The Brick People

by Alejandro Morales

  “Mrs. Simons and I are ... glad that you were able to lunch with us today to go over the statement prepared for you by those union organizers.” Walter drank from his glass.

  Octavio and the other men looked at one another and touched their lips to the crystal glass and set the ornament down.

  “You men have worked for me for many years. Some of you, I think, might have even come from the Pasadena yard. Now I have considered this statement carefully.”

  “Walter, I would like to talk with the men before you announce your suggestions,” Edit said tactfully. “I am very happy that you voiced your needs in such a diplomatic way. You can be sure that Mr. Simons and I are concerned about your welfare and will do whatever possible to help you and your families. After all, Mr. Simons has been very kind to your people all these years. He has given you a job, a home, a school, a clinic, a band. Many other things Mr. Simons has provided willingly ... ”

  Edit’s words became distant sounds in Octavio’s mind as he glanced through the dining room window at the two luxury automobiles parked in the driveway of the mansion. Jose Ceballos’ old Model A truck proudly represented the workers of Simons in this unsafe world. Three glamorous cars slowly passed. The drivers scrutinized the workers’ relic. “Qué miran, cabrones,” Octavio thought. Edit’s lips still moved as Octavio communicated with eyes and slight gestures to his fellow workers: Don’t believe it. I told you they were going to sweeten us up.

  “Mr. Simons’ suggestions are made especially for you and your families,” Edit finished and was satisfied with her words.

  Walter drank some wine and cleared his throat. He shuffled several papers before him and reviewed one.

  “Now with that said,” Walter stated, “I would like to respond to your observations and concerns by making, as Mrs. Simons has said, the following suggestions. The best way to help the crew and their families is to have excellent leadership. That is not to say that I have not been satisfied with the present supervision at the plant. No, instead I would like to add more men to that faithful staff. I believe that you five men are capable of doing the job. Therefore, I am promoting you to foremen with all the benefits. In this way you will be able to provide encouragement to the men to cooperate and produce more, and in so doing I will be able to meet their request at a future time.” Walter noticed that Octavio refused with his right hand.

  “We did not come to accept personal promotions, but for all the workers. Make them all foremen and recognize our demands and we’ll have an agreement,” Octavio spoke without hesitation.

  “Don’t try to buy us, Mr. Simons. Respond to our requests. They won’t cost that much. You’ll come out ahead. You’ll see,” Jose said, looking for the opinion of his fellow workers.

  The five men presented a unified stand and refused Walter’s offer. Octavio pushed away from the table and waited.

  “Don’t be unreasonable. A union will ruin the company and we are just now beginning to pull ahead. In about three more years I’ll be able to meet your demands, without union pressure, and you will be better off. Stick with me. Help me help you. What do you say?” Walter searched and hoped for his answer.

  “Thanks for the food, Mr. Simons.” Juan reached for his hat on the floor next to Edit.

  “Excuse me, I have duties to attend to.” Edit left abruptly.

  “Let’s go. What are we waiting for?” Leon started for the front door. The other men followed.

  “Wait. The best I can do is give you a two-cent raise and extend your credit at the company store. No more, that’s it.” Walter walked behind his Mexicans.

  “Thank you for the invitation,” Octavio said from the brick walkway leading to Jose’s truck.

  “You are extremely unreasonable, Octavio,” Walter shouted from behind the heavy screen door of his mansion.

  Jose Ceballos started his truck. Juan Juarez sat in the middle. Leon Martinez and Isidro Olague rode in the back. From somewhere in the house someone played on the piano a beautiful tranquil melody which was interrupted for an instant when Walter slammed the front door.

  Chapter 17

  The shade of the large Simons water tank on Vail Street provided temporary relief at this time of day for a few of the thirty men who picketed the main entrance of the Simons Brickyard. July had turned into a heat wave, and temperatures rose into the high nineties at the end of the fourth week of the Simons Mexican workers’ strike. At the general store, patience grew thin as it became apparent that no progress was being made.

  July had become a summer month of hardship. The men had no salary, no credit at the general store, and all services provided by Simons were cut off. The strike was more difficult to survive than the Depression. There had been polemics about whether the strike was worth risking the loss of their jobs. Some of the workers wanted to accept Walter’s offer of a two-cent raise and extended credit. Others urged the men to take the raise and set up their own store. Finally the workers decided to take the chance and strike, hoping that they could break the patron, make him capitulate to their demands.

  Carlo Lanzetti, Armando Takahashi Subia and Caroline Decker organized the picket and work crews. Some men picketed while others worked at odd jobs to bring in money which was deposited in a general fund to support the strikers. Any food brought in was distributed equally among the strikers. Octavio, who worked in the fields and at the docks, donated that money to the strike fund. He kept his winnings from gambling for himself. Nana lived on a strict budget, making sure that the children’s needs were met and that there was always enough food to share with Damian, Milagros and their children.

  The strikers had barricaded the two main entrances into Simons and blocked the railroad tracks with company trucks. William Melone had protested vehemently the commandeering of his property but his screaming threats did not diminish the workers’ determination. Rumors circulated from Walter’s foremen that the boss planned to break the strike by hiring scab labor. Two days had passed since Gonzalo confirmed the rumors that today truckloads of men from Watts would arrive and take their jobs. The discussion had been heated among the strikers to achieve the final consensus: “Let’s not get into a fight with the Negroes. I don’t think they can do the job. Let’s stand firm against them. If they go in, let’s see if they know how to work.”

  Wives, sons and daughters brought lunch and drinks. Some families sat under the water tank, others moved under the shade of the trucks, and still others discovered a cool space in the center of the directional mandala. Ironically, a peaceful, quiet mood settled as the workers ate. A slight breeze played with Nana’s black hair as she poured another glass of lemonade for Octavio. They had sat at the coolest place—under the water tank where water ran constantly down the tank and moistened the earth, resulting in flowers that permanently grew and bloomed. A blue hummingbird with violet wings flew and drank from each flower. Nana and Octavio, enthralled by the beauty of the ancient holy bird, were sharing a private moment when the repeated panicked sound of a truck horn alerted them to the arrival of the scabs. The lookout stationed at Washington and Vail skidded the truck to a stop, jumped into a cloud of red dust, and was met by his fellow workers.

  “They’re here! Three trucks of Negros! They’re on Washington!” As the lookout spoke, a second man from the general store drove into the clearing dust.

  “Three trucks of Negros arrived with Jacobo Ramos!” the worker called out to the group of men, women and children.

  There were no more cool spaces. In the early afternoon the heat peaked to one hundred and three when Armando Takahashi Subia arrived from the general store where Caroline Decker prepared for the confrontation.

  “Three trucks with Melone and Ramos. The ones on Washington will come soon. Gonzalo Pedroza is leading them.” Armando pronounced Pedroza’s name with a slight mocking tone. “We know what we have to do. And for the love of your families, don’t shoot!”

  Octavio turned to Nana who observed the scene by the fertile place under the water tank. J
ose Ceballos led the men to positions before the barricade to wait.

  Far off a dog barked and a bird cried out in the immense silence where the only human sounds were the occasional deep breaths of men oxygenating their lungs with hot red dust. Soon Octavio heard the powerful motors of approaching trucks. To the hum of marching pistons, whirling fans, turning wheels advancing like a lethargic metal, wooden, rubber, liquid beast, the first truck appeared on the top of the hill on Vail Street and descended, followed by the second and third trucks which transported unarmed men with black sullen faces who leaned against the wooden braces of the trucks and searched for one of their kind among the armed brown Mexicans. As the trucks turned left toward the center of the barricade, the black men realized that they were unwelcome. Words passed among them and from the truck beds they dialogued and called out to the drivers to stop. Abruptly, they faced the armed picket line. Red dust whirled and clung paste-like to their wet faces, necks and arms.

  “Calm down! Nothin’ gonna happen!” the black contractor who drove the lead truck shouted, leaning out of the truck cab.

  Gonzalo Pedroza found himself in front of Armando, Jose Ceballos and Octavio who stood directly at the center of the human curtain which kept Gonzalo from entering the yard. Gonzalo went up on his toes and performed a grotesque ballet, looking toward the blockade over Octavio’s right shoulder.

  “Move your trucks,” Gonzalo demanded.

  “You move them, Gonzalo.” Octavio stepped to the side and with a gesture of his arm and hand politely invited Gonzalo to take charge of the trucks blocking his way.

  Gonzalo took several steps forward and felt his heart pounding and enormous dangling eyes swallowing him up, eating and struggling to devour him. The longer he vacillated, the more grotesque his block face became. Under the intense heat of the sun and the ubiquitous red dust, Gonzalo’s flesh shook and disfigured itself. His face seemed to be melting. His shirt was soaked with perspiration; his pants were wet at the crotch. Gonzalo’s ugliness matched the extremes of hatred held toward him by the minds which destructured and restructured him at that moment. He wiped the sweat from his burning eyes, blinked and focused on the three trucks directly in his way.

  “Three men, move the trucks!” Gonzalo yelled without turning his head away from the Mexican strikers.

  Three blacks moved ever carefully sideways through the spaces in the picket line. They climbed over the wooden racks and into the cabs of the trucks. The engines started almost simultaneously and the three trucks were aggressively driven afar and slid to stop, creating a muffled dust hurricane.

  “Get out of the way. We’re going through!” Gonzalo committed himself and the black scabs.

  He slammed the door and the driver raced the engine, dropped the truck into first gear and with a loud shattering crash rammed through the wooden barricade. The second and third trucks passed through without incident. The Mexican strikers had gambled that the hard-working conditions, the difficult learning process, and the heat would take its toll on the black workers. They had gambled that the scabs would not be able to do the work. The strikers lost the bet.

  Exactly two weeks to the hour when the scabs had entered Simons, the Mexican workers gathered at a large Four Square church in Long Beach. Octavio arrived with Ignacio Sandoval. The meeting had been called by the workers to discuss what the strike had accomplished. The bright afternoon sunlight brilliantly illuminated the white glossy walls. No darkness was here; everyone could be seen clearly. At the head table sat Lanzetti, Armando and Caroline Decker, the three who had guided them from the start of the strike. Armando and Caroline had accompanied them through the toughest of times and Lanzetti had been present on a few occasions at the front lines, but mostly he had been absent, doing administrative work, he explained.

  A few babies cried from different locations in the church hall. The workers were present both individually and with their families. Several men waved and Octavio smiled. He made his way up to the front by shaking the hands that reached out toward him. Octavio stopped at the fifth row where four chairs waited, reserved by Jose Ceballos. He sat silently, listening to the great noise that moved through the church hall. His feelings were dominated by a sense of constant anger, frustration and helplessness at the fact that nothing had been settled. William Melone had told the men that the strike would not end unless they went back to work and that Walter Simons had declared a strike on them and had threatened to shut down the brickyard permanently. To prove that he was serious and not dependent on the brickyard profits, Walter announced that he and Edit would take a month’s vacation to Europe. The dialogue would soon be completely severed. The workers would have no one to negotiate with except Walter’s superintendent and foremen.

  The union organizers stood up and called the meeting to order. Caroline reported on the status of the Simons strike and other job actions in the Southern California area.

  “We don’t want to hear about how good others are doing,” a man from the back shouted angrily. “What are we going to do? I have to feed my family. I have nine children and they’re hungry! And we don’t have an agreement yet.”

  “I am tired of waiting and being hungry. We should accept his miserable offer of a few cents and more credit at the company store!” a man on Octavio’s right shouted to the organizers.

  “Old man Simons is going on vacation. The strike has failed. They have screwed us again. Now look. I think we should return to work,” a man on Octavio’s left spoke.

  “Well, what do you say?” Jose Ceballos shouted to the organizers.

  “We know it’s difficult. We must be patient and with time we will achieve our objectives,” Armando answered the dissatisfaction.

  “Look here, we have taken plenty. My children, my wife, they can’t suffer any longer. They have the right to eat. And that old son-of-a-bitch Simons doesn’t want to deal with us anymore,” a man standing behind Octavio addressed the organizers.

  “Mr. Lanzetti has another proposal to present to Mr. Simons when he returns,” Armando began to explain.

  “No, we don’t want more plans!” a woman shouted from the back of the hall.

  “The waiting is over! Now we want a contract or we will return to work without one!” another woman holding a child said to the organizers.

  “If the union could pay more help to continue the strike, at least until Simons returns, we could wait a little more. I can’t continue holding out with no food money,” an old man directed to Lanzetti.

  “We cannot do that. Your benefits, what you contributed, are all used up,” Lanzetti answered and the response was chaotic and loud.

  The Mexican workers had heard enough and let their anger boil over in words. Lanzetti looked to his colleagues next to him. Armando called for order.

  “What do you mean we don’t have more benefits? Where are our dues?” Octavio asked, disguising frustration with great effort.

  “We had to use some of your funds to help other strikers. Your monies went into a general fund for all the strikers throughout the area,” Lanzetti replied.

  “And now we need it and there’s no help. We want our money now. I don’t believe that it’s all gone!” Octavio shouted.

  “You told us to strike with assurances of help when necessary.” Jose Ceballos shook his fist at Lanzetti.

  “You misunderstood the strike benefits,” Lanzetti shouted.

  “We understand perfectly. We want our money, our share, right now!” Octavio screamed at Lanzetti. Armando, Caroline, and Lanzetti folded their papers and prepared to exit.

  “Shut up, Revueltas. We cannot give you anything back. Now shut up and listen!” Lanzetti screamed.

  “No! You listen! You are a bunch of sons-of-bitches. You’re the same as old man Simons. Your only interest is in what you’re going to gain. You’re thieves and exploiters!” Octavio allowed his hatred to speak.

  “Revueltas, I could have you banished from every brickyard and field in the state. You would never get a job. You
would never work anywhere!” Lanzetti threatened in full rage.

  “Anywhere in the world, you son-of-a-bitch!” Octavio went for Lanzetti and was restrained by Ignacio Sandoval, Jose Ceballos and fellow workers who, in a human ball, held back Octavio.

  “Anywhere in the world!” Octavio shouted at the three bodies that walked out the back of the Four Square church in Long Beach.

  The warmth of the evening breeze seemed to encourage Octavio to push to the back of his mind the cries from across the sea, the desperation in the country in which he chose to live, from the world attempting to devour itself. He would never let go of his wife and children. He would hold them in his heart constantly, in his mind forever. If he were to let go, the energy invested in caring would surely turn to hate and would explode into a fatal rampage against the oppressive forces, against the enemy which owned everything he possessed. The material objects that surrounded and touched him were temporary, for they could easily be passed on to someone else. ... Our situation is hopeless ... Octavio slumped into the living room sofa and silently observed his children. ... They are not the problem, but the world they live in is hopeless. If I were rich, they wouldn’t suffer and their future would be guaranteed. I could be rich, but I would have to be like them, a lick-their-ass boy like Gonzalo Pedroza, Jacobo Ramos and William Melone. They sold themselves out. I’ll never be like them, never ...

  From the periphery of his right eye a spot of blue entered, advanced, enlarged and became life. Nana, in a blue dress, brought a cup of tea and set it on the coffee table. She reached around Octavio’s neck and snuggled up. She, too, enjoyed the children playing in the living room. Nana contemplated the house that she worked daily to maintain. She smiled at the clean clothes and faces of her offspring. Everything smelled as bright as spring.

  “Drink the tea. It’s that you’re tired. Sleep and you’ll see that tomorrow everything will be different,” Nana spoke, somehow assured and not afraid of the future.