“Seriously, daddy.”
“Seriously.”
“I’m a junior in high school,” Jamie said. “You can share an on-the-job disappointment with me. I know you’ve had run-ins with the boss, I know you’ve fought with your union brothers. It’s ok. Everyone has some kind of disappointment at work.”
Claude thrust his bottom lip up and furrowed his eyebrows toward his nose. Joke answers popped into his head, but he didn’t want to upset his daughter. She might yell, or cry. He sipped his beer, and set it on the table.
“I guess my most disappointing moment at work was the day your grandfather was voted out as union president,” he said. “He was a good leader. He could out-argue anyone. Since then, our union’s gone to hell, and believe me, it’s hard to show up there day after day and deal with idiot after idiot. You come in and bust your butt and the boss doesn’t notice, so you say screw it, why hustle when nobody gives a shit, and then bang, the boss catches you goofing off and two seconds later is smacking you with a written warning. A guy bolts the union to join management and half the union brothers don’t care, they’re just sitting around thinking how they can suck up to the guy before he goes so when he’s a boss he’ll take it easy on them. Everyone goofs off —it’s only natural —but pets don’t get written up when they get caught, pets do whatever they want and nothing happens to them. Since your grandfather got voted out, the place has fallen apart, no doubt about that, absolutely fallen apart. Some days I wish I could walk away and never go back.”
“Why don’t you?”
Claude glanced to the ceiling as he pondered the question. “Well, I wouldn’t desert my union brothers,” he said at last. “The ones who still care, anyway. And besides, I need to make money, don’t I?”
Jamie smiled. “Naw, you don’t have to work if you don’t want to. You don’t have to make money. If you lose your job, I’ll become the family breadwinner.”
“Oh yeah, and how are you going to earn $25 an hour?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe I could become a Pretty Woman. It worked for Julia Roberts. I bet I could make four or five hundred dollars a day easy.”
Claude turned to Joan’s spot on the couch for a ‘Don’t talk like that,’ but the couch was empty.
“You’re no whore, and you’re never going to be, and don’t ever let me hear anything like that come from your mouth again.”
Again Jamie smiled. As the two locked eyes, Claude exaggerated his scowl. Jamie tapped an index finger twice on the table.
“All right, then maybe I could earn $25 an hour scratching my ass on a forklift, sassing off to the boss, messing up every order I handle, and swaggering like a dolt the whole time I’m doing it. Sound better?”
Claude picked up the cards and fired them onto the floor. He knocked over his chair as he left the room.
Jamie held the microphone to her own mouth. “Interview concluded.”
#
Joan heard Claude go out the front door and peeked through the window in time to see him start his truck and pull out of the driveway. She assumed he was headed for a bar and returned to making cranberry bread.
In fact, Claude did not go to a bar. He drove to a little park on one end of Blackstone Boulevard and sat on a bench. Children played in a trickling fountain. Young couples sunbathed on blankets. Joggers stretched before hitting the running trail.
For two hours Claude slouched on the same bench. People came and went, but he didn’t notice. Thoughts ran through his head, but not the usual thoughts, of women and winning money. Different thoughts. Thoughts about his daughter. Thoughts about warnings. Thoughts about management and babysitting and Jamie’s senior prom a year hence and about her graduation not long after that. Thoughts about Schulke and Shepard.
After two hours of resting his head against the low back of a park bench, Claude sat up straight. He smiled. He nodded to himself. When he stood to return home, he even whistled.
Chapter 17
On Monday Claude arrived at the stores department at 6:25, earlier than anyone. Although he turned on the lights and unlocked the office, he left the bay grates down. Scotty arrived next. Without yelling a “who’s there” or even peeking into the office, Scotty went to a small table near the back door, where he pencilled changes to an old entry-level posting. With Nick’s departure all but official, the union would soon begin accepting bids to replace him, and Scotty wanted to get a head start on the posting so it would be ready when the go-ahead came. Nick’s actual replacement would come from within the stores department through automatic progression, leaving an open spot at the bottom of the roster to be filled by the bidder with the most company seniority, and as shop steward Scotty was responsible for updating the posting, putting it on the bulletin board, making sure it came down at the end of the tenth business day, unlocking and emptying the bid box, and arranging the slips in order of seniority to see who would be awarded the job. Technically, announcement of the award came from the department supervisor, but in practice the supervisor was last to know. Because Scotty had scheduled vacation time in three weeks, he hoped the posting would go up in a day or two so he’d be around to take down the posting and arrange the slips. After handling so many thankless tasks as shop steward in stores, Scotty didn’t want one of the fun ones to pass him by.
Frank and John showed up next, but after punching in they headed for the cafeteria. Claude entered invoices into the computer. He heard footsteps on the cement and looked around the corner to see who it was, but when he caught a glimpse of Elton he returned to his seat and the stack of invoices. At two minutes before seven Claude heard more footsteps, and tried to figure out whose they were. If they were Schulke’s, he wanted to stay at the computer. A loud punch of the time clock told Claude it wasn’t the boss, confirmed for sure when Warren poked his head through the door.
“Darezzo call in?” Warren said.
“Nope, and I’ve been here since 6:25. Punch him in.”
A clock punch later, Claude’s index fingers tapped wildly at the keyboard, but Warren didn’t return. Darezzo breezed through the office at 7:15 to see if Schulke’d been after him, and Frank popped in to chat a minute with Claude before heading to the crane, but neither stayed long. Schulke didn’t appear at all.
At 9, Scotty leaned through the door and called Claude for break.
“Pick me up a coffee, will you?” Claude said.
“You sure?” Scotty said.
“Yeah. I’m almost done here. Whipped off almost the whole pile just today. No sense stopping now. Cream and sugar.”
While the gang was at break a truck pulled into one of the bays, and with nobody in sight the driver tooted his horn, bringing Claude from the office.
“Good morning,” Claude called as he strode toward the dock. “What are you bringing us?”
“Two boxes of longscrews. Special order.”
“Yeah, we’re running low,” Claude said.
After signing for the order, Claude loaded the two fifty-pound boxes onto a dolly, wheeled them toward a green cabinet in the back, opened the cabinet door, and slid the dolly from beneath the boxes. With his pocket knife he sliced the brown tape at both ends of the box, then folded up the knife up and returned it to his pocket. He rummaged through the styrofoam peanuts for the first packet of longscrews, but when he turned toward the cabinet he saw someone had put cheater clips where the longscrews belonged. He dropped to his knees and pulled eight packs of cheater clips from the cabinet. At the very bottom, he found a packet of longscrews, which he pulled out too. Claude stacked the new packets of longscrews in the cabinet, placing the old packet on top, then gathered the clips in his arms and took them to the next aisle to store them where they belonged.
Break came and went and the guys returned to the department and Claude finished the coffee, his second of the morning, without seeing Schulke. When he’d done every invoice in the pile, he went through the new delivery of mail, putting Schulke’s big stack on his chair, placing the much-thinner sta
ck for his co-workers into the correct mail cubbies, and culling the invoices, arranging the dozen or so sheets of paper in alphabetical order so his computer work would move a little easier. Before he started entering the invoices, however, he needed to make a trip to the men’s room. As he headed for the toilet, he winked at Darezzo and Warren as they lounged near the empty loading dock.
From the other end of the building, where he’d tagged a pair of regulators requested by substation, Elton walked to the office and, unaware of where Claude had been working, sat in front of the computer to play a game of solitaire. Before he loaded the game onto the screen, though, Schulke walked into the office through the other door. After he dropped his satchel on his desk and hung his jacket on the rack, Schulke paused a minute to stare at the inbox near Elton.
“Hey,” Schulke said, “nice job on that stack of invoices. It’s good to see someone around here who gives a shit. Good work, Elton.”
“Thanks boss,” Elton said.
A moment later, Claude returned, said good morning to Schulke, and gave a thumb to Elton to get out of his chair.
“I was working here,” Claude said.
Elton sniffed. As he stood up, he rolled his eyes toward Schulke, who smiled and nodded in agreement.
Claude said good morning to Schulke and Schulke waved in return. Once he settled into the chair in front of the computer, Claude started in on the remaining invoices. As he typed, Scotty came into the office, posting in hand, and picked up the phone next to Claude.
“Hi Jim,” he said after dialing, “this is Scotty. Yeah, any word on the posting to replace Nick? I’ve changed the dates and updated it to reflect the new recycling policy, so it’s all ready to go...I don’t know...He hasn’t been around here in a couple days, but I don’t know if that means he’s started in overhead. I guess he could’ve started, I just haven’t seen him...Well, I’m going on vacation in three weeks, so I’d like to get this up and down before then, if possible...Sure...Okay, good...Okay, good...All right, if I don’t hear from you, I’ll put it on the board before noon. Take it easy. Bye.”
Scotty sat at the computer next to Claude and popped a disk into the slot. He called up a file containing the roster postings—one-page job descriptions announcing an open position —and began making corrections. Schulke looked at the backs of the two heads. He stood up, started to speak, sat down, and started to speak again. He realized the longer he waited the more unnatural he comments would seem.
“Was that Shepard?” Schulke said at last, eyes pinned to desk as if he were busy with something else.
Scotty turned around. “Yeah. He’s going to check with Feeney to see if Nick’s started his new job yet.”
“Has Shepard spoken to Mr. Clarke?”
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know, just wondering,” Schulke said. “I do know that Nick hasn’t started in overhead yet, so you might want to hold off on that posting.”
“Is Nick coming back here?” Scotty said.
“Well, no, I gave him vacation time,” Schulke said. “So, officially, he’s still with us.”
Claude overheard the conversation and stopped typing. He and Scotty looked at each other and wrinkled their brows.
“Nick gave you two weeks notice, right?” Scotty said.
“Um, I think so,” Schulke said.
“You think so? Did he or didn’t he?”
“He did.”
“Then what’s the problem? We can put up the posting. It stays on the board for ten business days. By the time it comes down, Nick will be in overhead and the new person can start here as soon as he’s released by his own department.”
As both Scotty and Claude watched, Schulke’s eyes wandered the floor as he nodded his head slowly. At last Schulke stood, though he didn’t immediately walk anywhere.
“Ok,” he said. “That’s fine, I suppose. That’s fine. Put the posting up unless you hear different from Shepard. That’s fine. Ok, I’ve got a meeting to run to. I’ll be back.”
After he left, Scotty turned to Claude. “Something’s up.”
Chapter 18
The day after her last exam of the semester, Jamie worked a new pair of black panty hose onto her feet, pulled them up over her legs to her waist, and slipped a black dress over her head. Although it was a size five, the dress hung a little loose, but after twisting in front of the mirror for a few seconds, Jamie decided it was fine. It had no buttons, no lace, no fancy stitching, no plunges one way or the other, just a simple dress hemmed above the knee, with sleeves halfway to the elbow and a zipper in the back, a piece of black cloth cut to the shape of an adolescent girl and nothing more. Perfect.
Jamie fired a brush through her hair, first the right hemisphere and then the left, and slid into a pair of black pumps. After taking inventory of her small purse, she rumbled down the stairs. Since it was nice out, she wouldn’t need a coat.
She walked the quarter mile to the bus stop and waited for the number four heading downtown, where she could switch to the number six. The six took her to the worst part of the city, past buildings burned but not rebuilt, past street corner gatherings of men already drinking beer at 10 a.m. on a weekday, past rimless backboards atop rusty poles in grassless, empty parks.
At Grehoski Street, Jamie stepped from the bus in front of a large brick building, a one-time factory converted for use by the white-collar service industry. A glass entryway led to a small atrium, which led to the building proper. Jamie stepped up to a list of occupants and ran her finger from the top until she found “Dixwell Center, second floor.”
The Dixwell Center coordinated work assignments for people with mental or physical disabilities. Each business day, a small fleet of Dixwell vans picked up clients from the region’s group homes and brought them to the center, where they were split into groups and given jobs to do. The jobs, usually menial, came from local companies with either a desire to support a worthwhile community endeavor or a desire to get grunt work done for as little as half the minimum wage, a standard approved by the state legislature. Most of the 128 clients were thrilled to earn $150 a week. All but five lived in state-operated group homes, where room, board, and a small allowance were provided by Rhode Island taxpayers. Those who didn’t live in group homes came from fairly well-to-do families who declined to institutionalize them but were happy to enroll them in a program that built self-esteem, kept them occupied during the day, and at week’s end handed them a little money to spend.
Rather than wait for the elevator Jamie took the nearest stairs to the second floor. She arrived at a glass door marked Dixwell Center, pushed it open, and approached the receptionist.
“Hi, I’m Jamie Amognes,” she said. “I have an appointment with Mrs. Tagaki.”
“Yes, Ms. Amognes, eleven o’clock,” the twenty-something gentleman in blue jeans and a polo shirt said. “You’re a little early, but please have a seat. I’ll let her know you’re here.”
Before Jamie could nestle into a good magazine, a thin, dark-haired woman in blue jeans and a blue, lightweight sweater emerged from a nearby office.
“Jamie Amognes? I’m Evelyn Tagaki.”
Jamie stood, and they shook hands. “I’m a little early, Mrs. Tagaki,” Jamie said.
“Call me Evelyn,” the woman said, “and don’t worry, we never have a problem with anyone prone to be early.”
She smiled, and led Jamie into the office. It was small. A mayoral proclamation hanging behind the desk made October 2, 1988, Dixwell Center Day in Greater Providence. A dozen certificates and photos of people shaking hands also adorned the walls, and as Evelyn sat down Jamie turned full circle to check them out.
“Please, have a seat,” Evelyn said. “Now, I understand from Roxanne Allen that you’re someone we can count on. Is that true?”
Jamie nodded, and Evelyn smiled.
“Good. Our staffers here are excellent, and if you ever have a situation you don’t feel you can handle, all you need to do is turn to one
of them. You’ll see that once you start. None of our clients are dangerous, but some do have behaviors, so it’s important to keep calm and use good judgement. We’ll show you a few tricks that help, but really it’s your own personality that’ll determine how well you do. Most people either love the job from day one or hate it completely.”
Once Evelyn gave Jamie an overview of the center, she took Jamie on a tour of the two floors used by Dixwell. The bottom floor housed the main work area, a one-room space clustered with round tables and small plastic chairs. As they went from group to group, Evelyn introduced Jamie to each job coach, who in turn introduced Jamie to the clients in the group, who in turn introduced themselves to Jamie. At the third group, one of the female clients looked at Jamie through thick eyeglasses and tugged her dress.
“Are you going to work here?” the client said.
“I don’t know,” Jamie said. “I hope so.”
Evelyn leaned down to be close to the client’s face. “We haven’t gotten to that point yet, but I think there’s a good chance you’ll be seeing Jamie around here this summer. Would you like that?”
“Yes,” the client said. “I want her to work with us.”
“Well maybe she will,” Evelyn said. “Why don’t you tell her what you’re doing, so she’ll know all about it. But first, you have to tell her your name, silly.”
“My name is Virginia,” the client said. “This is the plastic bag we use. We put six of these screws into the bag, and six of the nuts into the bag. Then we put two of the blue plastic caps into the bag, two of the green plastic caps into the bag, and two of the black plastic caps into the bag. These are important parts of building a bike. If we don’t do our jobs right, little kids can’t ride their bikes. That’s why they have us do it, to do it right. Then, see this little red line here on top of the bag? If you squeeze it like this, all along the top, it closes the bag. Then you do the next one.”
Virginia smiled and both Evelyn and the coach clapped. At the conclusion of the tour, Evelyn and Jamie returned to Evelyn’s office, where Evelyn offered Jamie the job.
“My apologies if you expected a formal interview and a line of other applicants trying to beat you to the job,” Evelyn said. “The truth is, we only have two candidates for two positions, but Roxanne Allen and I have known each other for years, way back to when we were fresh out of college working in our first group home, and she says you and Betty have been best friends since grade school and that you’re a fine young woman, and that’s really all the recommendation I need. Most high school students would rather take the extra dollar-fifty an hour to work at the mall and socialize with their friends, so when we find someone who doesn’t mind minimum wage, and who seems compassionate about the people we serve, we don’t futz around. If you want the job, you can start tomorrow.”
The Jig of the Union Loller Page 13