The Jig of the Union Loller

by Michael Burnham

  “Second,” Schulke said, “hard hats will be worn by all members of the department when the crane is in operation. Anyone walking with a bare head will be subject to discipline.”

  Although Schulke was the only bald member of the department, nobody followed up his straight line.

  “Third, the time rack is to be cleaned out. Get rid of those betting slips, and put those work orders where they belong so they can be entered. Scotty, I’m putting you in charge of seeing the rack stays in good order.”

  “Ok, boss,” Scotty said.

  “Fourth,” Schulke said, “I’m sure you’re aware that there have been thefts of company wire from out in the yard. Nobody is accusing any of you of stealing anything, but, naturally, any time something is stolen it reflects poorly on us. In the next few days, maintenance is installing a network of cameras to survey everything in the department and as much of the storage yard as possible.”

  Schulke stepped from the front of the group and moved in among them. He pointed to the high ceiling above the bays.

  “They’ll put two cameras up there,” he said, “one to look through the windows to watch the yard and another to cover the bay area. There will be two other cameras installed in the middle of the department, one to watch the transformers and regulators, and another to monitor the exit to the roof.”

  Frank, Scotty, and Warren glanced over to Claude. The nest was exposed. Schulke paused, and fought off a smile. He returned to the front of the group.

  “Gentlemen,” he said softly, “as a onetime member of the union, I know the attitude that can infect you if you aren’t careful. ‘I can do what I want and the union will protect me,’ is how some of you feel. I’ve been in your shoes. But, gentlemen, I also know it doesn’t have to be that way. This isn’t about the union. This is about pride in what we do. We don’t have much pride now, but we’re going to get it, and soon. Mr. Clarke and I will take whatever steps necessary to restore the reputation of this department. If there needs to be a brief turbulent period where we weed out the slackers from the real workers and the rabble rousers from those of you who are decent people, then so be it. But in the end, we are going to have a department of people who are competent, who are honest, who work hard, and who give every one of us a good name. And that’s the way it is going to be.”

  Schulke reached into his satchel and removed a piece of paper. He dragged a medium-sized box to the front of the group, flipped it over, and sat down.

  “Now,” Schulke said, “a minute ago I said I had a good idea who destroyed Nick’s locker yesterday. I don’t think I’ll name any names—not yet, anyway—but perhaps if we take a close look at the company record we’ll see something that will shed some light on our vandalizers. Let’s take a moment to review the positive discipline status of each person in the department.”

  “Hold on there, chief,” John said. “Those are confidential, aren’t they?”

  “Confidential?” Schulke said. “You mean like performance appraisals are confidential?”

  “Tom, you shouldn’t read anything to do with positive discipline,” Scotty said.

  “Too bad,” Schulke said. “Warren Taylor, oral warning for attendance. Dave Darezzo, oral warning for performance. Claude Amognes. Written warning for attendance, written warning for conduct, written warning for performance.”

  Claude leaned back against the compactor and scowled. He felt everyone’s eyes upon him but looked at no one but Schulke.

  “I didn’t break no locker,” Claude said.

  “I never said you did,” Schulke replied. “I simply read from the record. The union knows about each positive discipline incident, I believe, so I didn’t reveal any secrets. I just read a complete, accurate account of what’s on file. It was complete, wasn’t it? I trust I didn’t miss anyone, did I?”

  “You missed me,” Frank said in a loud voice as he stood up.

  “You don’t have any warnings,” Schulke said.

  “I know, but I’m gonna earn myself one right now.”

  Claude stood straight, and the others froze to listen to Frank.

  “I don’t like you singling out Bugsy and blaming him for everything that’s wrong in this department,” Frank said. “He don’t make things easy for you, but you don’t make things easy for him neither. You could do a lot better in terms of smoothing things out, and I’m telling you a good supervisor would try that direction before going all out to get one of his employees fired.”
“This isn’t the place for this discussion,” Schulke said.

  “Well it wasn’t the place to read Bugsy’s warnings, but that didn’t stop you. You got some nerve saying you came from the union and you’re really one of us. Where the hell do you get off? When we need a boss, you’re in some damn meeting, and when we need a buddy, you’re too busy pretending to run the department to even notice. You’re not one of us. You’re a stinking turncoat, and that’s not a whisper behind your back, Tom. I’m saying it loud so you can hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

  “I don’t see a point to any of this,” Schulke yelled as he rose from the box.

  “Well here it is, then: You want a department that works together and looks out for each other, and you’re going to get it, but not that rah-rah shit you were peddling a minute ago. We’re going to look out for our own, us against them, and you don’t gotta be no brain surgeon to know us don’t include you. Bugsy is going to stay clean for a full year until his warnings clear, and we’re going to help make sure it happens. And let me tell you, if you’re planning to boot his ass out the door, you’d better get him with something major, because if you try to bust him out of here on some trumped-up, Mickey Mouse charges, you’re going to have a fight on your hands from Local 7917.”

  It was Schulke’s turn to speak, but he didn’t know what to say. He opted for diplomacy.

  “I’m certainly not out to get anyone,” he said. “It is my hope that all the warnings I listed will clear, and that in the future there will be no warnings of any kind for the members of our department.”

  He dropped his chin low and looked at the men from the tops of his eyes.

  “But if rules are not followed, and production is not up to speed, then there will be repercussions for the individuals involved, whether it pleases the union or not. That is the way it is going to be. Meeting adjourned. Back to work.”

  Schulke lifted his satchel and went into the office. After a collective exhale, the union group lingered for a moment and swapped comments about the meeting. Warren and Darezzo patted Claude on the shoulder and told him to hang in there. John and Elton bypassed Claude and returned to work.

  #

  By 2:30, when the trucks began rolling in, word was around. Claude became a mini-celebrity, interviewed by each new person he encountered. He explained that being who he is, he’s just come to expect management coming after him. He said his dad would have been proud of the way the guys stuck together while Schulke was on the attack. He told people it was now clear that Schulke had been plotting against him. Because of it, he said, he had a real good chance of getting his warnings rescinded, a real good chance.

  Across the department, Scotty briefed Junior on the day’s events while Elton unloaded refuse from truck 317.

  “I’m worried about Bugsy,” Scotty said. “He’s got writtens across the board now, and Schulke’s waiting for him with the noose. I wish I thought Bugsy could go a whole year without screwing up, but I don’t think he can. I think his days are numbered.”

  “You’re making too much out of this,” Junior said. “Bugsy doesn’t have to stay clean for a year, he only has to watch his performance for a year. His conduct warning should clear in a few months, and the other one a month or two after that. Don’t worry, the union’s not going to let him get fired.”

  “I don’t know,” Scotty said. “Shepard’s not exactly Bugsy’s best pal. And what about the cameras? Bugsy’s the only one of us who hangs out in the nest. I mean, we usually can’t get a budget for st
aplers, and now they spend a grand or two for cameras? If that’s not a sign they’re out to get him, I don’t know what is.”

  “Trust me, man, you’re paranoid. Nobody gives a shit about money around here. We waste it on whatever we want, then go to the legislature and cry that we need another rate hike. You know that.”

  “True.”

  “And we’ve definitely had thefts from the yard,” Junior said. “Everyone knows that. I don’t think the cameras have anything to do with Bugsy, I think management’s just sick of losing wire right from under its nose and is pissed off they don’t know who trashed Nick’s locker. Plus, I mean, if you know Bugsy’s taking naps in the nest when he should be working, why install a camera? Just charge up the stairs the next time he’s missing and catch him red-handed.”

  Scotty conceded the point, and Elton finished unloading the truck as Jeff appeared with the next day’s work order. Jeff handed the paper to Junior and said he’d be right back.

  “I just think it was strange that Schulke read Claude’s warnings,” Scotty said.

  “Nah,” Junior said. “Those two have been battling forever. It’s nothing. Don’t you think so, Mac?”

  “I think Schulke’s an idiot,” Elton said. “He had the traps laid. If he keeps his cards close to his vest, all he has to do is wait for Bugsy to trip himself up. But instead, he tips Bugsy off. How dumb is that?”

  “Sounds like you want Bugsy to get trapped,” Junior said.

  “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” Elton said. “I bust my butt all day, and that bum has seniority over me? He’s a total goof-off, and the ten minutes a day he isn’t a goof-off he’s a total fuck-up. Good riddance is what I say, and don’t think I’m the only one with that opinion.”

  “Hey Elton,” Scotty said. “Can you get the spools of 477? Junior and I will load the rest.”

  Elton agreed, and took a flatbed dolly over to the shelves of wire. Junior recognized the ruse.

  “Elton’s an ass,” Junior said.

  “Not everyone’s in Bugsy’s corner,” Scotty said. “I think that’s part of the reason Frank stood up today. Sure, he wanted Schulke to hear what he had to say, but I think he was sending a message to the other guys too, telling them, hey, don’t go undermining Bugsy unless you want to deal with me. I tell you Frank sure sounded good, and I think Schulke bought the whole thing.”

  “I wish I’d been there.”

  “Actually, it was even better when he was telling me about it at lunch. Typical Frank. In one breath he’s telling me how he beats Schulke, and in the next he’s telling me how he’d have beaten himself if he were Schulke. Said if he was Schulke, he’d have said, ‘Oh yeah, Dombrowski? All right then, let’s see some brotherhood. All those who support Claude Amognes one hundred percent, step over here. All those who want me to can him this minute, step over there.’”

  “Ouch,” Junior said.

  “I know,” Scotty said.

  “Well,” Junior said, “I like Bugsy, and I hope everything turns out all right for him.”

  “Me too,” Scotty said.

  #

  A little after 4 p.m., with everyone in the department gone, Schulke flipped the switch to bring down the bay doors. He left through the side exit, using his key to lower the metal grate, and took the elevator up to human resources.

  The department seemed empty. Schulke wandered toward Clarke’s office and put an ear to the door. When he heard laughter behind it, he knocked.

  “Who is it?” Clarke called.

  “Tom Schulke.”

  Twenty seconds passed before Clarke opened the door and ushered Schulke in. Brianna Mickleson sat in one of the three chairs opposite Clarke’s desk, her legs crossed and a smirk reigning on her face. She had black hair, cropped short, and fingernails trimmed like a man’s. She wore black slacks, shoes without heels, and a light green sweater, and although married with three children, she didn’t wear a wedding ring. Officially, Mickleson handled benefits, just one rep among several in human resources, but everyone knew she had Clarke’s confidence like no one else, and as a result served as de facto number two in the department despite her relatively young age and obvious lack of attributes. She certainly wasn’t bright—union leaders took to calling her “the idiot” behind her back, and it wasn’t long before members of management followed suit—she had no people skills, and although trim she wasn’t all that pretty, which wasn’t supposed to be a factor in anyone’s rise to power but in truth never hurt any ambitious young woman at Rhode Island Electric. She did, however, know benefits, and she was, everyone assumed, one heck of a behind-your-back politicker. What she lacked in brains she made up in mean.

  Clarke sat in his maroon chair and motioned Schulke to sit too.

  “Make it fast,” Clarke said. “Our health plan just sent an incorrect mailing to all our employees, wrong co-pays, wrong deductibles, wrong everything. The union is bullshit. They negotiated five dollar co-pays, and think we’re doing this on purpose. Just what I need.”

  Clarke flung both his hands in the air, then laid an arm across his middle and touched the knuckles of his other hand to his lips. “Now what do you got?”

  “My meeting with the union guys,” Schulke said. “You know, Nick’s locker?”

  “Ok,” Clarke said. “Shoot.”

  “Well everything was going well,” Schulke said, “but then Frank Dombrowski stood up and undercut the whole thing. He said he didn’t like me singling out Claude Amognes, and that he and the other members of the union were going to support Claude and see that he doesn’t get fired.”

  Clarke looked at Mickleson. Mickleson shrugged. They both looked back to Schulke.

  “This is what you got?” Clarke said. “Frank Dombrowski spoke out, and you’re scrambling to me for a there-there?”

  “Well, Mr. Clarke, I...I just want to know what you want me to do.”

  “I want you to keep this off my desk, Tom, that’s what I want you to do. Settle it however you can, but don’t let it turn into a union issue. I’ve got the union screaming about health care. I’ve got the union screaming about Gino Carbone. Please, I don’t need them screaming about anything else. I gave you the cameras, I gave you the computers. I expect the cameras and computers to resolve your issues. Good night.”

  Schulke didn’t stand immediately, but neither Clarke nor Mickleson spoke, so he rose to leave. When he did, he heard Mickleson whisper “tell him about Gino.”

  “Oh yeah, Tom,” Clarke said. “Wait a minute.”

  Schulke held the doorknob and turned around.

  “About Gino,” Clarke said. “The union filed a grievance over his termination, and our lawyers think the arbiter will rule in his favor. Feeney won’t take him back, so if he wins the grievance, I’m putting him with you.”

  “With me? That asshole?”

  “Feeney doesn’t want him.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Look,” Clarke said, “with Dubois going to management, you’ve got an open spot. Because of what Gino did, we think we’re on solid ground if we argue he can’t ever work with electricity again. But the union’s never gonna go for assigning him to meter reading or customer service, where he’d have to take a ten-dollar-an-hour cut in pay. With you, he’d only lose three bucks an hour. That’s reasonable. Gino gets a little bit of a financial punishment—not to mention the embarrassment of going from the line department to stores—but he gets his job back, so he’s happy. Shepard’s happy. Feeney’s happy. I’m happy. If the union wins the grievance, that’s the way we’re gonna go.”

  Schulke walked out. Instead of slamming the door like he wanted to, Schulke left it wide open.

  Chapter 13

  As usual, Claude arrived home to an empty house. He took off his boots in the doorway, selected a beer from the fridge, and lit a cigarette. He walked to the family room and turned on the television.

  Claude had no interest in watching the tube, however. He really wanted to talk about what happened at
work. Jamie would be home from practice soon, but it wasn’t a topic he wished to discuss with her. He could call one of the guys from work, but he’d already heard what most of them had to say, and besides, none were likely to give him the fresh perspective he sought.

  He thought about his father. What advice would his father give? Claude could picture him.

  “Schulke,” Jackie would say with a shake of his head. “Typical kraut, doing what he’s told without the slightest idea what the hell it is. You shoulda listened to me and avoided that department altogether, become a janitor until you could pass the test and go on to line school. Management always puts its washouts in stores. Where else can they put them? You can’t put them where somebody could get electrocuted, and you can’t put them someplace important, like customer service. It’s the mailroom or stores. I told Munson to his face to toss that bastard Schulke on the scrap heap, to his face! But he didn’t listen. He never listened, not to anyone who knew what the Christ was going on, anyway, just to those snotheads, half of ‘em sons of golf buddies, who thought they knew everything about handling a workforce because one time they chewed out a maid for doing a sloppy job with the good silver.”

  Claude looked over to a framed photo of his parents, taken by Jamie a few months before Jackie’s death. Jamie clicked the shutter just as Jackie’s eyes met Gail’s, before the anger in his face had subsided, before he’d read the calm warning—in the face of his wife and in the touch of her hand on his arm—that it was time to step back from whatever argument he was pursuing. But as Claude stared at the photo, the second part of Jackie’s advice, the part about how to outmaneuver Schulke, the part he needed now, never came.

  As Claude sat in his recliner looking at television, an unformed thought discomforted him. That he couldn’t grasp it and verbalize it didn’t matter, because if he ever did he would deny it anyway, but the fact he did not have a best friend nagged his soul. As a youth, he had many. When for whatever reason one partner-in-crime drifted away, another soon emerged to replace him. But in his twenties, and particularly after he married, Claude found it increasingly difficult to meet people who shared his viewpoint and forge lasting bonds with them. He had friends, to be sure, but the relationships seemed limited to certain situations—work, fishing, softball, drinking—and strained when carried beyond their frames of reference.