“This could have led to a very serious situation. If the crew of truck 317 had installed one-ought instead of 477, fire could have resulted. Serious injury could have occurred.
“Claude, it’s our job here in the stores department to load vehicles properly. Safety on the job is a high priority. On February 10, you received an oral warning for incorrectly matching items from a work order with items placed on one of our trucks. At that time, you agreed to put a check mark next to each item on the work order, and point to each corresponding item on the loading platform. Do you recall that agreement, Claude?”
Claude looked up. “I do recall that agreement of February 10, Mr. Schulke, sir.”
“Very good,” Schulke said. “At this point, I want you to tell me about last Thursday, when you were loading truck 317.”
“There isn’t anything to tell. We were busy, and I was running around trying to load as many trucks as I could. Not everyone was working hard like me. I saw that the work order listed seven spools of 477, so I went to the shelf where the 477s are stored. I moved the spools with the forklift to one of the platform dollies. When I got to truck 317, I put some of the spools on the truck. I pointed to each one as I loaded them, and put a check on the sheet. All I can guess is someone’s playing games and trying to get me in trouble, Mr. Schulke sir, or that one-oughts were put on the 477 shelf where they didn’t belong. We’re busy, Mr. Schulke sir, and it’s important that people put things on the right shelf. You should let your department know that.”
Schulke nodded through Claude’s explanation, and kept nodding after Claude finished.
“There appears to be a disagreement of fact,” he said, “and I will be sure to note that.
“However,” he continued, “Ned Feeney and I verified on Friday that there were two more spools of 477 wire on the 477 shelf than there should have been, and two fewer spools of one-ought wire on the one-ought shelf than there should have been. This is evidence an error was made. The crew of truck 317 testified that they were given two spools of one-ought, and had both spools when they returned from Foster Friday afternoon. Moreover...”
Schulke took a page from the bottom of the packet and handed it to Claude.
“Moreover, the shipment of wire in question, when it arrived, was removed from the loading dock and placed on the shelves by you, on May 2, as this computer printout attests. At this point, I would like you to tell me about Thursday, when you loaded truck 317, or about May 2, when you placed the wire in question on the storage shelves.
Claude said nothing. After an appropriate wait, Schulke continued.
“Claude, this is a disciplinary conversation. I am issuing you a written warning for your work performance regarding the incorrect loading of truck 317 on Thursday, May 18, which could have led to a fire at a Rhode Island Electric Company substation, and possibly to injury of Rhode Island Electric employees. I am confident we can reach an agreement on behavior that will help avoid similar errors in the future. I am confident in your ability to carry out that agreement. I have lost no faith in you as a result of this incident or this warning.
“If, however, there are further problems —that is, if I have further problems —in work performance in the next twelve months, it will become necessary to proceed to the next step of the positive discipline policy, which is decision-making leave. If you are given a decision-making leave, you will have three days, with pay, to decide if you are willing, and able, to make changes in your actions that will allow you to continue as an employee in the stores department of Rhode Island Electric. Is there anything you wish to say?”
Claude said nothing.
“Is there anything either of you wish to say?” Schulke said to Scotty and Shepard.
Both indicated no.
“Claude,” Schulke said, “do you have any suggestions that will help you avoid incorrect loading errors in the future?”
Claude thought what he’d like to say: Oh yes, Mr. Schulke, sir, I’ll prance up to every spool of wire in this glorious company and kiss them twice before loading them onto our beautiful trucks for our dedicated, All-America linemen. By golly, sir, I’ll be the best darn employee this great nation ever saw, because Rhode Island Electric treats me with the dignity I deserve and because —on a personal note —there’s no one in the world I respect more than you, Mr. Schulke sir.
But he said nothing.
“In that case, Claude,” Schulke said, “since you have no suggestions, I would like to give you a copy of a document renewing our agreement of February 10, which I have taken the liberty to draw up. Claude, will you agree to that renewal?”
Claude looked to the floor, but gave as small a nod of agreement as he could get away with.
“Very well,” Schulke said. “Please sign the bottom. By signing you merely acknowledge the warning and the conversation we’ve just had. Your signature means you agree to mark items off the list and point to them as they are loaded on each truck. By agreement between union and management, you may submit a rebuttal to this warning. Any rebuttal must be submitted by the end of the third working day after this meeting, and will be attached to this warning and placed along with it in your disciplinary file.”
Claude signed, and each witness signed too. Claude stood up without speaking and left the room. Instead of slamming the door behind him, he left it wide open.
Shepard gave a slight smirk to Schulke, which irked Scotty.
“Boss,” Scotty said, “maybe you should give Bugsy the rest of the day off. Personal time, you know, let him collect himself.”
“Fuck that,” Schulke said. “That S.O.B. is going back to work, and he damn well better start getting it right or I’ll run his fucking ass out the goddamn door.”
Claude marched to the back corner to write his rebuttal among some boxes, but after ten minutes Scotty came to get him for lunch. As the two walked to the cafeteria, Scotty warned Claude about what Schulke said.
“Screw him,” Claude said. “The contract gives me the right to write a rebuttal, and I’m writing it. If he can write me up during working hours, I can write my rebuttal during working hours. If he doesn’t like it, he can kiss my ass.”
After lunch, Claude returned to the corner, sometimes writing but mostly pouting. An hour and a half later, Claude heard Frank’s horn and figured Schulke was heading for him. He signed the bottom of the rebuttal and rose to meet Schulke in the aisle.
“Here is my rebuttal, Mr. Schulke sir,” he said. “As per the contract, I want this attached to my written warning and placed in my file. I also believe I’m entitled to a copy. Please leave the copy in my mail slot by the time I go home tonight.”
Schulke accepted the rebuttal without comment. Claude walked back toward the office. Schulke read the paper.
This is my official rebuttal. I do not believe the written warning I was given by Mr. Thomas Schulke was fair. Mr. Schulke does not want me in this department because of who my father was and is looking for any little thing to write me upfor. It is not fair. There are many times when mistakes are made and people don’t get written up. That’s besides the point though. The wrong equipment was placed in the wrong place on the shelves, and when I went to get it I went to the right place but the wrong things were there. This is a setup, because I went to the right place on the shelves. It isn’t the crisis he’s making it out to be. Mr. Schulke also said I loaded the shelf but that doesn’t mean two weeks later the same spools were there. The crew leader is suppose to check everything on the truck, and that did not happen. I only found out about it one day later, and that is why I think I am being set up by Mr. Thomas Schulke and people in the Union of Utility Workers who were enemies of my father. I think they will try to write me up again, and the union will let it happen. I have been a good employee of R.I. Electric for over 20 years, and Schulke is the worst supervisor in the company and everyone know it. I will sue if he tries to set me up and the union let’s him get away with it.
Claude Amognes
Schulke walked to the pho
tocopy machine and made six copies. He attached the original to the written warning and placed it in his satchel for delivery to human resources. He curled a copy and put it in Claude’s mail cubby. He sent copies to Scotty and Shepard, to the operations manager, to the company president, and kept one for himself.
As he lifted his satchel and left the office, he passed Scotty.
“I’m off to a meeting for the rest of the afternoon,” Schulke said. “Tell Claude I want him to finish entering that stack of invoices into the computer, and I mean today.”
Chapter 6
Claude slept no better Monday than the night before. At least Sunday he could blame the story he was rehearsing for upsetting his rest. This night, as last, he awoke nearly as soon as fell asleep, but this night, unlike last, the immediate cause eluded him.
As he lay waiting for the morning alarm, Claude considered calling in sick. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea, not the day after a written warning, though it would sure show the guys he wasn’t afraid of Schulke. Next week was short, because of Memorial Day, so no sense calling in then —better to wait for a full week. Perhaps in the middle of June, or the end of June to be safe, Claude could come down with a case of stores department fever and take a week away from Schulke.
Rhode Island Electric, per its union contract, granted employees a week of paid sick time for each full year of service the employee had. As long as the absence did not extend beyond five work days, the employee need not give a reason for the absence. Once the absence moved to the sixth day, however, the employee couldn’t return to the job until cleared by both his own doctor and by the company physician.
To balance the generous sick time allotment, the contract contained a paid-for-time-worked provision. With the fourth separate absence in a rolling twelve-month period, the company suspended the employee from receiving sick pay for a year. As a result, it was deemed foolish in union ranks to take a single sick day at a time. “Don’t infect your brothers; make sure you’re healthy before returning to work” was a popular tongue-in-cheek slogan.
Although other electric companies had similar sick pay policies, the Rhode Island Electric policy was one of the coups of Jackie Amognes’s tenure as UUW president. At the time, the company didn’t think to include language to require people to be sick when they took sick time —they just assumed the underlying value would remain in place. Big mistake. That work ethic might show itself among management go-getters, but it did not carry over to the union population, not in the least, and once Jackie took the cap off that particular bottle there was no stemming the tide that burst forth. If it’s five days or less I don’t need a reason. If it’s six days or more I’m entitled to a week for each year of service. Each contract since, the company tried, and failed, to amend the sick policy.
As an employee with more than twenty years of service, Claude had five legitimate weeks of vacation, and each year also took two five-day stretches of sick time, three if his mood at work had really decayed. And that’s if he remained healthy. If he actually became sick, forget it. He once passed a kidney stone and missed six weeks of work. He sprained a wrist playing football and missed ten weeks. And once he broke his ankle on the job —during a contest to see who could jump the farthest from the back fire escape —and missed nineteen weeks of work. At the time, company policy allowed employees to collect sick pay and workers compensation benefits at the same time and keep both, so Claude sat home and kept collecting. The boss loved that one. At last, Schulke received permission from the human resources manager to drive to Claude’s house and insist Claude accompany him to the Rhode Island Electric medical department. When he did, medical pronounced the ankle fully healed. Although Claude filed a grievance over the matter, he had all he could do to keep from laughing when he submitted it, since during his “recovery period” he’d played a full season of men’s league softball and climbed three mountains with Jamie —all while the double checks rolled. He lost the grievance, but the extra work it created for Schulke pleased him.
This day, Claude went to work. He punched in, and headed directly for the computer and the stack of invoices. Schulke was already at his desk. Neither man spoke, nor did they make eye contact. Claude sat down and typed orders into the system. Although he had his back to Schulke, he monitored the boss’s movements by watching reflections in the glass of a framed notice about minimum wage laws.
For two hours, both shuffled papers and tapped keyboards. At nine, Scotty poked his head through the door.
“Bugsy. Break.”
Claude stood up and joined Scotty. They waited for Frank to climb down the ladder, punched out, and walked to the cafeteria. After they chose their snack items, they left their money on the counter and sat at a table away from the everyone else.
“That Shepard’s some asshole, ain’t he Bugsy?” Frank said. Although Shepard had only recently risen to high office in the union, Frank knew Claude considered him a legacy of Jackie’s enemies.
“No shit,” Claude said. “Sat there the whole time yesterday nodding along with everything Schulke said. Did he say anything to you, Scotty?”
“Hell no,” Scotty said. “I’m just a shop steward. He doesn’t need to speak to me. Looked to me like he did all the talking he needed to before you and I got there.”
“Bastard,” Claude said.
“So Bugsy,” Frank said, “you gonna toe the line for a change?”
Claude recoiled. He looked at Frank. He held his coffee cup close to his lips for a second, then took a sip. He looked back to Frank.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he said.
“What do you mean?” Frank said.
“What do you mean ‘what do you mean’?”
Frank laughed.
“Bugsy, fucking relax already. I’m on your side, and always will be, and you know it.”
Claude put down his drink and leaned back in his chair.
“I just wonder sometimes why you think this is all worth it,” Frank continued. “I mean the goofing off and the calling in sick and the flack you give Schulke just to stick it up his ass. You’re a smart guy. If you wanted to, you could be a good employee. I’m not saying become an ass-kisser, but if you put in half an ounce of effort you wouldn’t make so many brain-dead mistakes and you wouldn’t be sweating it with Schulke all the time. You could come in, do your job with none of the grief and go home. Wouldn’t you be a hell of lot happier?”
“Hey, Frank, come on now,” Scotty said.
“No, I’m serious,” Frank said. “How is it better for you, Bugsy —how does it improve life for you —to constantly half-ass everything here at work? Explain it to me. I mean, you’ve got writtens across the board now. What if you slip up again? And again after that and you’re out the door? What the hell are you going to do for work, forty-whatever years old with no experience except in the stores department of a frigging electric company?”
“I thought my goddamn parents were dead,” Claude said.
“You don’t have to listen to me if you don’t want to,” Frank said. “Hey, I’m happy, and I’m going to stay that way whether you get fired tomorrow or win employee of the year. But I worry about you, Bugsy. I see my kids, and the good jobs they have, and the lives they enjoy, and the trips they take, and I know you can trace everything they have right back to that cockpit under the crane. That crane gave my family a good life, a damn good life, and if one day I woke up and couldn’t operate it, it’s not me who would’ve suffered, Bugsy. Not me, chief. Them. It’s them who would’ve suffered. How are you going to take care of Jamie and Joan if you don’t have Rhode Island Electric?”
Claude rose from the table and left without comment. Scotty picked up the table litter and threw it away. Frank shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s just as easy to do the job right and not have to worry about it,” he said.
Chapter 7
For the rest of the week Claude avoided Schulke and matched work orders correctly. For the first time in months he
skipped Friday night at the Dub, and Saturday rose early to help pack the family Buick for the Amognes’ annual Memorial Day trip to a three-bedroom cabin on a little lake in southern Maine.
Joan’s older sister, Connie, joined them. Although Joan and Connie had been close growing up, marriage drove a wedge between them. Connie’s husband, Lou Farley, spelled success with dollar signs and prided himself on his straight-talking approach to life, but neither inner drive nor blunt honesty carried him beyond modest success as an entrepreneur —twice he sold too soon, twice he sold too late —and after he vowed to earn a place among the social elite he never again condescended to mingle with his buddies from high school and college, even when depression drove him to the brink of suicide and Connie begged him to find a friend to laugh with, because Lou Farley believed his chance meeting with one of the city’s real movers, the “Say, aren’t you Lou Farley?” meeting that would vault him into prominence, could happen at any time, and he didn’t want to risk sitting with the wrong anybody when it did. Lou told a man his strengths and told a man his faults. That went for his wife, too; he often told her how he admired her grace at parties, her ability to speak in public, her dignified walk that showed the elite, yes, the Farleys belong among you. He rarely, however, liked her haircut.
In the months after Joan married Claude, the Farleys and the Amogneses hiked together, went to drive-in movies together, played board games together, and made each other miserable. Lou nagged Claude to find some ambition, to do something with his life. Claude demanded to know how Lou could buy a print shop and immediately replace his group of union men with lower-salaried scabs. Eventually, they just ignored each other, even when seated in the same Mercury Monarch for four hours of a double feature, and from there it was a short, easy step to avoiding each other altogether. For years, either Joan visited Connie and Lou or Connie visited Joan and Claude.
Then one time when Joan and Jamie were visiting the Farleys at their cottage on the beach, Lou scolded his ten-year old niece for failing to return a dirty plate and drinking glass to the kitchen sink. His simple reprimand snowballed to an all-out attack on Claude —you’re no better than your sloth of a father, can’t you learn any manners in that hellhole? you’re white trash and he’s the reason —driving Jamie to tears and bringing Joan and Connie scurrying from outside to make peace. And peace was made. Connie led Lou to the picnic table on the small lawn and Joan threw Jamie’s things into her travel bag and hustled the still-sniffling girl to the car. But peace didn’t last. As Joan stepped up to hug her sister and say good-bye, Connie folded her arms.
The Jig of the Union Loller Page 5
