by W.H. Harrod
As I enjoyed my second cup of coffee while watching one of the cable news shows from within the somewhat safer confines of my small second floor apartment the following Tuesday morning, I marveled at the hoopla going on at the Democratic Convention getting ready to start three hundred miles to the west in Denver. I couldn’t figure out what all the fuss was about. The Democrats already knew who their nominee would be— a black man.
Finally, the Democratic Party conceded to the fact the South indeed was lost forever following President Johnson’s mid-sixties civil right’s legislation passing into law. Millions of fine, patriotic, white Americans from Dixie immediately switched allegiances, and now blessed the Republican Party with their enlightened charm and wit. The Republican Party, although outwardly expressing an abiding appreciation for these valued supporters of all things godly and white, now were faced with the task of keeping these political refugees from turning the coming Republican Convention planned for September in St. Paul, Minnesota, into a bon voyage party celebrating the coming of the rapture.
Considering the Democratic Party’s historic tear down of another of the country’s racial barriers, I attempted to make sense out of our society’s rules used to determine one’s whiteness or blackness. I’ve looked into the mirror enough to be able to determine that I, a certified at birth Caucasian, am not white. I’m more of a pale color, which the dictionary defines as having little color or being lighter than normal. If pushed to choose a color, I’m, at best, a weak tan. Also, so-called black people are not black. I have never seen an actual black person. And to further complicate the matter when a person who is not really white gets together with a person who is not really black and they conceive a child, the child is automatically considered black. Witness the current male Democratic presidential candidate born of a not white, white woman and a not black, black man automatically being considered a black candidate. Why? If I mix black paint fifty/fifty with white paint, I’m pretty sure I’m going to get grey, not black. I decided I needed to clarify this whole matter in my mind before I further acquiesced to our country’s long established flawed method of color profiling every member of the human race.
I began by looking into the Subtractive Color Theory, which asks the question: Are black and white actually colors when they exist as pigments? The textbook answer states that black is a color. If you combine all three of the primary colors, red, blue, and yellow (colors that can’t be made by mixing other colors together), you’ll get black. According to the same theory, white is not a color; but rather, it is the absence of color. In other words, you can’t mix other colors to create white. Therefore, if we humans insist upon living in a world where one’s place is defined by skin color, then so-called white people need to understand that they are a very weak shade of tan resulting from an unequal mixture of the three primary colors that ultimately make up the color black. Or technically, we are at the lower end of the black color spectrum. It is the so-called white race that is a diluted variation of their original black ancestors who evolved millions of years ago on the African plains.
Try explaining that to our nation’s enlightened southern denizens or to the Jonesboro geezer crowd, I mused as I rose from my comfortable chair and prepared to head over to the diner. This last thought caused me to chuckle as I pictured myself explaining my reasoning to Big Bob and his aging cronies. I had no doubt they would commence to hoop and holler, so I decided to save this jewel for a later date when I needed something to get their juices flowing.
No sooner did I exit my second floor apartment but I again espied a parking lot overflowing with vehicles. Based on my previous experiences with similar very bad omens, I knew something troublesome awaited me in that nondescript cement block building located across the gravel lot. My mind raced. Did they know about UB2? Did they know about the Mayor’s and my efforts to fry Big Bob’s butt? Is Junior Junior dead? Did they find out I wasn’t a Democrat? What in the heck was going on? I thought about going back inside the apartment and locking the door and waiting it out, whatever it was. But I knew that would not work. My only real option was to go find out what new disaster threatened to destroy either the town or me. My thoughts drifted to the notion that maybe some misanthropic force had it in for this town. Then what in the heck am I doing hanging around this modern day version of Sodom and Gomorrah waiting for God’s wrath to be delivered? I asked myself, jokingly.
“Just get it over with,” I said as I started down the stairs to begin the short walk across the parking lot. Whatever awaited me at the diner could hardly be worse than imagining all sorts of insane scenarios.
Before I got to the entrance, I saw that it was standing room only. I didn’t kid myself by thinking all those people standing around waiting came by for the hot rolls or muffins. Something had happened and a very bad feeling told me I somehow played a part in it.
Proceeding to open the front door, I became aware of the constant chatter emanating from the scores of individuals either seated at the tables or standing idly by waiting for I knew not what. The next thing I became aware of was the sudden deafening quiet, as my presence became known. Talk about becoming self-conscious. I halted a couple of steps beyond the door hoping to receive some indication as to what the heck was going on. For a brief moment, I wondered if I should I take advantage of the four or five steps still separating me from the docile appearing group and run like hell. They didn’t appear angry, and I saw no weapons in their hands. I obviously was the guest of honor. Whatever this involved, it included me. Well, what else is new? I asked myself as I gathered the courage to advance further into the room. My co-workers, standing behind the counter looked as puzzled as I must have. Still, if I had any friends in the room, they were it. So that’s where I headed.
As I made my way across the room, passing mostly among faces that were completely new to me, I took comfort from the few friendly faces I recognized. Still ignorant of what had happened, I spotted the Mayor and Preacher Roy sitting together at one of the back tables. That’s when I put all the clues together. The Mayor, the Preacher, and all the new faces— this was about the plant closing! But I had told them just to get me some preliminary information. I turned to look directly at the table where my not so confidential confidants looked as guilty as one of those not so bright, big hair evangelical television preachers caught coming out of a sleaze bag motel room accompanied by a disheveled buxom blonde, twenty-two year old seeker of spiritual wisdom who acquiesced to his kind offer to personally probe the inner depths of her flagging spiritual core.
I walked directly to their table. “Preacher Roy, Mayor, how very nice to see you both this morning. Seems you brought a few friends along with you,” I said to my supposed coconspirators. Both hesitated at first, and when they did respond, they talked over one another. Regrouping, Preacher Roy nodded to the Mayor to go first.
“Sorry Will, but these guys are worried, and we couldn’t keep it quiet about there possibly being a way to save their jobs. We couldn’t get the information you asked for without telling them why we wanted to know if they had any kind of retirement plans. We sure didn’t know a crowd this big would show up.” The Mayor looked to his co-conspirator for support.
“He’s right, Will. You can’t keep something this important quiet,” said Preacher Roy.
Now everyone’s attention turned in my direction. There might have been sixty or maybe even seventy people in the room, and there was little doubt as to who was the center of attention.
Taking a deep breath, I reconciled myself to the inevitability of the situation. I stood amongst a desperate group of men about to be set adrift on a vast ocean of financial devastation offering only the slightest glimmer of hope for them and their families. I’d opened my big mouth without fully thinking through the difficulty of the problem. First, the chances of so many things falling into place to allow even a chance for their jobs to be saved were at best microscopically thin. Second, if I agreed to insert my person as well as my plan between the workers and the company,
I stood to be blamed if I failed to save their jobs. That’s just the way it was. Frightened, mad, and desperate people often cut a wide swath when looking for culprits to blame for all manner of injustices burdening the average working man or woman on a regular a basis. My choices were clear: I could either fall on my knees right then and beg them not to harm me for giving them false hope or do the only other thing that made sense, to take control of the situation and go forward. I chose the latter.
“Well, okay,” I said directly to the room full of dejected plant workers. “I can only surmise that you men are here because the Mayor and Preacher Roy found out that the answer to my one basic question, ‘Do the employees have any kind of retirement plan in place?’ is yes. Am I correct?”
The entire group responded in the affirmative.
“Very well. Then as I promised the Mayor and Preacher Roy, I will look into the matter. But, as I told them, the chances of our being successful are slim to none. You need to know that going in. If I find there is even the slightest chance of coming up with a viable plan that will keep this plant and your jobs here, I will let you know as soon as possible. Now, other than you selecting those from amongst your group who can best assist me and my two associates here in gathering the data necessary for us to make a decision, I suggest we all get to the regular business of the day. Any questions?”
Not surprisingly, one person did have a question, and it came from the one and only, Big Bob Buford. “What’s in it for you? Why do you care about what happens to people you don’t even know?” The contempt on the man’s face and in his voice was palpable.
I looked at Preacher Roy and the Mayor, and I suspected that both would take great joy in imagining Big Bob being taken out immediately and staked on a giant hill of red ants. I knew what might happen when Preacher Roy’s face started to turn red as it did right then. I needed to say something fast.
No longer, I decided, would I hide my outright contempt for Big Bob’s entire self-serving existence by deflecting his moronic and insulting remarks. “You are so wrong, Big Bob,” I began. “Maybe I don’t know most of these men by name, but I know they are the same men who have been getting abused by lying politicians and greedy capitalists for too long. It used to be that our country’s enemies threatened our very way of life from afar, but now our real enemies work from within. They are the capitalist financiers and corporate whores who bribe our political representatives to pass laws that make it more profitable to ship the very manufacturing base that helped make this country’s workers the most productive the world has ever seen to third world nations where the work is done for mere pennies on the dollar, and the finished products are then sent back to the USA and sold in big box stores at prices much lower than what the local merchants can offer, thereby putting those same local merchants out of business. I don’t like people who use their privileged positions for their own personal gain at the ultimate expense of the workingman or woman whose lives are being destroyed for the sole benefit of the fortunate few. That’s why I care, Big Bob. You got a problem with that?”
Big Bob responded to my, oh so enjoyable, smack down by doing what bullies usually do when confronted head on. He got up and left the diner in a huff with the entire room’s hearty approval of my personal motivation ringing in his ears. Screw him if he can’t take a joke. Immediately, I could feel a warm feeling starting to infuse my whole body. I felt good! Damn these professional crooks and thugs to hell! Let’s just get it on, right now! I watched the door close behind Big Bob.
“Easy there, Tex. It’s over. Don’t pop a blood vessel or something.”
I turned to find Flo standing beside me, and right behind her stood Mary June who obviously shared Flo’s approval of my sudden fit of exuberance.
“Too much, do you think? Did I lay it on a little heavy?” I asked my co-workers in a more subdued tone of voice.
“I think it was wonderful!” said Mary June. “I’m so proud, I could just kiss you!”
My face must have shown my embarrassment at Mary June’s compliment as well as her threat to plant a big one on me. I knew I felt like a tired old mule happily watching the farmer cuss up a storm at the big rock that broke his only plow.
“Oh, God!” said Flo as she observed my reaction to Mary June’s unexpected compliment. “Now don’t get your hopes up, honey,” she said to her partner with a look of sadness covering her face. “Will, I guess your going to have to tell your new groupie here that sad little story about your personal situation, if you know what I mean.”
As both Mary June and I watched Flo abruptly turn and walk away to her usual position behind the counter, Mary June looked to me for an answer. “What’s she talking about?” she asked.
I, too, had been momentarily puzzled by Flo’s statement until I recalled with horror the desperate moment sometime back when I lied to Flo about having lost my maleness in the war.
“Beats the heck out of me! Who knows what Flo’s talking about most of the time. Gosh, look at the time. I better get to work so we can be ready for lunch.” I then turned and started to walk towards the kitchen, but I did not get more than two steps before the Mayor took me by the arm leading me towards a corner where Preacher Roy, along with two other men, stood waiting while the other factory workers noisily headed for the door to begin the short trip to Justice City and jobs now for sale to the highest bidder.
Upon our arrival at the table, the older of the two men standing with Preacher Roy held out his hand and introduced himself as Jack Fletcher, the plant superintendent. The other younger man introduced himself as a foreman. Their eagerness to help impressed me. About all the information they offered at the moment related to the aging surviving brother of the original three brothers who started the company from scratch forty years earlier wanting to retire. None of the founders’ siblings wanted anything to do with operating the business. Selling the company, building, machinery, inventory and all, seemed the most sensible thing to do. To that purpose, the surviving owner now discussed that possibility with a large company located in Texas that produced similar lines of equipment. The plant superintendent reported hearing that the main obstacle standing in the way of a sale going through fast dealt with the buyer having no real need for the real estate. They only wanted the product lines, the inventory, and the distributor outlets. The buyers proposed to absorb part of the additional manufacturing capacity into their huge modern plant in Texas. What assembly work they could not or did not want to absorb, they intended to off shore taking advantage of the near slave labor working conditions existing abroad. The surviving owner previously expressed his interest in finding new ownership to come in and take over operations as they stood, but so far, nothing had turned up. The Texas offer was the only one on the table. The superintendent also stated that if any chance of coming up with an alternative existed, we needed to move soon because the owner was not known as a patient man.
When I asked Mr. Fletcher about an employee retirement plan being in place, he answered in the affirmative. In short order, he informed me the owners established a 401k plan for the employees benefit back in 1985. Every employee on the job after one year earned the opportunity to participate, and practically everyone did as the owners matched each employee’s contributions. After five years, the employer’s portion of the contribution vested. Currently, millions of dollars in the fund was being administered to by a large financial firm in Denver, acting in the capacity of trustee.
This was excellent news. I realized there was the slightest amount of hope for the local workers. First, a potential source for financing existed, the 401k fund with its millions of dollars. Second, the owner went on record saying he hoped to keep the plant going in its current location. Third, the employees definitely wanted to keep the plant operating right there in Justice City. The next all important question to ask, assuming the business operated in the black, dealt with the current employees willingness to put their money, literally, where their mouths were. If they were, a possibility exis
ted. But with a deal already in the works, things needed to get organized fast. Who really knew how desperate the owner’s family might be.
“Mr. Fletcher,” I said, “needless to say, we need to move with deliberation. The first and most important questions to ask the plant employees are: Are they willing to invest in their own future? Are they willing to use their own retirement funds to finance the purchase of the company to keep their jobs in Kansas? With another deal in the works, that needs to be done yesterday. I suggest you form a committee today representative of the entire employee population and discuss this matter immediately. If the answer is yes, I can put you in contact with professionals who will walk you through the entire process. Prior to doing anything else, inform the owner of what you are doing. Let him know you are as serious as a heart attack about this. Ask him if he will give you time to look into this possibility before he makes his decision on the Texas offer. I will not go into the details with you right now, but you can tell him that if you are successful in rallying the employees to buy the business, there are significant tax advantages that will accrue to him and his family that will reduce their tax obligations by millions of dollars. This should get him interested, and if there are any questions, you can call me here at my office,” I smiled as I finished the comment about this being my office. The plant superintendent caught my attempt at humor and did likewise.
“Thank you, Will,” said Mr. Fletcher. “I will make this my priority today, and I will get back to you as soon as I possibly can. This is the first good news we’ve heard in some time. Regardless of what happens, I want you to know how much we all appreciate your help.”
A short time later, only Preacher Roy, the Mayor, and myself stood together wondering what the heck to do next. Observing Flo and Mary June trying to get things cleaned up following the sudden exit of the overflow crowd, I easily saw where my priorities lay.
“I got to get to work, guys. You know where to find me if anything comes up.” I then turned and headed to my regularly assigned battle station in front of the two washbasins now stacked with dirty pots and pans. My office awaited me.
Chapter Twenty-One
