Two things kept the program alive. One, management figured since it had a foot in the door, it might as well hold the door open on the odd chance that, on some far-away tomorrow, some drastic change in circumstance might allow it to revisit the subject of meaningful performance management. Two, after seven years of crowing its merits, Munson refused to admit the program was anything but the crowning achievement in his tenure as president.
#
As Claude punched in the Tuesday after Memorial Day, he noticed both doors to the stores department office were closed. He peeked through the glass and saw Schulke sitting with Scotty. None of the forklifts had been moved from the parking area. No yellow lights twirled, meaning nobody sat in the cockpit of the crane.
Darezzo rounded the corner with a can of soda and a cold pop tart.
“Is it Review Day?” Claude said.
Darezzo nodded.
“Hmmm,” Claude said. “Last year it was in June. Why so early this year?”
“Don’t ask me.”
When Claude’s turn came, he sat across from Schulke and listened. Schulke read Claude’s ratings: three ones (the lowest score), three twos, a three, and no fours. Claude did not react. Schulke next reviewed the comments beside each rating and asked if Claude had any questions. Claude said nothing. Schulke then asked Claude if he had any ideas that might improve the way the department functioned in the coming year. Claude said nothing. Schulke asked Claude if he’d sign the appraisal to show he’d been read the comments. Claude picked up the paper and left without speaking.
In short, Claude followed the party line. Each member of the stores department went in, sat down, said nothing, signed nothing, and left. One after another after another. The same happened in overhead lines, in underground lines, in substation maintenance, in telecommunications, in building maintenance. With the exception of customer service and meter reading, which each had large female populations, the UUW taboo against participating in the performance appraisal process held.
Once Schulke had handed out all the appraisals, the members of the stores department gathered at break to go over them. They pulled two tables together and sat down with their coffee and snacks.
“Everyone here?” Darezzo said.
“Nick’s not,” Scotty said. “He must still be in with Schulke.”
“Who needs him?,” Warren said. “John, what did you get?”
“Threes across the board. Reliability: ‘John is one of the more reliable members of the department. I can always count on him to be there when work needs to be done.”
Frank swallowed a bite of donut. “Reliability,” he said. “Reliability: ‘Frank is one of the more reliable members of the department. I can always count on him to be there when work needs to be done.’”
Elton stood. “Elton is one of the more reliable members of the department,” he read. “I can always count on him to be there when work needs to be done.”
Everyone laughed.
“Same here,” Scotty said.
“Me too,” Darezzo said. “Hey Bugsy, Schulke hates you. What did you get?”
“I got a two instead of a three,” Claude said, “so Schulke had to give me a custom job. Reliability: ‘Claude could be among the reliable members of the department more often. I need to be able to count on him more often when work needs to be done.’”
Frank shook his head. “What a boob. He writes the same thing every year. Doesn’t he know we’re onto him?”
Scotty nudged Frank with an elbow. “He doesn’t care. If he wanted to write the truth on these things, he’d actually have to know what’s going on.”
“Okay,” Warren said, “somebody give me ‘awareness of costs.’”
“I got a three,” a smiling Claude said to a mock cheer. “The comment says, ‘Participates in recycling efforts. Reuses material.’ Anyone get the same?”
All hands at the table rose, and again everyone laughed. As they did, Nick joined the group from the rear, pulled up a chair, and sat.
“Hey Nick,” John said. “Read us what you got for dependability.”
Nick felt his upper molars with the tip of his tongue. “I didn’t get an appraisal.”
For a brief count, nobody moved. Eyes sought other eyes, and nods went unnodded as everyone around the table understood.
“I see,” John said. “I get it. You didn’t get an appraisal because you’ve got some other kind of bonus coming to you this year.”
Nick looked John in the eye, but said nothing.
“Is that true?” Frank said.
“Yeah, Frank, it’s true.”
At once, seven men rose from the table, taking their drinks and snacks with them. The three on the far side of the table, Scotty, John, and Elton, turned and sat at the table near the soda machine. The other four, Claude, Frank, Warren, and Darezzo, turned and sat at the table near the trash cans.
Nick sat all alone. Nobody faced him, and although conversation resumed at the other two tables, it was in low tones meant to keep him from listening. Other people in the cafeteria stared. When Nick’s eyes met any of theirs, they turned away.
“Hey, Frank,” Nick said, selecting the person he thought would be most reasonable about the situation.
Frank did not turn around. Nick stood, bought a soda and a candy bar, and returned to stores. Once he’d left, the two tables turned toward each other.
“How about that?” Darezzo said.
Claude shook his head and stared at the table. John slumped over his can of soda. Scotty heaved an audible sigh, pushed his coffee cup away from him, and drummed his fingers on the table.
“I guess another one bites the dust,” Scotty said.
“I didn’t think Nick would do it,” John said. “Why would he want to leave the union just like that? I mean, we’re not so bad. What’s wrong with us?”
Warren broke into a wide smile. “Look at you guys,” he said. “A guy bolts, and you all wallow around with long faces. You just don’t get it, do you? This isn’t a time to mope about. This is a time to stand with our middle fingers held high, a time to show everyone what happens to scum who disrespect their union. Our union keeps this company going. We need to make an example of that bastard, not to punish him, but to show everyone else that if you try this, here’s what you’re gonna get, and not from just one or two of us, but from all of us united. We’re a brotherhood, aren’t we? And brothers stick together, don’t they? And when a brother betrays you, you don’t stand for it, do you?”
“No,” Claude said.
“So who’s with me?” Warren said.
Claude and Darezzo called out their allegiance, but the others simply nodded or shrugged. People collected their trash, picked up their appraisal sheets, and as a group returned to work.
Chapter 11
When Nick returned from lunch that afternoon, he found the contents of his locker strewn about the far corner of the stores department. Two pieces of padlock lay at the foot of the locker. Pictures of his family had been torn to little pieces. His can of shaving cream sat on the wooden bench, crushed, its contents sprayed over the other stuff in his locker. The leather of a foamed-up baseball glove had been cut, and a broken gold chain hung from a hook on the back wall of the locker. A pair of snips, apparently those used to cut the lock, baseball glove, and chain, were jammed like a spike through the locker’s thin metal door.
As Schulke surveyed the scene with Nick, his lip tightened. With a hard tug he pulled the snips from the locker door, raised them as if to slam them to the floor, and gently lowered them to the bench as the muscles in his arms relaxed.
“Mr. Clarke will hear about this,” Schulke said. “Rest assured, Nick, I won’t let this go.”
Nick nodded, and Schulke put a hand on his shoulder. Nick bent down, picked up the baseball glove, and shook loose some of the white stuffing. “Got this from my dad my freshman year in high school,” he said. “Lot of outs recorded by this baby. Sort of hate to lose it. Not like this.”
“Let’s clean up as best we can,” Schulke said. “Then I want you to go home. I’ll grant you the personal time so you don’t have to use vacation.”
“Thanks, Tom.”
“Don’t mention it. And I’ll find out who did this and deal with him.”
They put the contents of the locker into a garbage bag and wiped away the shaving cream with a rag. When they finished, Schulke slapped Nick once on the back and shook his hand.
“See you soon,” Schulke said.
Nick said good-bye. With the bag slung over his shoulder he walked toward the bays, nodding at Scotty as he passed. As he approached the dock, Darezzo, Claude, and Warren turned their backs to him. Nick walked past them, then stopped, turned about, and stepped up to Claude and Warren, who still faced the other direction and didn’t sense his approach. He leaned in close, nearly brushing their backs with his shoulder.
“Don’t fuck up,” he whispered. “The first time you load a truck with an inch less wire than I order, I’m dropping the hammer hard, you dig? See you round, assholes.”
#
In the human resources department, Schulke sat in a chair next to a closed door like a child sent to the principal’s office. Although he could hear a television in the office behind the door, he’d been told the manager of human resources, G. Morris Clarke, was busy and had left instructions not to be disturbed. After a half hour, Schulke went to the cafeteria and got a soda. When he returned to the chair, he sat for another twenty minutes before the door opened and a fortyish woman, Brianna Mickleson, emerged. She passed Schulke without looking at him, and walked straight for the department secretary.
“This was great,” she said in a low voice, handing the secretary a videotape. “Now I’d better get back to work.”
Brianna ducked into her office, which had a glass front, and the secretary dialed the boss.
“Mr. Clarke?” she said. “Tom Schulke to see you. Should I send him in?” After a pause, she nodded to Schulke to go in.
Nobody at the company knew what the “G” in G. Morris Clarke stood for, but everyone figured it had to be something hideous for Clarke to opt for Morris. Clarke stood 5-7, with a pot belly and a graying beard that came in so sparsely he had to grow it extra long to cover the thinner areas. Like Schulke, Clarke was bald, but unlike Schulke, whose white head receded smoothly, Clarke had a bulbous cranium that pushed forward above his eyebrows, as if half a football helmet had been inserted beneath the skin. His scalp also had a tint of birthmark purple.
Two years earlier, the manager of auxiliary services—telecom-munications, stores, and the garage—resigned, but rather than replace him, the company pocketed his salary and redrew the organization chart so the line from auxiliary services rose to Clarke. At first, Clarke was more than happy to let Feeney and his operations team handle the day-to-day issues in auxiliary services, but when Clarke saw Feeney use the new authority to wrangle a louder voice in company discussions, Clarke went to Munson and cried foul. Munson stood behind his human resource manager, and cautioned his operations manager to be more careful in the future about overstepping his bounds.
Clarke walked behind his large oak desk and sat in his maroon high-backed leather chair.
“What is it, Tom?” he said, waving Schulke to sit. “And keep it quick. I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes.”
“Incident with Nick Dubois,” Schulke said. “The union guys broke into his locker and ruined what was there. They cut up a baseball glove he had since high school and a bunch of workout clothes he kept inside. They also ruined a cross he had on a chain. They’re trying to send a message to Nick, Mr. Clarke, and I think we need to respond with a strong message of our own.”
“Do you know who did it?”
“I have a few suspects,” Schulke said. “That sort of stunt isn’t Frank Dombrowski’s style, or Scotty Williams’s, or John Carrollton’s. I’d guess it was Warren Taylor, Dave Darezzo, or Claude Amognes, if not all three.”
“What did those guys have to say for themselves?” Clarke said.
Schulke stared across the desk. He broke into a smile and started to speak, then thought better of it and changed to a serious expression. “I haven’t asked them about it yet,” he said. “I guess I should have, but I figured they’d just deny it anyway, so I came up with something else.”
“A denial can tell you a lot,” Clarke said, “so don’t be so quick to dismiss them. But go ahead, what’s your something else?”
“Well you know we’ve been losing wire,” Schulke said. “I thought maybe we could install a system of cameras in stores like we have in the parking lots and at the front gate. That way, the next time something like this happens, we can check the tape to see who did it. The cameras would also serve as a deterrent, you know, that once everyone knew they were there whoever’s been stealing the wire will wise up.”
Clarke stroked his beard.
“I know cameras are expensive,” Schulke said, “but I think it’s the right way to go.”
“How’s the recycling account looking?”
“It’s ahead of where we expected it to be at this point,” Schulke said, “but I had that money earmarked for another computer. Right now the invoices are stacking up because we’re short a terminal.”
Clarke reached across his desk and pulled a pad toward him. With a felt-tipped pen, he signed his name on the top two sheets of the pad, tore them off, and handed them to Schulke.
“I don’t have time for this,” Clarke said. “Fill in the numbers to order four cameras. Have building maintenance set them up when they arrive —check that, have Jeb buy them from someone local, so we don’t have to wait for them to be shipped. When you get back to stores, figure out where you want each camera to go and let Jeb know. Use the second sheet to request two computers from information services. Tell them I want the computers installed after everyone leaves tonight. Tomorrow you give your crew hell, and let them know you’ve spoken to me. Do your best to put the fear of god into them, and if anyone tips off who trashed Nick’s locker, let me know.”
Clarke checked his watch. “I gotta go.”
Chapter 12
The next morning, Schulke arrived late. He walked across the parking lot into an unoccupied bay, climbed to the cement landing, and told Scotty to gather everyone for a department meeting.
It was 10:15, long past the morning rush, well before lunch, and slower than usual because there’d been no deliveries.
The stores department rarely held impromptu meetings. The men attended monthly safety meetings, and occasional company-wide meetings, but those took place in the auditorium on the third floor of the main building. Warren and Elton dragged the chairs from the office and sat down. Scotty took a seat and saved the fourth for Frank. John settled in on a pile of boxes, and Darezzo parked his forklift near the office and stayed right in his seat. Claude folded his arms and leaned against the trash compactor.
“What’s this about?” Scotty said.
“Let’s wait until Frank gets here,” Schulke said. “Some things around here have to change.”
“Elton’s underwear, for starters,” Darezzo said.
The men laughed, and a smiling Elton flipped a casual middle finger over his shoulder toward the forklift.
Frank unhitched himself from the cockpit and climbed down the ladder. In a moment he appeared around the corner of the office and sat in the empty chair.
“As many of you know,” Schulke said, “yesterday some individual or group of individuals broke into Nick’s locker and destroyed the contents. I assume this act of vandalism has something to do with Nick’s promotion to supervisor in overhead lines, though that promotion has not yet been announced officially.”
“He scabbed us like you, eh Mr. Schulke, sir?” Claude said.
Schulke glared at Claude. “Clever, Claude. But not so smart. Just like the people who broke into Nick’s locker, not so smart. I have a good idea who did this, and believe me, those involved are going to pay, and pay
big.”
“Hey boss,” Frank said, “lighten up. This shit’s been going on for fifty years. Nobody’s been hurt.”
“Our reputation’s been hurt,” Schulke said, “and a reputation is an important thing. People in this company think we’re a bunch of goof-offs, and aside from the mailroom everyone thinks the stockroom is the cushiest place at Rhode Island Electric.”
Everyone tried to stifle their laughs.
“We’re going to change that reputation,” Schulke said. “Our function is important, and we will work hard to carry it out. After yesterday’s incident I paid a visit to human resources, where Mr. Clarke authorized a number of very important changes to our department.”
He turned his gaze from the middle of the group to Claude at the compactor. “I don’t want the sloppy efforts or reckless acts of a few to ruin the reputation of the department as a whole.”
Claude smirked. Scotty and Frank looked over their shoulders to Claude, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged. Scotty and Frank turned back toward the boss.
“First,” Schulke said, “you may have noticed the two new computers in the office.”
“What computers?” Darezzo said.
“The new computers that information services installed last night.”
“Oh, the ones the unicorns are using.”
Schulke marched past the seated group, confirmed the absence of the new computers, and marched back before the group.
“That’s information services for you,” he said. “Anyway, the computers will be arriving soon, and everyone will be required to use them.”
“Aw boss,” Frank said, “even me?”
“Even you.”
“You will all receive e-mail addresses,” Schulke continued. “If you have questions about an order, or about any stockroom-related issues, you can e-mail the correct supervisor and get your answer. During down time, more people will be able to enter things into the system so the paperwork doesn’t stack up. If you find yourself with nothing to do, grab a pile of papers and get cracking. The goal is to use the computers to help us attain one hundred percent accuracy in everything we do.”
Darezzo put a fist to his mouth and snorted, and his union brothers laughed. Schulke ignored them.
The Jig of the Union Loller Page 9
