The Jig of the Union Loller

by Michael Burnham

  “You might as well try the hardware store or shoe factory,” Shepard said, “because you can’t work here.”

  Now Claude said nothing. He leaned forward and put an elbow on his knee and a hand on his hip. He looked to the corner of the office. The lips above his teeth tightened.

  “Dammit, Jim,” he said, “when is this union ever going to work for me? Why does it always work against its own members, time after time? You know it wasn’t like this when my father ran things. Back then the union took care of its own. Back then being in a union meant something.”

  Shepard clasped his fingers together and set them atop his head, his elbows pointed out, his snug polo shirt showing the flabby contours of his belly.

  “My father was loyal to his members,” Claude continued. “He was the best fighter this union ever had. You could be the same kind of fighter, Jim. You could sit down at the table and show the brass who’s in charge here, and believe me, everyone will be behind you, from the line shed all the way to the national office. I know you can get me back if you want to.”

  “Well thank you, Claude,” Shepard said softly. “You know, in many ways your father was indeed a master. He certainly knew how to get the bombast to work in his favor—no one will ever match him in that regard. And for the most part he understood power and politics. He knew when to squeeze, and he knew when to let the people in his clutches have a breath. He knew his limits.”

  “He was the best,” Claude said.

  “Except once,” Shepard said. “He went against his better judgement one time, when he went out on a limb for you. Although I don’t really know, I suspect Jackie understood what he was up against that time, understood there was a good chance the limb would break and he’d come a-tumbling down. Oh he’d never admit it, because people will only follow you if they see conviction in your every movement, but he was no dummy. He had to see it.

  “And that’s what separates him from you. You don’t see anything as it really is. That agreement you signed has nothing to do with any disability—you don’t even have a goddamn disability, and never did, and everyone knows it. It was bullshit from the word go, but you know what? It was convenient. In the end, it was convenient, a convenient way to get rid of a problem employee, an indolent fuckup who didn’t work hard, sassed off to everyone, and thought whatever passed his lips was the uncontestable truth, no matter how ridiculous, no matter how out and out stupid.”

  “Watch it, pal,” Claude said. “You’re treading on a lawsuit.”

  “Shut up Bugsy,” Shepard said. “What kind of idiot do you think I am? You think you can walk in here after all this time off, with benefits and a big bonus, and get your job back? No fuss, no muss? Well I’m not fucking insane. You spent twenty years giving this union a bad name, and now that you’re gone nobody wants you back—and don’t confuse that with my ability to get you back. Sure, I could get you back. If you were Junior, you’d be back already, because I’d crawl to Munson on my knees and lick his damn bootsoles to get Junior back, because Junior busts his black ass for this company. He cares about his job, he cares about everyone he works with, union or management, and he’s earned my respect, and that’s why I’d put my career on the line to save Junior. But put myself on the line to save you? Hell no. Shit, I’d be as embarrassed to suggest it to management as you should be to suggest it to me. You’re a laughingstock, and you’re never going to work at Rhode Island Electric again. And you know the best thing? You’ll spend the rest of your life blaming me or Schulke or Clarke or MacGibbon, when the person who’s really to blame is you, Claude Amognes. Now get the hell out of my office.”

  Claude rose from the chair and stormed out the door. Shepard beamed. He folded his arms on his chest for a moment, then lifted his feet and spun his chair in a complete circle, head back, fists to the ceiling.

  “I love being union president,” he called to the empty room.

  #

  Claude returned home. After brooding in the family room for the rest of the afternoon, Claude counted the bills in his wallet and headed for the Dub. At the bar sat two joes from the neighborhood. At the back table sat three linemen from Rhode Island Electric: Jeff Ostrom, Desi Curtis, and Chuckie “Bubba” Nason. Claude took a seat at the bar.

  “Howdy stranger,” Maury said as he placed a coaster in front of Claude. “I hear you’re home with a disability now. What’s the matter, doctor cut beer from your diet?”

  “Nope,” Claude said. “Gimme an Old Dawkins on draft and a shot of Wild Turkey.”

  Claude fired down the shot, and the beer almost as fast. He ordered another of each.

  “Now that’s the Bugsy we all know and love,” Maury said. “So what have you been up to?”

  “Not much.”

  “Done any fishing?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well that’s not like you. You’re usually pulling ‘em out of the lake one after the other. You mean to say you’ve had all this free time and haven’t even taken the rod from the garage?”

  “A little.”

  Maury set the new beer onto a coaster and the new shot on the bar. Claude drained the Wild Turkey, following it with a long swig of beer.

  Maury started to talk about an ice fishing excursion he and some friends made the previous weekend, but Claude didn’t react. Maury waved a palm past Claude’s face.

  “Sorry Maury. What was that again?”

  “That’s okay, buddy,” Maury said. “I can see you’re not in the mood for conversation. Let me know when you’re ready for another.”

  “I will.”

  Claude drank quietly and stared at the television. A half hour later, Jeff set two empty pitchers on the bar and asked Maury for refills.

  “Hey, Bugsy,” Jeff said. “How’s it going?”

  “What’s it to you?” Claude said.

  Jeff recoiled slightly. “Say what?”

  “If it wasn’t for pricks like you I’d still be at the company. You had no right to run to Schulke like a schoolgirl and shove it up my ass because someone else screwed up and put 477s on the wrong shelf. If you were half a man instead of a dink, my daughter’d still be living at home now.”

  “Fucking Bugsy, that was a fucking year ago.”

  “Piss off.”

  Jeff collected the pitchers and paid Maury, but kept an eye on Claude as he turned toward the back table. Claude sipped his beer and looked at the television.

  Fifteen minutes later, Desi slid onto the barstool next to Claude. “Hey man, I don’t know what you said to Jeff, but he’s steaming. You’d better watch yourself.”

  “Fuck him,” Claude said.

  “I’m just telling you. Jeff’s had a few tonight.”

  “If he’s got a problem, I’m right here. He can submit his grievance in person.”

  Desi returned to the table, and not long after he sat down the three men erupted in laughter. Jeff began making loud bird calls and animal noises, with Bubba echoing each sound and Desi howling with laughter.

  “Chickies,” Jeff sang, “chickies for Jeffy. Who has chickie babies for me-too-dee-too tonight?”

  He downed his beer and turned toward Claude. “Hey Bugsy,” he said in a loud voice. “Daughter left home, eh? Too bad. I bet she has a nice tight pussy. Why don’t you bring her over so I can bang her a couple of times. Whaddya say, for old times sake?”

  Claude fixed his stare on the television and drank from his mug.

  “Is she a fuckup like her poppa?” Jeff said. “Does she know where to put a thick, ten-inch piece of wire, ‘cause I’ve got some thick wire and I’ll be happy to show her where it goes.”

  Maury drew a finger across his throat to tell Jeff to stop. Claude put the mug down and smacked his lips, but refrained from looking Jeff’s way.

  “Leave him alone,” Desi said.

  “You’re right,” Jeff said. “Poor guy. Scared of spiders. Pig for a wife. Whore for a daughter. Hey Bugsy, maybe if you send your daughter around the office on her knees, She
pard will put in a good word for you with Clarke and Munson. You know, you get your job back, and she gets a tummyful of brotherly love.”

  Claude picked up his mug and fired it at Jeff. He missed, and the glass shattered against the back wall. Everything went quiet. Claude charged Jeff and landed a left on Jeff’s cheek and a hard right to his chest as Jeff struggled to free his legs from beneath the table. Jeff grabbed Claude’s throat with both hands as he took Claude’s punches to the face, and in Bubba’s haste to get between Jeff and Claude Bubba sent a full pitcher of beer crashing to the floor. At last Jeff gained his balance, freed his right hand, and whaled Claude on the side of the head. Claude shielded himself from the pummeling by tucking his head under his own left arm as best he could, and rained rights at Jeff’s eye, but the bigger, younger Jeff used leverage to gain the best punching position and pounded Claude with vicious shots to the nose before Desi, Bubba, and Maury pulled the two men apart.

  Blood poured from Claude’s nose. Already his eyes puffed up and began turning color. Maury sat him on a barstool and went to get a towel and some ice. Claude stared at Jeff, but Jeff stood with his back to the bar as he straightened himself out and assessed the damage. He felt sore around the eyes but didn’t seem to be bleeding, and although his right hand trembled he could make a fist and open it without pain, so all in all Jeff concluded he’d emerged from the fray in better shape than Claude. With a flick of the head, Jeff signaled for Bubba and Desi to leave with him.

  Bubba led the way, and Desi held Jeff by the arm as the two left the table area. Jeff refused to look at Claude and Claude refused to look anywhere but at Jeff as they passed. When Desi and Jeff were two steps beyond him, Claude picked an empty mug from the bar and slammed it into the back of Jeff’s head.

  The mug exploded, and Jeff hit the floor. Blood formed a puddle before anyone moved. Maury dialed 911 and screamed for Claude to get to the back of the bar, and after hanging up the phone rushed to Jeff with more towels to press against the cut. Claude, still holding the handle of the broken mug, moved slowly to a back table and sat down. The two neighborhood joes sat wordless and watched. Before long, an ambulance arrived, and the emergency medical technicians applied temporary stitches, controlled the bleeding, and loaded Jeff into the vehicle. Bubba climbed in to accompany Jeff to the hospital. Desi turned and walked toward Claude, who bristled at the approach.

  “Don’t want trouble,” Desi said. “Just making sure you stay put until the cops get here.”

  The ambulance siren went on and the remaining Dub patrons listened to the pitch change as the vehicle moved through the city toward the nearest hospital. Two police officers, one tall and one short, descended the steps. Maury walked over to them and explained. The tall one jotted notes into a pad while the other nodded and cast an occasional glance toward Claude.

  The tall officer finished his notes, flipped the book closed, and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. Both he and his partner walked toward Claude. When they reached him, the tall officer took the mug handle and read Claude his rights. The short officer stepped behind Claude, handcuffed him, frisked him, and led him toward the door.

  “Hey,” Maury called. “He owes me for two beers and two shots.”

  The tall officer pulled Claude’s wallet from his back pocket, gave Maury a twenty, and waited while Maury made change.

  “What do you want to leave for a tip?” the officer said.

  Claude didn’t respond.

  “I’m serious,” the officer said. “What do you want to leave for a tip?”

  “Two’s enough,” Claude said.

  #

  At the police station the officers allowed Claude to clean up before they put him in a holding cell by himself. After forty-five minutes, a sergeant came to the cell. Claude lay on a cot with his face to the wall.

  “Hey pal. You want to call anyone?”

  Claude said nothing. Even when the sergeant entered the cell, Claude continued to face the wall.

  “Belting a guy when his back is turned, eh? Pretty low, Mr. Amogg-knees, pretty low. But nothing I haven’t seen before. You’ll get drunk and disorderly and simple assault, but I doubt the charges will get more serious than that. Bail will likely be $150. When you’re ready to make your phone call, let us know.”

  Claude spent the night on the cot.

  #

  At six the next morning Claude called Frank, who came down before work with the bail money. Claude asked Frank to swing by an ATM so he could use his credit card to get the $150, but by then it was 6:45 and Frank needed to get to work to punch in. Claude gave Frank the $34 in his wallet and followed him to his car to get a ride back to the truck. Along the way, Frank heard Claude’s version of the story. As he listened, Frank decided to keep the tale to himself once he reached Rhode Island Electric. Desi and Bubba would spread the word at the line shed this morning, and by noon half the UUW would be cursing Claude Amognes. Frank did not want any part, however small, in the story as it made its way around the compound. He pulled into the lot next to Pablo’s XXX Video, stopped beside Claude’s truck, and shifted into park.

  “You don’t look too good,” Frank said.

  “Don’t feel so good, either,” Claude said softly. “Hey, thanks for coming to get me. I’ll get you the rest of the money tonight.”

  “No rush, buddy.”

  “Frank, I need a damn job. You were right. You told me everything your kids have is because of the crane, and you were dead on. No crane, no nothing. But I can see now the crane isn’t just for the kids. It does a lot for you too.”

  “Yes it does.”

  “I’ve had enough of being broke, bored, and lonely. I’m sick of my chair, and sick of t.v. I may not become president of a company or president of a union, but I can be good at something, and I don’t give a shit whether it’s union or not as long as it pays a little and is something my family can be proud of. If it ain’t union work, I’ll probably be a whole lot happier. One less rope around my neck looking to hang me. And you, Frank, when it gets warm again we’re going fishing, once a month, no less than that, and to ballgames, and once in a while to a movie with the wives. I mean it, Frank, once a month, at least.”

  A smile formed slowly on Frank’s lips. “You call any time, Claude. I’m always ready. Go get your own crane, but Jesus, go to a hospital first, because your face is a mess. I’m glad to hear the way you’re talking, and I want you to know I think everything’s gonna work out fine. You’re still a young guy. You got a lot of life to live, and I’m glad you’ve decided you’re gonna live it right. Good for you. If you say giving me the money tonight is the right thing to do, okay, then I’ll make sure I’m up til midnight so you can give it to me, so the first thing you set out to do gets done right. A hundred percent right.”

  For a moment the two men looked at each other but didn’t speak. At last Frank slapped Claude atop the shoulder, and gave him a pair of shakes as they both smiled.

  “I gotta get off to the crane,” Frank said. “I’ll see you tonight and we can talk some more.”

  Claude got out of the car and Frank drove away. As he slipped behind the wheel of the truck, Claude weighed calling Joan. When he saw himself in the mirror, however, he had second thoughts. His eyes were little slits, with dark purple bulges beneath them. His nose was crooked. When he tilted back his head he saw dried blood on the rims of his nostrils, and when he tilted it upright again he saw pink welts on his cheeks and forehead.

  He backed into the street and shifted into gear. At the end of the street he stopped at a convenience store, where he used his credit card to buy three newspapers, a red pen, a cup of coffee, and a box of donuts.

  As the young woman behind the counter waited for approval of the purchase, she put as much distance as possible between herself and the swollen-faced man using a credit card for a $6.77 purchase. When she slid the slip to Claude for him to sign, a hint of smile formed on his lips.

  “You hiring?” he said.

  Chapt
er 48

  Claude drove to Home & Yard. He noticed the sun hadn’t risen high enough to melt the frost from the windshields of the two other cars in the parking lot and kept the truck running for the heater. Once he’d finished the first donut, he opened the window a crack, pushed the heater up a notch to compensate for the cold air coming in, and lit a cigarette. He had such trouble breathing through his nose, though, that he couldn’t enjoy a casual smoke with his coffee like he did most mornings. Before he’d smoked a quarter of the cigarette, he snuffed it out—carefully, so he could someday finish it—and set the remainder of the edge of the ash tray beneath the radio.

  By eight o’clock he’d been there 45 minutes and only five other cars had pulled in, but in the next five minutes the flow picked up, so he put down the third sports page and watched for Joan. At twenty past, she drove into the lot and parked on the opposite end. Claude turned off the ignition. As he stepped down from the cab, he slipped on the ice and nearly fell, so instead of running he scurried as fast as small steps would take him. It wasn’t fast enough, because Joan was about to reach for the front door.

  “Joan!” Claude called. “Wait! Joan!”

  Joan turned, but kept her hand on the front door. When she saw the person rushing toward her, she squinted into the reddish sun.

  “Claude? Is that you? Oh my, what happened to your face?”

  “Little scuffle. Listen...”

  “No,” Joan said, “I’m not listening. I have no interest in getting you out of whatever trouble you’re in. You’re on your own. You got into it, you get yourself out of it.”

  “No, no,” Claude said. “It’s not that. It’s about a job.”

  “A job? What about a job?”

  “I’m getting one.”

  Joan’s inner voice told her to get to work. But since she wasn’t quite grasping the connection between her husband’s presence in the Home & Yard parking lot on a freezing morning, his battered face, and his interest in talking about employment at this particular moment, she simply stood there holding the door. Only when another employee squeezed by did Joan break her stare.

  “What job are you getting?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m getting one. Isn’t it great?”