Hoosier Daddy

by Ann McMan

  Texas? El was in Texas? She might as well be in Timbuktu.

  So much for my brief sojourn through the land of hope and optimism . . .

  Janice Baker hurried past us, carrying her own supersized cup of coffee. She noticed me seated there and backtracked.

  “Jill? Are you coming to the meeting?” She smiled and nodded at Luanne. “Hi there.”

  Luanne dropped a protective hand to my shoulder. “She was feelin’ a bit woozy, so I told her to sit down.”

  I swallowed hard and nodded up at Janice, who was looking at me with concern. “I’m okay.” I got to my feet. “Maybe I can catch up with you after work?” I asked Luanne.

  “You know where to find me.” She squeezed my arm and lowered her voice. “It ain’t nothin’ we can’t handle, girl.”

  I tried to smile at her, but didn’t quite succeed.

  I picked up my coffee mug and headed for the front offices with Janice.

  Tam’s stand up meeting morphed into a longer, sit-down session in the boardroom. Janice told me on our walk back to the offices that there had been some developments related to the union campaign, and that Tam needed to brief us all about what to expect. I didn’t mention that I already knew what those developments were. I didn’t mention, either, that my heart was fractured into more pieces than a pre-assembled Outlaw Super Duty King Cab. It was all I could do to hold myself together.

  I took my seat at the table and tried to compose myself. All fourteen members of the Tiger Team were there. Seven came in with Ogata, and the rest of us had been Krylon employees. Even with my complete level of distraction, it was impossible not to think about the conversation I’d had with Don K. in this very room. Right then, it felt like that exchange had happened in another lifetime.

  “Good morning, everyone.” Tam entered the room and took a seat near the door. Even through my haze of misery, I noticed that he seemed pretty calm—especially considering the announcement he was about to make. But I was learning that composure was something Ogata’s senior management team had in abundance. “I apologize for co-opting more of your time this morning than our scheduled ten minutes. But we have some important news to share, and some specifics related to a new initiative to discuss. I’ll try to summarize where we are as quickly as possible, before we shift into a broader conversation about strategies. At that time, I’ll introduce you to a couple of new additions to our corporate response team. You’ll all have the opportunity to ask any questions you have, but be aware that much of this is developing in real time, so we may not be able to answer every query right out of the starting gate.” He looked at each of us in turn. “All good with that?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Great. Let’s get started.” He opened a manila folder that sat on the table in front of him. “Many of you may have heard by now that the UAW was successful in garnering authorization signatures from more than thirty percent of Krylon—now Ogata—employees.”

  There was a chorus of groans.

  Tam held up a sheet of paper. “This is a copy of an email I received late yesterday from the NLRB Region 25 office in Indianapolis, informing me that the United Auto Workers have filed for the right to hold an election in this plant. Barring the discovery of any complications or irregularities during their investigation—which we do not expect—that election will be scheduled to take place sometime within the next thirty days.”

  “So what impact is that likely to have on the work we’re doing now?” Janice asked.

  “For all process and systems evaluations—no impact,” Tam replied. “All of your work continues as planned. With regard to certain human resource initiatives, we’ll want to refocus our near-term objectives and jump-start some new strategies that address immediate shortfalls in worker engagement. I’m sure that most of you are already familiar with the ‘Who’s On First?’ routine now playing out at the Volkswagen plant in Chattanooga. People engaged in that debate are changing sides so fast it’s hard to keep up with who’s on what side of which issue. To put it all simply, the UAW is claiming that it has a mandate to hold union elections in the plant, and, oddly enough, Volkswagen is not opposed to that. However, a contingent of employees backed by a national Right to Work organization has filed a counter petition to stop the vote, alleging that Volkswagen has unlawfully conspired with the union.”

  There were some titters of laughter around the table.

  Tam smiled. “To put it in the vernacular, it’s a Class A clusterfuck. But there are some important takeaways for us. Volkswagen, because of its roots in the EU, is comfortable with the practice of giving workers a direct forum to discuss job-related issues—although wage and benefit discussions remain off the table. They would like to institute domestic models for these European-style works councils. But some legal experts allege that those councils are tantamount to employer-managed unions, which are a violation of U.S. Labor law. So the debates, and the battles, continue. Now, the governor of Tennessee and a U.S. Senator have upped the ante by wading into the middle of the dispute. In an effort to resolve the debacle, Volkswagen has reached out to some high-powered consultants who have expertise in bringing all warring factions to the table to find common ground.”

  “I’d pay big money to see Bob Corker split a Wiener Schnitzel with Bernd Osterloh,” Steve Haley quipped.

  “Are you kidding?” Janice added. “He’d probably ask for separate checks.”

  Even I had to smile at that one. I didn’t know Janice had a sense of humor.

  “You might get to test the truth of that, Janice. Because we’ve engaged the same firm to help us avoid some of the pitfalls our friends in Tennessee are having to navigate now.” Tam sat back and folded his arms. “Look. Let’s be blunt here. We would prefer that OTI remains a non-union shop. And, hopefully, the plans and initiatives we’re putting into place will lead our workers to give us that vote of confidence when the election takes place. But we can’t rest on our laurels and assume we’re doing everything just right, and that our employees will give us the benefit of the doubt. We can have the best-laid plans in the world, but if they’re not managed and communicated to our workers in the right ways, or if our workers are excluded from these conversations, or if we don’t roll them out in a timely enough fashion, we’re going to end up on the same kind of slippery slope, and our carefully crafted business model will be blown to smithereens.”

  No one could dispute the truth of that. We all understood that in most cases, workers who voted for unions were really voting against bad management. Once Ogata employees had a chance to compare apples to apples, they’d probably realize that their new wage and benefit packages would outstrip those offered at comparable Big Three plants.

  “What happens if the union vote goes the other way?” I asked.

  Tam looked at me. “Then we pay really smart people a lot of money to develop ways for us to meet their goals, while maintaining the integrity of our business operations. Ogata is committed to this endeavor.” He looked around the table. “Are there any other questions before I ask our consultants to join us?”

  We all exchanged glances, but remained silent.

  “Okay.” Tam signaled his admin. “Kevin, would you go to my office and ask our guests to join us?”

  Kevin nodded and left the room.

  “I’ll save formal introductions until they get here,” Tam said. “But while we wait, let me tell you a little bit about the two people who will lead us through this process.” He referenced another document in his file folder. “One of them was deputy undersecretary of labor during the Clinton administration. During his tenure, he dealt specifically with employer-union relations, including employee participation programs and the TEAM act, the appointment of the Commission on the Future of Worker-Management Relations, and numerous other issues regarding the National Labor Relations Act. Since 1998, he has gained a solid reputation as a labor relations consultant, and has worked extensively with both organized labor and industrial clients. In the last several
years, his firm has focused on issues related to foreign-owned transplants in North America, with special emphasis on automotive manufacturing. He now heads one of the most highly respected consulting firms in the United States.”

  Tam flipped to a second sheet of paper. “The other member of this dynamic duo may surprise you. She is an acknowledged expert in the field of U.S. labor law and industrial labor relations and comes equipped with a thorough, first-hand understanding of the policies and practices of the UAW.”

  UAW? What the hell . . . ?

  I took an anxious look around the room.

  “She has written and lectured extensively on issues of U.S. labor law, worker rights, and trends in international labor relations. She is a laureate of the prestigious New York State School of Industrial and Labor Relations, and a former associate professor at Cornell.”

  Jesus Christ. This can’t be happening . . .

  My heart was hammering, and I was sure everyone in the room could hear it.

  “She comes to us highly recommended by the Chairman of Volkswagen’s General and Group Works Council, who recently engaged her to consult with his company on the impasse in their Chattanooga plant.”

  I could hear the words he was saying, but I was having a hard time taking in their meaning. It was like he had stopped speaking English and decided to finish his introduction in Japanese.

  My eyes were glued to the door. Finally, Kevin and the two consultants walked in. The innocuous-looking, white-haired man with him was a complete stranger to me. The woman wasn’t.

  El was dressed to the nines in a tailored, black Armani suit.

  Holy shit . . .

  Tam was talking again. I made an effort to pick my jaw up off the table. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

  “Please welcome Arnie Erdmann and Dr. Eleanor Rzcpczinska.” Tam glanced down at the sheet of paper he was still holding. “I realize that you’re all meeting Arnie for the first time. But several of you may already know the good doctor here by another name.”

  El was wearing her glasses, but I could see the smile in her eyes after her gaze swept the room and landed on me.

  “Some called her the agitator,” Tam was still talking, but his voice was fading, like it was coming from a million miles away, “but I’m told that certain others among us know her better as El DeBarge.”

  That night after work, I sat on the front steps at Grammy’s house and watched Fritz being chased around the yard by the puppies. Even though I was reluctant to admit it, Jimmie and Eddie were kind of cute . . . in a Yoda-meets-the-Hunchback-of-Notre-Dame kind of way.

  Still, I had to wonder about Grammy’s sense, or lapse of sense.

  But she was right about Fritz. He seemed invigorated by the energy of the two youngsters.

  I was still reeling from the revelation about El. The rest of the meeting flew by in a blurry confluence of words and images. I stared at El and worked not to stare at El with equal energy. It was all too incredible to take in. It was as if I’d been given a reprieve from a terminal diagnosis. Like I’d walked into my doctor’s office and heard him say, “We’re so sorry, Miss Fryman. The lab mislabeled the test results. You’re not going to die a horrible death, all alone in a barren land.”

  El wasn’t gone. El was staying. And, for now, El was staying in Princeton . . . at Ogata.

  With me.

  But was she with me? That last part was the one thing I was uncertain about.

  We didn’t get to talk after the meeting. Tam whisked El and Arnie off to his office for a conference call with the leadership in Tokyo. I did my best to remain calm. I resisted every impulse I had to call her, to text her, to follow her, or to invent a reason to loiter around outside Tam’s office until she reappeared.

  I managed not to do any of those things. Barely. And she didn’t do any of them, either.

  So now, here I sat, ten hours later, at Grammy’s house, wondering what was next.

  T-Bomb and Luanne both found ways to seek me out once the news about El filtered out into the plant. It didn’t take long. News at that place always did travel faster than the speed of light. No revolution in leadership or corporate culture would ever change that dynamic.

  I was irrationally pleased that they both seemed happy about the news.

  “I always knew things would work out,” T-Bomb declared. “All it took was for you to get your thumb outta your derriere and quit actin’ like a doofus.”

  I wasn’t too sure what she meant by that doofus part, but I did have to admit that life was better when my thumb wasn’t planted in my . . . derriere.

  Still. There was more unsettled than settled between us. And as happy and exhilarated as I was feeling, it was hard not to be miffed at El for keeping me so in the dark. The days since Ruthie’s death had been grueling for me . . . nearly torturous. I had to make a Herculean effort not to be angry at El for not reaching out to me or finding some way to let me know what was in the works.

  But then . . . if I were fair, I had to admit that she did try. When I thought back through our earlier conversations and recalled exactly what words she said—and not the meaning my pain and disappointment grafted onto her comments—she actually had tried to calm my fears, without breaching any confidentiality constraints that surely prevented her from being more open about her plans.

  I heard the grind of a car starter. Across the road at Doc’s, Ermaline was trying to fire up the Buick. It wasn’t cooperating. After five or six nagging attempts, she got out of the big car and slammed its door in disgust. She looked around the yard for some other conveyance that might accommodate her. Apparently, Doc was off somewhere in the El Camino. She took a long drag off her cigarette, and then ground the butt out on the sole of her shoe. She glanced at her watch.

  Ermaline had some place to be.

  Next up was an old Pontiac Catalina. The car was a shiny, sea foam green color, and had been pretty spiffy before Doc sideswiped the Lyles’s Station Bridge one night on his way home from the Elks Lodge. Now the entire driver’s side looked concave—like the car was trying to suck in its breath so it would fit better through narrow spaces.

  Ermaline climbed in and retrieved the key from above the visor. She gave it a shot. The thing roared to life on the first crank. It shuddered and rumbled, and belched blue-black smoke into the sky. Before she pulled out, Ermaline cracked open her door and liberated three or four cats. They did not appear to be happy with the disruption or the ruckus. They fled the scene like rats deserting a sinking ship.

  I was worried that Fritz and the puppies might decide to chase after the cats, but, amazingly, they sat down in a nearly perfect straight row and watched with rapt attention until Ermaline pulled out of the yard and disappeared around the bend. As soon as she was out of sight, they resumed their raucous game of tag as if nothing unusual had happened. It was clear that dogs had some inbred code of conduct that defied human understanding. Or maybe they just liked Pontiacs?

  It was a toss-up.

  Grammy was inside making dinner. I told her not to bother, but she insisted. When I shared the news about El with her, her reaction seemed restrained. It’s not that she wasn’t happy with the outcome— it was clear that she was. It was more that she was withholding comment until we had more information. And that seemed unlike her to me.

  I kept checking my cell phone every few minutes in the hopes that I’d have a message from El. But as the minutes ticked by and piled up into quarter hours, half hours, and hours, I knew it wasn’t looking very likely.

  Grammy was cooking a pork loin with sauerkraut, and it smelled wonderful. I caught whiffs of it whenever the wind shifted and pushed the early evening air through the open doors and windows of the house. I lifted my head into the breeze and basked in the wonderful medley of smells surrounding me on the porch. They were like warm hugs.

  I hoped she’d make mashed potatoes, too.

  It was amazing how my appetite was returning. For weeks, I’d had little interest in anything related to f
ood. Now I found myself thinking about things like eggplant bisque and wondering if Grammy could spare a few quarts of the German Johnson tomatoes she’d been canning.

  The dogs all snapped to attention again. They heard the approaching car before I did. I figured it was probably Ermaline, coming back to retrieve something she’d forgotten. There generally wasn’t much traffic out here on these county roads after six o’clock—unless it was Wednesday night, and people were headed for prayer meeting.

  It wasn’t Ermaline. I saw the sun glinting off something . . . purple. Bright purple. It was an odd-looking car. Small—like a motorized roller skate. A flaming purple roller skate. It slowed down and turned off into Grammy’s driveway.

  All three of the dogs went nuts and roared out to greet it. The puppies did their best to keep up with Fritz, but they had their customary difficulty getting their back ends pointed in the same direction as their front ends. Watching them was like watching one of those demolition derbies, where the cars all ran at breakneck speeds in reverse.

  When the car came to a halt and its door opened, I recognized the fantastic pair of legs that appeared before the driver climbed out.

  El was still wearing her power suit, and she didn’t seem the least bit bothered that Fritz and the puppies were climbing all over her. I could hear her cooing and talking to each of them in her silky, low voice.

  My heart was racing, and I was torn between wanting to rush out there and join in the frenzied bout of licking, or staying put on the top step and pretending to remain calm until El made her way to the house.

  Forget remaining calm. I lasted about two seconds before I was off the porch and running toward the driveway.

  El met me halfway.

  We stood in the middle of the yard, with the dogs dancing in their ageless, wild patterns around our feet and clung to each other like beggar ticks on a wool sweater. Neither of us said anything. We just held on.