Hoosier Daddy

by Ann McMan

  I sighed. “Frankly, I’ve been asking myself that same question.”

  “And?”

  “Until recently, I’d have had a good answer for you. Now?” I shook my head. “Now, I just don’t know why.”

  “I’m aware of the . . . offer . . . Don Krylon extended to you before his departure.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I’m also aware that you haven’t made any response as yet.”

  I was prepared to tell him that I came into work today, intending to do just that. Instead, I decided to indulge my curiosity. “Did he explain why he made the offer?”

  Tam nodded. “He characterized it in slightly more sanitized terms than I would have used.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I don’t find extortion to be an effective, or acceptable, form of negotiation.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “You’ll find that our methods have very little in common with the Krylon business model.”

  “So, I guess that means you’d like to rescind the offer?”

  Tam leaned forward. “On the contrary. We’d like to amplify and expand it, for an entirely different set of reasons.”

  I was surprised. “You’re not interested in enlisting me as an internal ally to thwart the UAW’s attempts to organize the plant?”

  He smiled. “No.”

  “So you’re not worried about that?”

  “I don’t find it productive to worry about things I can’t control. The tragic death of Ruthie Miles has made the likelihood of a union vote a near certainty. I’d be surprised if Mr. Gemelli and Dr. Rzcpczinska didn’t already have the requisite number of signatures they need to file with the National Labor Relations Board.”

  I was surprised that he mentioned Tony and El by name. I wondered what else he knew about them.

  “What if they do have the signatures?”

  “If they do, then we enter the customary thirty-day campaign period that precedes a vote. Hopefully, that would give us enough time to show the employees of this plant that our standard business practices and compensation models are competitive with, and sometimes superior to, what they could expect to achieve under union auspices.”

  “You wouldn’t close the plant?” I asked.

  “Is that what Don Krylon told you?”

  I nodded.

  He took a slow, deep breath and stared up at the ceiling. It was clear that he was making an effort to remain composed.

  I studied him. He was a good-looking man—probably in his midforties. He seemed unusually tall for a Japanese man, but then, I had to admit that I hadn’t known many Japanese men. He had a beautiful head of thick, black hair that looked like it had just been cut. There was a thin, white scar, about a half-inch long, above the corner of his upper lip. It was odd how that one thing changed his appearance. It made him look approachable . . . almost ordinary. Not at all like what you’d expect from last year’s Automotive Executive of the Year. I noticed his hands. They were smooth and unmarked. He had long fingers. I wondered if he played the piano. It looked like he could reach an entire octave with no problem. He wore a gold class ring . . . I didn’t recognize the seal, but I was pretty sure it was from one of the Ivies.

  Tam lowered his chin and looked back at me.

  “I take it that was a misrepresentation?” I asked.

  “You might say that.” He shook his head. “Although I won’t deny that Ogata would prefer to commence its Princeton operation without that particular variable at play, we certainly would not abandon our plans to transform this campus into the flagship of our North American manufacturing centers.”

  “So, you’d still bring the Mastodon to Princeton—even if the plant organizes?”

  “I didn’t say that,” he clarified. “We’re looking at several options for diversifying product lines here. And that was the case even before the UAW became a player in the transition. But we would never consider closing this facility. The Outlaw brand is a tremendous asset, and it’s just beginning to hit its stride as a mainstay of the international automotive market. We think Ogata and Princeton have a bright future. And we’d like you to be a part of that.”

  There wasn’t any ready response I could make to that. In fact, my head was reeling from these revelations. Don K. had done his level best to intimidate me, and countless others, by wrongly asserting that a pro-union vote would drive Ogata away from Princeton, putting all of our jobs in jeopardy and destabilizing the economic health of the region.

  In fact, the only economic health he cared about protecting was the one tied to his own net worth.

  I dropped my gaze and stared at the letters of my name, printed on the index tab of the manila folder. They were a tidy combination of straight lines and curved lines. Symbols that, when taken together, identified me, summarized me, differentiated me from everyone else.

  I was FRYMAN, JILLIAN A.

  I was also Jill.

  And Friday.

  And now I was some hybrid name, Friday Jill, too.

  But most of all, I was me.

  And somehow, I’d allowed the Don K.’s in my life to lead me to lose sight of that. And just when I’d decided that “me” was lost for good, there I was, neatly typed up and slotted into place exactly where I was supposed to be. Right here, in the middle of this godforsaken assembly plant, located in one of the most conservative, right-towork states in the nation.

  Oh. And there was one other tiny detail, too. I knew that I was more than ninety-nine percent in love with a labor organizer. That unique characteristic now defined me as neatly as the pattern of straight and curved lines that combined to spell the letters of my name.

  I felt a strange sensation, sitting there on that hard plastic chair in the quiet of the company cafeteria. It was palpable—like a tingling that started from some place deep inside me and spread outward along my arms and legs. All the positive and negative atoms that had swirled around me for weeks finally came together in one, explosive charge.

  To say that I knew who I was would be inaccurate. I’d always known that. But the curious, mini-epiphany I was experiencing was reminding me of things I thought I’d lost touch with—like why I stayed at Krylon in a dead end job. And why, against all reason, I clung to the life I lived in this big, sprawling, backward space that seemed so small.

  I didn’t have fewer choices. I had the same number of choices I’d always had.

  And I was beginning to understand what I needed to do.

  Tam was watching me. Probably in the same way I had been watching him a few moments ago.

  “You were going to quit, weren’t you?” he asked. His voice was quiet, almost like he was afraid someone would overhear this part of our conversation—even though we were the only two people in the cavernous space.

  I looked back at him without saying anything. I didn’t really have to. I nodded, but it was so slight a gesture that it would have been easy to miss if he hadn’t been paying attention.

  He saw it.

  He pushed my folder away and sat back against his chair.

  “I grew up in a small town, too—Rikuzentakata, in the Iwate region. My father was an oyster farmer, like his father before him. I never had any aspirations to leave or to have a different kind of life than the one that had defined my family for generations. I certainly never imagined that I’d end up manufacturing monster trucks halfway around the globe.”

  “But here you are,” I said.

  He nodded. “Here I am. And my journey wasn’t that dissimilar from yours.”

  I found that hard to believe. “How so?”

  “Education. My parents were simple people, but they embraced the country’s cultural belief in the value of post-secondary study. I was enrolled in a vocational program with Kanto—part of the Toyota Group. From there, it was an easy transition to our local public university—the only affordable option for my family. Ironically, it was because of my years working the assembly line at Kanto that I landed the scholarship
to attend TTI at the University of Chicago. The rest . . .” He waved a hand. “The rest is the rest.”

  “How does your family feel about your success?”

  He looked down at the table. “Rikuzentakata was wiped off the map by the tsunami that followed the Great East Japan Earthquake. When the town seawall failed, the waters swept away everything in sight. The waves were more than forty-two feet high. None of my family survived.”

  I felt sick and horrified. I didn’t know what to say. I’d never read about this in any of Tam’s official, company biographies.

  “I’m so sorry.” I knew it sounded inadequate, but I couldn’t find better words.

  “It takes time,” he said. “But you learn to live with it. I only shared this with you so you’d know that I understand part of your . . . dichotomy.”

  “My dichotomy?”

  He nodded. “What it’s like to be part, but not part, of the place that made you. Only in my case, I never got to choose to leave it behind. It left me. So in a real way, my job—my mission—is to help make this place be the best it can be for all the people who do choose to make their lives here. Does that make sense?”

  Kaizen. Change for the better.

  Yes. It made sense. But there was something else we needed to discuss. I wanted everything on the table. Tam had been honest with me, and I felt I owed him the same courtesy.

  “I feel confident that Mr. Krylon informed you about my personal relationship with one of the UAW organizers,” I said.

  He nodded.

  “Are there aspects of this that cause you concern?”

  “Not really,” he replied. “You’re a professional, and I have every reason to expect that you would conduct yourself accordingly. Besides,” he smiled, “I’ve known El for years, and I know she’d never behave unethically.”

  Tam Shigeta knew El?

  I’m sure I must’ve looked like a deer in the headlights. He took pity on me.

  “We were classmates for a semester at the ILR School in New York. She’s a pro . . . they don’t come much sharper. Or tougher.” He folded his arms. “Any other concerns?”

  I shook my head.

  “Good. When Steve comes back, he’s going to talk with you about becoming one of the plant reps on our assessment team. At the end of that process, we’d like to move you into a role that more appropriately fits with your specialized skill sets.”

  “Okay . . .” I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant.

  “We’re going to be creating a new operational excellence unit at this campus, and we’ll need to staff it with analysts, managers, and a director. I see you as a key player in that process, particularly related to the application of Six Sigma and lean manufacturing principles. You have real value to add, Jill. And I want you to be a part of this process.”

  Value to add. I was amazed that Tam used the same phrase I’d bounced around earlier, when I was certain that my tenure at Krylon was over.

  But this wasn’t Krylon. Not any more.

  And I had a choice to make.

  The door to the plant opened, and Steve Haley appeared.

  “Are you ready for me?” he asked Tam.

  Tam looked at me. “Are we?”

  I nodded.

  “Yes,” he said to Steve. “We’re ready.”

  Chapter 12

  I wasn’t sure what to expect when I pulled into the lot at Hoosier Daddy that night.

  I’d been at the plant for a solid ten hours, and had next to no contact with anyone who normally worked my shift. I sent a quick text message to T-Bomb on my way out, asking if she could meet me for a drink.

  I received five messages back from her in rapid succession.

  Hey? What the HELL is going on?

  Me and Luanne are already here. This place is hopping like Buehler’s on double coupon day.

  Aunt Jackie started selling $5 pitchers at noon.

  You won’t even believe the stories that are coming out. When will you get here?

  Hey? Luanne wants to know if you’ll pick her up some cigs?

  I told her that I’d get the cigarettes and meet them there in about fifteen minutes.

  She hadn’t been kidding about the crowds. The place was jammed. Music was blasting from the jukebox, and the mood inside was anything but somber. Of course, if Aunt Jackie had been pouring five-dollar pitchers of Old Style since noon, that part wasn’t too hard to understand. For all practical purposes, everyone who worked at OTI was on a paid holiday.

  I spotted Tony Gemelli right away. He was holding forth with a large group set up near the pool table. It was pretty clear that enthusiasm for the UAW had surged. It looked like half the chairs in the bar had been dragged over to that area. He saw me and winked as I walked by. I didn’t see El. I was half relieved and half sick about that. I figured she must be off working another event some place. I wondered how much they were hearing about the Ogata Tiger Team. I wondered if El knew that Tam Shigeta was here. And I wondered if she knew that I was working as part of the assessment unit now.

  Mostly, I wondered if she was feeling as miserable as I was about our lapsed and murky status.

  I saw T-Bomb standing up and waving at me from their table near the back of the bar. I waved back and started to head that way when something cut across the floor in front of me and nearly knocked me off my feet. What the hell?

  I looked down.

  Puppies?

  Yep. Puppies. And they were profoundly . . . ugly . . . puppies, too.

  There had to be half a dozen of them zooming around in crazy, random patterns like water bugs on a summer pond. They looked like canine tinker toys, cobbled together from parts that simply did not match. Their fat bottoms slid and skidded across the floor behind their sleeker front ends as if the motor neurons carrying the message to “run really fast” got waylaid in transit.

  I heard a staccato sequence of ear-splitting barks wind up and project from the dark corner behind T-Bomb’s table. An exasperated-looking Lucille waddled out into the half-light, wheezing and raising Cain. Magically, the puppies all reversed course and headed toward the table, piling into an ungainly heap at Lucille’s feet. He growled and snapped at each of them, before turning around and retreating back to his dark corner. The puppies sat looking forlornly at each other before meekly following Lucille and settling down next to him on the pile of old hunting jackets that served as his bar bed.

  I reached the table and pulled out a chair. “What’s with the puppies?”

  Luanne waved a hand in disgust. “Did you remember to get my smokes?”

  I nodded and pulled the pack of Viceroys out of my backpack.

  “Honey, Aunt Jackie is about to go postal over these dern ugly dogs,” T-Bomb explained.

  Luanne was ripping the cellophane off the pack of cigarettes. “That lowlife Jerry Sneddin came by here last night and just left them dogs outside in a big box.” She smacked the pack against the palm of her hand to dislodge a cigarette. “I got no time for any human being who would do such a thing. That man is like ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag.”

  I was looking at Lucille and his . . . brood . . . and tallying up the number of dogs. Seven.

  “Didn’t Aunt Jackie say there were nine of these?”

  T-Bomb cackled.

  I looked at her. “What?”

  “Two of ’em have already been adopted out.”

  I looked down at the motley pile of creatures again.

  “Who in the world would take one of these—much less, two?” I asked.

  T-Bomb slapped me on the arm. “Congratulations! Fritz just got himself two new playmates.”

  My jaw dropped. “What the hell are you talking about?” I looked down at the little shop of horrors now snoring in a heap behind our table. “I’m not taking two of these dogs . . .”

  “Not you,” T-Bomb clarified. “Grammy.”

  “Grammy?”

  Grammy took two of Lucille’s spawn? It was impossible.

  “That’s
not possible.”

  “Well, apparently it is.” T-Bomb drained her glass. “She picked ’em up today. Two little females.”

  “Oh my god. What the hell is she going to do with two of these dogs? She’s eighty years old.”

  “So what? That don’t mean she can’t take care of ’em. Hell. She keeps Fritz more than you do.”

  Her comment bothered me, mostly because it was true. “Fritz is different.”

  Luanne picked up a folded sheet of paper and fanned the air in front of her face. “Not very different—if you get my drift.” She laughed. “Maybe them females will have better digestive tracts.”

  I sniffed the air. “Oh, god . . .”

  Acquiring two more dogs with righteous flatulence was not what I needed.

  I put my head in my hands. “I need a drink.”

  “Well, buck up, Betty Lou.” T-Bomb gestured toward something behind me. “I think your prayers are about to be answered.”

  I swiveled around in my seat to see Tony Gemelli approaching. He was carrying a pilsner glass and a frosty bottle of Stella Artois. When he reached our table, he set them both down in front of me.

  “You look like you could use this,” he said.

  “Thanks.” I picked up the bottle and took a sip. I didn’t bother with the glass. “It looks like business is good over on your side of the bar.”

  He shrugged. “I can’t complain.” He nodded in acknowledgement to T-Bomb and Luanne. “I wish the surge in enthusiasm wasn’t tied to such a tragedy.” He slowly shook his head. “Nobody wants a victory at a price like that.”

  “Well, dern,” T-Bomb chimed in. “That don’t sound like somethin’ an agitator would say.”

  He looked at her. “Agitators have hearts, too.”

  “I got nothin’ to say about that, so I’ll just say this. Ruthie’s misfortune might end up bein’ the wake-up call everybody at that place needed.” Luanne pointed a finger at Tony. “And that don’t necessarily mean that folks woke up on your side of the bed, neither.”

  Tony rubbed a hand across his chin. He looked like he needed a shave. “I know that too well. I’ve been doing this work a long time.”