Claude scowled and stared toward an empty corner of the office.
“All right,” Schulke said. “Your decision-making leave begins now. You will report to me at 7 a.m. Thursday morning to communicate your decision. If you do not appear at that time, your employment will be terminated.”
As Schulke searched his satchel for a pen, Claude got up and left without looking to anyone. Schulke moved to call him back, but Shepard shook his head.
“Don’t bother, Tom,” he said.
“But I didn’t finish,” Schulke said. “He has the right to submit a rebuttal.”
Schulke shrugged his shoulders. “Well, you guys can sign. If Claude comes back, he can sign then.”
PART II
Chapter 26
As Claude stormed across the parking lot to his truck, he turned and gave the finger to the building he just left. After backing his truck from its spot, he held the clutch low and jammed down the accelerator, announcing his departure with a blaze of screech and smoke.
Claude turned onto Broad Street, a busy city avenue, raced the truck up to 60, and weaved between lanes to avoid slower vehicles. He slammed on his brakes when the car in front of him stopped at a red light, and raced up to 60 again when the light turned green. He slowed near the Dub, and yelled an obscenity at the smiling leprechaun with the black horns. All that had happened, from Schulke’s announcement about the urine sample to the decision making leave, spurred within Claude a desire to drink. He headed downtown to find a dump where he could get blitzed without running into anyone from Rhode Island Electric.
Claude parked in a free lot near the State House and walked toward the center of the city. Through sunglasses he saw young families eating at boulevard cafes, Ivy League students reading on lawns, and well-attired businesspeople barking orders into cell phones as they checked their watches and waited for white pedestrian signs to light up so they could cross the avenues.
Ten minutes later, on streets too narrow to escape the shadows of the buildings on either side, Claude saw a bearded man in tattered fatigues raise his head from the sidewalk to plead for a dollar. A block later, a fat woman in a mini-skirt and fish-net stockings, her eyelids covered in purple mascara, asked if he wanted a date. As he looked upstreet to avoid her eyes, he noticed a short, young, bald man walking directly toward him. It was a game of gangland chicken, in which the weaker man veered off to avoid a collision. Bring it on, thought Claude. The young man leapt to the side at the last moment, brushing Claude’s arm, and although Claude turned to invite a confrontation, the man continued walking without looking back.
Claude stopped at a motorcycle parked against a building. The handle end of a broken pool cue propped open a great wooden door next to the bike, and when Claude peered to the darkness beyond the door he saw the white faces of three men on barstools and the white shirt, face, and arms of a bartender filling a mug under a tap.
He walked in and without sitting down ordered a beer and a shot of Wild Turkey. The bartender handed a mug to a large man wearing a leather vest over a black tee shirt. He filled a second mug from the tap and slid it to Claude as he dug beneath the bar for a bottle of Wild Turkey. After pouring the shot, he set it before Claude, who grabbed it and downed it.
“Another,” Claude said.
The four men stared at him. Claude returned their gaze, then pulled out his wallet and set $30 on the bar.
“Friends,” he said. “Join me.”
Claude took his beer and moved down the bar as the bartender poured five more shots. The men clinked their glasses and swallowed the booze in single gulps, except the bartender, who drank his in four sips without removing the cigarette from the left side of his mouth.
“Claude Amognes,” Claude said, extending his hand to the man in the vest.
“Trevor Botsford,” the man said, taking Claude’s hand. “Bots. This is Hal Rhodes and Malcolm Knox. Across the bar is Walt.”
The men shook hands with Claude. Bots stood, and was almost tall enough to hit his head on a metal pipe hanging a foot below the ceiling. He wore leather gloves without fingers, and on his forearm had a tattoo of an eagle wearing an eye patch.
Hal, now seated closest to Claude, wore horn-rimmed glasses of an earlier vintage and plaid polyester pants. Although Claude couldn’t be sure at first glance, it appeared Hal had incorrectly matched the buttons and buttonholes of his shirt. On the bar in front of Hal, a round black ash tray held a pile of cigarette butts.
Aside from the spectacles, Walt looked like an older Hal. Wrinkle rays ran from his eyes to his sideburns. On his arms, skin sagged where muscles once held it from the bone. Although he combed his hair thoroughly, he hadn’t washed it in days, perhaps a week, giving it an extra-black sheen that highlighted the dandruff captured by the grease. He wore a white, short-sleeved shirt that looked bigger than his skinny neck, sunken chest, and thin arms required.
At the rounded corner of the bar sat Malcolm, the only man—now including Claude—not smoking. Malcolm wore a dark blue polo shirt with a gold-colored watch. He had brown, neatly-trimmed hair, brown eyes, a solid build, and a face without wrinkles or hint of five o’clock shadow. Claude placed him in his late forties.
“What brings you here,” Malcolm said as Claude drained half his beer, “with such a ravenous thirst?”
“My fucking boss and my fucking union,” Claude said. “My boss is screwing me out of a job, and the union president’s sucking his dick while he does it.”
“What union are you in?” Malcolm said.
“Union of Utility Workers, Local 7917,” Claude said. “Down at Rhode Island Electric.”
“Ah, the electric company,” Malcolm said. “The greatest source of patronage and nepotism in the state. Did your father work there?”
“He was president of the union. How did you know?”
“Lucky guess,” Malcolm said.
“I hate them bastards,” Bots said. “Always shutting off my electricity when I’m a day late with my payment. Who made them God? They can charge whatever they want, and I gotta pay it or have no power.”
“I hear you,” Claude said, noticing the slur in Bots’s speech. “Management is looking to squeeze every penny they can from working joes like us. It isn’t enough to make a simple profit. They have to get rich. And we’re the ones who get screwed.”
“I’d like to cut their damn throats,” Bots said.
Bots chugged the remainder of his beer and set the empty mug on the rail.
“Gotta go,” he said. “Nice meeting ya, Claude. Come again.”
“Careful on that bike,” Walt said.
“No problem,” Bots said with a smile.
When Bots left, Claude got up and took a stool between Malcolm and Hal. Walt retrieved a half-empty ash tray and placed it near Claude.
“Sometimes he’s a scary fella, that Bots,” Malcolm said. “But he’s got a heart of gold. That’s why he’s in so much trouble all the time. Always willing to help someone who’s worse off than he is, and always loyal to a friend, even if he has to break a law or two to be so.”
“Big,” Claude said.
“So what’s your trouble at work?” Malcolm said. “If your father was head of the union, that should count for something, shouldn’t it?”
“It should, but it doesn’t. My father’s enemies ganged up on him and forced him out a long time ago. Even though he’s dead in his grave, they keep after me to settle the score with him. My boss was an enemy. You think after all these years he’d let it drop, but no, he’s still out to get me.”
“How so?”
“Well, for one thing, he’s always moving things around in the stockroom where we work, hoping I’ll give the wrong equipment to the linemen. Sometimes, if someone screws up and nobody admits doing it, I get the blame. Or how about this: one of the guys I go fishing with got arrested for stealing wire at 2 a.m. He had drugs in his car when the cops nabbed him, but passed a drug test two days before. My boss figured, well, obviously Cla
ude gave him urine so he could pass the drug test. No evidence at all. Just called the union president to the office, and five minutes later the two of them had my suspension papers all drawn up and ready to go.”
Claude slammed his palm on the bar. “Dammit,” he cried. “I bust my ass all day long, and this is what I get to show for it?”
“How long’s the suspension for?” Walt said.
“Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday,” Claude said. “What time do you open?”
Walt smiled. “Eleven. First beer is half price.”
“Geez Walt,” Malcolm said, “the guy’s losing three days’ pay, and that’s the only discount you’re giving him?”
“Oh no,” Claude said. “My suspension is with pay.”
Malcolm and Walt couldn’t believe it. Hal was so intoxicated he held the brass rail with both hands and gazed non-stop at the butt-filled ash tray.
“Well, then, I guess you’re buying Monday,” Malcolm said.
Claude smiled broadly and ordered shots for himself, Malcolm, and Walt. Malcolm balked at more Wild Turkey, so Claude called for tequila instead. When the shots were gone, Malcolm announced he was going down the street for a sandwich, and invited Claude along. Walt asked for a ham and cheese sub, and said he’d pay them in beer when they returned.
It was only 2:30, so Claude wasn’t hungry, but went anyway. Malcolm led him to a small pizza place between two pornography shops. When they came out, Claude turned toward the bar, but Malcolm whistled him in another direction.
“Too nice out here to eat in there, with all the smoke and everything,” he said. “Walt won’t mind waiting. There’s a nice plaza up the street. We can sit and eat, watch people go by, and shoot the breeze.”
They walked seven blocks without speaking until they arrived at the plaza, where workers from a nearby insurance company chatted in small groups, smoked on benches, and soaked in the sun. Malcolm and Claude found an empty bench, sat down, and unwrapped their sandwiches. Malcolm hadn’t purchased a beverage, and Claude, figuring they were heading from the pizza parlor straight back to the bar, hadn’t either.
“I like this place,” Malcolm said. “Very mellow. And some of the women are beautiful.”
“It sure beats where I work,” Claude said.
They ate, and watched people pass. The cool breeze blew Claude’s napkin away, but he didn’t chase it.
“So,” Claude said, “are you from around here?”
“Not originally, no,” Malcolm said. “I lived in Pennsylvania most of my life, and just moved out here a year ago. My sister lives across the bay, and always spoke highly of it, so when it was time for me to make some changes I decided to give Rhode Island a try. So far, I like it. The people are a little colder than in other parts of the country, but so far so good. I can’t complain.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“I used to drive trains,” Malcolm said. “I’m a union man myself, you know. National Union of Locomotive Engineers. Got my first job with a railroad at 18, and rode trains east of the Mississippi for the next 29 years. But then it got to be a hassle. Flying became relatively inexpensive. The bus companies finally got their acts together. Railroads stopped making money like they once did, and we paid the price. The pay was still good, but the hours got longer and longer, and the working conditions went to hell. I got sick of it, so I decided to do a jig.”
“A dance?” Claude said.
“No, no. You ever fish?”
“All the time.”
“Then you know how to use a jig. You find something they think is real. You wave it in their faces, nice and slow. Entice them. Get them to believe. When they believe, they’ll swallow, and when they swallow—bang!—you’ve got them hooked. At that point it doesn’t matter if they swallowed something real or just a decoy. You’ve got them, and no amount of wriggling will set them free.”
“I’m not following you,” Claude said. “Might be the tequila.”
“I looked through my union contract until I found the equivalent of a shiny lure.”
“And?”
“And I jigged ’em. I’m out on disability. I get 75% of my pay and free health care until I turn 65. All the time I earn credit toward my pension based on the going wage for my job classification. At 65, I collect under the federal railroad retirement system and have my Medicare and medigap plans paid for for life. When I need cash, I paint a couple houses, under the table. All in all, I get the same pay for a tenth of the work, and no all night runs from Pittsburgh to Washington five times a week.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your disability?”
“Symptoms of headaches. Awful, terrible headache symptoms. At work, I used to double over and writhe on the floor.”
“Sounds rough,” Claude said. “Do you think they’ll ever be able to cure them?”
Malcolm laughed, and slapped Claude on the shoulder.
“That’s the beauty of it,” he said. “No trains, no symptoms.”
“Hell, what was it about trains that gave you headaches?”
“I never said I had headaches,” Malcolm said. “I only said symptoms of headaches showed themselves when I was on a train. And they did, as my coworkers attested. Once word reached company headquarters that I was rolling around the floor clutching my temples, no doctor in the world was going to put me in control of a train again, not with the potential liability and bad press if there were ever an accident. No way. Every test they ran me through showed nothing, but once they even investigated, it was over. Jigged. They could fight me on principle, if they wanted, but they had so little to gain for so much to lose that, in the end, they played it safe and approved my disability. From their angle, it was the right decision. And I must say it hasn’t worked out badly for me, either.”
#
As he and Malcolm approached the great wooden door on the walk back to the bar, Claude noticed a small sign above it: Victory Tavern. When they entered, Walt rinsed glasses in the sink. Hal looked up from the ash tray, and the effort nearly knocked him off his stool.
“Here’s your sub,” Malcolm said. “And a stick of beef jerky, special for you.”
“Thanks,” Walt said. “Couple of beers?”
“You bet.”
“Hey Walt,” Claude said. “Tell me why I should drink at the Victory Tavern.”
Walt scratched more dandruff into his hair. “Well, let’s see. We’ve got a beautiful wall, there, as you can see. The paneling on the bottom is a fine example of mid-seventies style, and the wallpaper above it, you might say, harkens one back to a simpler time. We have several sturdy stools, both practical and decorative, and a hardwood bar with a genuine brass-colored rail. If you look beyond Malcolm you’ll notice two small tables—lovers tables we call them—perfect for retreating from the busy bar scene with your wife or hooker. Over here, of course, we have the alcohol, and up here, television. Oh, and Hal attracts celebrities by the dozen, though he’s too modest to brag about it. Go ahead, try to get him to brag.”
Hal’s stare remained fixed on the bar. He smiled, though, indicating he understood but didn’t, at the moment, have the ability to reply.
“I’m sold,” Claude said. He clinked beer mugs with Malcolm and lit another cigarette.
“Did you bring family with you from Pennsylvania?” he said to Malcolm.
“No. I’m mostly solo. I got married late, at 34, and by then I was already set in my ways. Lasted five years, but the good news is my ex and I are still friends. She even visited for a week earlier this summer.”
“That’s kind of weird,” Claude said.
“Not really. When our divorce was final I decided to treat her as I did when we were boyfriend-girlfriend, because those days were great. And it worked. I’m a terrific boyfriend, lots of fun two or three times a week. I’m just not so good at the long haul, the every hour of every day thing. I like time to myself. I like to golf when I want to, and read when I want to. If I want to show up here at noon and drink u
ntil I’m nearly blind, I do.”
“Lucky stiff,” Claude said, exhaling smoke.
“Well, I am lucky, and I realize it. I know the lifestyle only works because I’m still able to attract women for the amount of time I want them. Believe me, as much as I love my freedom, I don’t ever want to be lonely. It’s the worst. If I weren’t able to make friends, or if I had to go eight or nine months between dates, I’d be a lot more willing to try marriage again. I’ve dated some great women since I came to Rhode Island, and haven’t had to give up my freedom. So yeah, I’m a very lucky stiff.”
Hal rose from his stool and wobbled in place. He ran the fingertips of his left hand from his belly button to his left shoulder, and kept his hand in place, like a one-armed chicken taking a standing eight count.
“Got to go to the bathroom?” Walt said. “How about you fellas help him down the steps.”
Claude and Malcolm walked with Hal until he reached the top of the small stairway leading to the single bathroom. As he began to descend they each took an arm to prevent him from toppling forward. At the bathroom door, Claude halted, but Malcolm continued in with Hal.
When they returned, Hal walked on his own.
“Watch,” Malcolm said to Claude, “he won’t drink for another three hours. Then when he’s just about coherent again, he’ll go right back at it. Goes from trashed to sober and back two or three times in the same day.”
“Not good.”
“I know,” Malcolm said. “That’s what I was talking about upstairs. Marriage doesn’t look so good when it gets in the way of golf and theater and running around with bright, beautiful women. But it looks real good compared to a life like this.”
They helped Hal back to his stool. When he was centered firmly, Malcolm put his nose near the top of Hal’s ear.
The Jig of the Union Loller Page 20