May 17
I remember the last day I worked on the loading docks. It happened in March, on what passes for a winter day in Los Angeles: wet and blustery. I’d worked all evening in a yellow rain suit, which kept the rain out and the sweat in. It hadn’t made me very happy.
The union had just posted the new contract, too, on the bulletin board of the lunch room. We all ordered food off the lunch truck, except for Armando who always brought his own lunch. Then we all gathered around the contract, a sheaf of papers stapled together, hanging by a thumbtack. The cover letter advised us that the union was pleased with the result, and trusted that we would be pleased as well. The letter contained no summary of changes, no comments at all on the actual contents of the document.
Armando, with the most seniority on our shift, lifted the letter and began scanning the numbered paragraphs. “It looks like the same old crap,” he said.
“Flip to the pay scales,” Floyd suggested. “They’re in the back. Let’s find out how pleased we are.”
Armando flipped back through the pages until he found the pay scales, and we all crowded in close to see how we’d fare.
Floyd found his first. “A freaking dime?” he complained. “They’re giving me a freaking dime? If they’re that hard up, why didn’t they just keep it?”
Armando found his classification and groaned. “I get a lousy twelve cents,” he said. “I got a kid going to college next year. Twelve cents ain’t going to pay for that.”
I did a quick calculation in my head. They’d given us a one percent raise. Even in those days, before inflation took off again, one percent didn’t even cover the increase in the cost of beer.
“I’ve got to find another line of work,” I said. “I always liked it here, but it’s getting to where I can’t afford it any more.”
“Damned company,” Floyd said.
“Yeah, well, the union agreed to it,” I observed. “I wonder what they do with the twenty-five dollars a month they take out of my check.”
“You’ve never been down there?” Armando asked. “They’ve got a really classy building. It’s all redwood and glass. Lots of expensive cars in the parking lot, too. You can bet our union leaders got more than a twelve cent raise this year.”
“Hey,” said a voice from the doorway. We all looked up. Jim Flatbush, the supervisor, stood in the doorway looking in.
“What’s up, Flatfoot?” Floyd asked, using the man’s universal nickname around the plant.
The lunch room, like the locker room, was union territory, and Flatfoot didn’t enter the room, respecting the union-management divide. “I’m looking for Joel Cranmoor,” he said from the doorway. “You seen him?”
“I’m here,” I said. “What’cha need?”
“Why don’t you come in to the office when you’ve finished your lunch break,” he said. “Boss wants to see you.”
All the guys made “woo-woo” noises at that. I shrugged.
“Which boss?” I asked.
“Schmidt,” he said, naming the plant manager. “Finish your break, then come find me.”
“Okay,” I said. “Will do. Where will you be?”
“On the floor,” he said. “Come get me.”
If he wanted me to finish my break first, that meant serious business. I wondered what I'd done, and if they were about to fire me.
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