sensation shot from my lips to every other part of me in about zero-point-four seconds. I reached out to pull her closer, but she was already backing away. “Who knows when we’ll get another chance?” She hopped out and stood on the ground next to the truck. Before she closed the door, she glanced again at the bed full of whatever it was. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
When she was clear, I pulled forward into the space again and shut off the engine. Then I rotated around and pushed open the sliding window behind the bench seat.
An unpleasant odor hit me like a brick wall.
Uh oh. Maybe that’s not peat moss in the truck bed . . .
I kicked off my shoes and tossed them out so they’d have a shot at staying clean. I could see El standing by the rear bumper and watching me with an amused expression.
‘Well?” she said. “What are you waiting for? Make your great escape, Houdini.”
I took a deep breath and pushed my head and shoulders through the opening. El was right. The smell was ripe, and it was starting to make my eyes smart. There was no place on the floor of the truck bed that wasn’t covered with the redolent muck, so I just tried to edge myself along the liner toward the side rail until I could get a leg through the window. Then I’d be able to stand up, and vault over the side. It seemed like a good plan, too . . . until I sneezed.
You have to understand. I don’t have a diminutive sneeze. When I sneeze, it’s a full-body, full-throttle, full-contact sport. When I sneeze, it trips seismographs along the New Madrid Fault. When I sneeze, antelope on the Serengeti make frenzied runs for cover. When I sneeze, my body bucks and recoils like a sawed-off shotgun.
Therefore, sneezing in such a manner, when your body is precariously balanced halfway through the center of a pickup truck’s sliding rear window, is pretty much a guarantee that things aren’t gonna end well.
They didn’t.
Down I went, twisting into a sea of something that was not quite manure, but not quite peat moss, either. In two seconds, I was covered in muck from the back of my knees to my shoulders. The only part of me that emerged unscathed was my head.
“God fucking damn it!” I sputtered as I tried to clamber to my feet.
El seemed to be trying hard not to laugh, but wasn’t really succeeding. “I think you’ll lose points for not sticking the dismount. In fact, the dismount seems to be sticking to you.”
I was shaking the tarry, black mixture off my hands. “Very funny.”
“Are you okay?” she asked.
I glared at her. “Do I look okay?”
“I’m not talking about your bovine couture. I want to know if you hurt yourself.”
I sighed. “Only my dignity.”
She walked over and reached up a hand to help me climb out. “Well, thankfully, that’s a renewable resource.”
“God. What is this stuff? It smells like kimchi . . . and peat moss.”
“You said it was your Grammy’s farm truck.” El wrinkled up her nose. “It smells very . . . farmy.”
I hopped over the side. A trail of muck followed me and plopped to the ground near my feet.
El jumped back. “Is that stuff alive?”
I picked up my shoes. “It could be . . . I thought I saw something moving back there.”
“Gross.” El flicked a bit of muck off my chin. “What now? Home for clean clothes?”
I shook my head. “And lose this primo parking space?”
“You’re joking.”
I stared at her.
“You’re not joking?”
I waved a hand to encompass the sea of chrome that surrounded
us. “El. It’s Pork Day USA. In Albion. Southern Illinois. That means half the population of the tri-state area will all be out cruising the byways, looking for this very space. There’s no way I’m moving this truck.”
She laughed. “Okay, Einstein. What do you intend to do about your . . . ensemble?”
I looked around. “Find a garden hose and some clean clothes. All the stores will be open.”
“I won’t pretend to understand your logic.”
“There’s a Dollar General across from McDonald’s.”
She sighed. “Lead on. At least when people stare at us, we’ll have a pretty good idea why.”
The streets were humming and were choked with crowds of people. Bluegrass music was blasting from someplace near the courthouse. All the sidewalks were lined with booths and vendors hawking everything from beaded bags to custom face painting designs. And, of course . . . there was pork. Lots and lots of it. Cooked every way you could imagine. The event’s barbecue competition was second only to the Miss Pork Day contest in popularity.
The sun was already high in the sky and heating things up. A dull haze was settling i
n. The crowds across the street looked like they were moving around behind one of those transparent plastic shower curtains. The heat index today was supposed to be one for the record books, with the high temperature topping out someplace in the triple digits. That probably meant afternoon thunderstorms, which also were pretty typical for Pork Day. It was hard to remember a year when you didn’t have to run for cover during at least part of the festivities.
El noticed that people seemed to be giving us a wide berth as we pushed our way through the throngs.
“I think they’re afraid your condition is contagious.”
“Which condition would that be? The muck on my clothes, or my partiality for a certain union agitator?”
El was scanning the crowds. “I don’t think many of these people would think there’s a difference.”
“I don’t know.” I sniffed at her. “You smell a whole lot better.”
She bumped into me as we slowly made our way along the street. “Nut job.”
We were just about to cross Main Street and head for Dollar General when El tugged me to a halt.
“What about one of those?” She pointed at a display of brightly colored t-shirts.
“You Are My Sunswine,” I quoted. I looked at El. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh, come on. It’s cute.”
“Cute?”
“You have to admit, it does exude a certain . . . porkiness.”
“It’s neon blue. I hate neon blue.”
El stared at me. “Neon blue? This is your objection?” I nodded.
El snapped one up. “I’m buying it.”
I shook my head. “It’s your money.”
“And you’re wearing it,” she continued.
“El . . .”
“No arguments.” She walked over to the vendor to pay for the shirt.
I looked at my watch. We were going to be late meeting Grammy. With luck, the Dollar General folks would let me clean up in their restroom. Fortunately for me, most of the damage was confined to my shirt and my pants. I’d also have to prevail upon them to give me a couple of bags to tie up my soiled clothes. I wondered if T-Bomb’s cousin, Mellonee, would be working today. She’d be likely to take pity on me—mostly because she’d revel in the opportunity to tell everyone about my mishap.