May 18
I quickly ate the patty melt sandwich I’d bought from the lunch truck, grabbed my hardhat, and went to look for Flatfoot. I still had time on my lunch break, but I willingly cut it short in favor of finding out what the boss wanted with me.
I found Flatfoot in the shipping office, reviewing the loading orders. “What’s up?” I asked him.
“Schmidt wants to see you,” he said.
“What’d I do?” I asked, my defensiveness exaggerated but only half joking.
“I can’t say,” Flatfoot replied. By which, I guessed, he meant he knew but wouldn’t say. Not a good sign.
“Well, let’s get it over with,” I said.
“Sure,” he replied. “Give me a minute.” He finished reviewing the orders, made some notes for the loaders, and turned to me.
“You ready?” he asked.
“As I’ll ever be,” I said, giving him a half smile.
He turned and left the office, and I followed. We left the plant area, all at loading dock height, and descended the stairs to the office level. Inside, we passed first the supervisors’ office, then the three superintendent’s offices, and the reception area. I always felt awkward in there. I was, after all, union, and this was the realm of management. Assistants came and went. I knew them, because they, too, ate at the lunch truck. The plant employees always bantered with the women, even the married women. It was safe because we all knew they were off limits. They might not be management, exactly, but they weren’t union.
Beyond the reception area we entered a small waiting room with a big oak door and an ugly brown couch. I sat while Jim Flatbush knocked on the door. After a moment, a voice said, “Come.” Jim opened the door and gestured for me to enter before him. I rose and entered. I’d only been in the plant manager’s office twice: once the day I got hired, and once when I’d chewed out the lab supervisor because he’d failed to get his certs to us on time for shipment.
The room hadn’t changed: it still held the big oak desk, the safety awards on one wall, the plastic plant in the corner, and two guest chairs on the near side of the desk. The plant manager, however, was not the same one I’d met here before. Randolph Schmidt had replaced the previous plant manager less than a year ago. I’d met him when he toured the plant floor, but never had any real interaction with him. Now, I guessed he’d be the man who gave me my walking papers.
“Sit,” Schmidt instructed. Flatfoot and I each took a guest chair. I gazed at Schmidt, hoping I looked less nervous than I felt, and trying to puzzle out what he had in store for me. He was a big man, over six feet tall and quite round. He wore his steel-grey hair short in a military cut, which didn't distract any from his roundness. I’d never been in the military, and I figured he probably held that against me.
“Joel Cranmoor?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“How long have you worked here?” he asked.
“Six years,” I said. “It’s on the seniority list.”
“So it is,” he acknowledged. “Are you happy doing what you’re doing?”
I thought about that for a moment, wondering if it might be a trick question. “Why do you ask?” I responded.
“You’ve been doing it for six years,” he observed. “The same job, over and over.”
“I’ve never complained,” I said.
“Not about the job,” he said. “Though there is the matter of an incident with the lab supervisor. I read your file.”
“That’s the only disciplinary action against me since I started,” I noted. “I’ve never even been late. And I rarely call in sick.”
Schmidt laughed. “You think I’m about to fire you?” he asked.
“Do I need my union rep here?” I countered.
He laughed again. “Don’t be so defensive,” he said. “I was just wondering if you might want to try something new?”
“Something new, like what?” I asked.
“Like administration,” he said. “You’ve got the smarts for it.”
“Doing what?” I asked again.
“Why don’t we take a walk,” he suggested. “Jim, thanks for coming down. I’m sure you have things to get back to.”
“Yes, sir,” Flatfoot replied. 
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