The Jig of the Union Loller

by Michael Burnham

  “And the company isn’t making any money,” Warren said. “Rhode Island Electric brings in millions of dollars a year. Divide all that money by 365, and you see that even a single day of earnings is a pretty nice chunk of change.”

  Claude finished the noodles in his soup, and lifted the bowl to drink the broth.

  “I think if we showed management we were willing to walk,” Warren continued, “we’d be able to bargain for all kinds of improvements.”

  “True,” Claude said as he returned his bowl to the table. “But we could never get a strike vote. Too much dissension. And that’s from bad leadership. When my dad ran the show, he was able to get everyone on the same page, so when he threatened a strike, management knew it wasn’t just talk, that it was gonna happen if he gave the word. In those days, I bet even a lot of management people wouldn’t have crossed the lines. Now, you couldn’t get half the workforce to strike past two paychecks.”

  Warren agreed. In 1974, he noted, the nation had 424 strikes among companies with at least 1,000 workers. In 1995, there were only 31.

  “Nobody wants to strike,” Warren said. “They think they have it so great. Meanwhile, the company president makes 25 times the average union salary, and gets a million-dollar bonus if he sells the company. Can you imagine? A million dollars. If Shepard had any brains, he’d tie our wages to the president’s compensation package, so we could all benefit from Munson’s greed.”

  “Never happen,” Claude said.

  “I know. But wouldn’t it be great if we could pull it off?”

  They finished their lunch break, and on the way back to the department made plans to go deep-sea fishing the weekend after Labor Day.

  Chapter 22

  Evelyn Tagaki set aside the last hour at the Dixwell Center Friday for a send-off party for Jamie and Peter Greeley. Staff members and clients ate cake, drank soda, and took the opportunity to shake hands with Jamie and Peter and wish them well. Throughout the hour, Jamie noticed she could feel inside her own chest. It wasn’t a gurgle, though it seemed fluid and juicy. It wasn’t a pain, though it lingered like one. It wasn’t a tightness, but it was. With school starting Tuesday, Jamie wouldn’t see Peter again unless she said something that day, and although she planned to pull him aside just before the day ended, so she wouldn’t have to struggle through a whole work day if the pull-aside didn’t go well, she neglected to consider Evelyn Tagaki’s kind heart. Now, Evelyn’s heart collided with Jamie’s, and Jamie feared she might not speak with Peter.

  She was right. Although Jamie spent the hour smiling at him, slapping his shoulder when he made a joke, hugging him for the camera, and even holding his hand in a singing circle of clients and staff members, she couldn’t talk to Peter for the ears around them. The party ended, and as Jamie and Peter walked in opposite directions to load clients onto vans, they waved good-bye. It was Friday. Once Peter loaded his van, he had to hustle off to his other job at the mall. Jamie knew it.

  She also knew she was getting to that mall, some way, somehow. Her mother would take her, but would also follow her every step unless Jamie told her the true mission, which Jamie hesitated to do. She’d inevitably get a “So, how’d it go?” from Joan, and if Peter laughed in her face she’d have to explain, or come up with a good lie, which she didn’t relish. No, better to report the successes and keep the failures tucked within.

  #

  On the lower level of the mall, Jamie worked up her courage. When at last she walked into the clothing store where Peter worked, she saw Peter using a long metal rod to hang leather coats on a high rack. She sifted through men’s sportcoats near the front entrance as if she hadn’t seen him. After the last leather jacket hung straight, Peter set the long rod down.

  “Jamie!” he called upon looking up.

  She feigned surprise, but knew Peter was probably onto her. She didn’t care.

  “I’m so glad to see you,” Peter said. “I tried to sneak you off today to ask you something, but never got a chance.”

  “It was nice of Evelyn to think of us.”

  He smiled. “Do you want to work here?”

  Jamie didn’t answer. Her expression turned blank. That’s what he wanted to ask me?

  “I mean, we have an opening coming up,” Peter said. “I already told my boss what a good worker you are, and said if he likes you he can save whatever it would cost to put an ad in the paper. Plus, with an ad who knows what you’re going to get? It’s three nights a week, and the pay is two dollars over minimum wage.”

  Jamie’s cold look began to warm. “What nights?”

  “I don’t know, but I figure we’d be working together at least twice a week. If you want, I can bring Alex out and you can talk to him right now. It’s pretty easy stuff. What do you say?”

  “Um, great, I guess.”

  Jamie expected Peter to move, but he didn’t. He wore a slight smile as he looked at her. He took a deep breath.

  “Also, will you go to a movie with me sometime?

  Chapter 23

  Warren promised to make all the arrangements for the deep sea fishing trip, and Tuesday after Labor Day called Claude over to give him the details.

  “It’s all set for Saturday,” Warren said. “We should be in Charlestown for 7 o’clock. I’ll pick you up at six.”

  “You live between here and Charlestown,” Claude said. “Why don’t I pick you up?”

  “Well, I’m not sure I’ll be home Friday night,” Warren said. “It’ll be better if I pick you up.”

  “You dog, you, living bachelor life to the max. How much will it be?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Claude sent a light backhand slap toward Warren’s shoulder.

  “The fishing excursion, what’s it going to cost?”

  “I figure about $40 each. A friend of mine has a fishing boat and owes me a favor. He has deep sea gear, and agreed to take us out if we paid for the gas for the day. Private tour, just the three of us.”

  “Will he have beer?”

  “We’ll have to bring our own,” Warren said. “And lunch, too, if you want to eat something.”

  Of course I want to eat something, Claude thought.

  The last time he’d fished on the ocean with Warren, they’d used Tim’s Deep Sea Tours, out of Point Judith, and Claude expected them to go with Tim’s again. For $65, Tim served lunch, cleaned the fish himself, and took photos of the catch. He sold cans of beer for $1 each. He usually had a full boat, which Claude liked, since half the fun of pulling a monster from the surf was reveling in the oohs and aahs of the other fishers. Now there might not be any.

  Plus, Tim was a pro. One time two summers ago, Claude hooked a fish that gave him a terrific fight. After an extended battle, the fish quit, but even so, cranking it out of the water, to Claude, felt like reeling an anvil up a waterfall. At last Claude ratcheted the limp fish from the sea, but as he leaned over the rail to grab its tail, the fish wriggled. A gunshot rang out, and the exploding fish splattered on Claude.

  Before Claude grasped what had happened, Tim put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Sorry about that,” he said. “I was waiting here with the baseball bat, but when you reached for it I used the pistol. We don’t see many of these out here.”

  He reached over the rail and slid his hand down the line. The remnants of fish twisted, and Claude and the small group of onlookers gasped as a set of powerful jaws, clenched, with dagger-like teeth, spun into view.

  “He wasn’t dead,” Tim said. “If you’d grabbed him he’d have taken off your hand.”

  No, Claude didn’t mind paying for the right fishing experience. Like the five-handicap golfer who sniffs at the scruffy nine-hole course he grew up playing, Claude was well past his boyish days of sitting on a footbridge snagging sunfish from a tiny brook. As an avid, if unaccomplished, angler, he obeyed certain standards, and Warren’s “favor from a friend” smacked of the type of amateur foolishness Claude would sooner avoid.

  The w
eather report called for sunny skies but cool, fall-like weather. Claude put on a mesh shirt, a thick wool sweater, blue jeans, wool socks, and his new sneakers. He took a water-resistant pullover from the closet and tossed it over the chair near the front door. After fixing himself some coffee, he went back to the bedroom and filled a duffel bag with his Rhode Island Electric rain gear, a pair of sweat pants, some old work gloves, tanning lotion, and an extra pack of cigarettes. He assumed essentials like poles, nets, and bait would be provided, but rummaged through his tackle box for his favorite fishing knife and a handful of accessories he kept specifically for trips to the deep sea. Finally, he tucked two ham and cheese subs and a bag of pretzels into the bag and zipped it shut.

  When Warren did not arrive promptly at six, Claude smirked to himself. Lucky bastard, he thought as he sipped coffee. Next thing he knew, Claude pictured himself winning $100 million, but before he made it to the sunny island, Warren tooted his horn from the front of the house.

  Claude put his coffee mug down, extinguished a nearly-spent cigarette, and donned his sunglasses even though it wasn’t yet bright outside. He paused for a mental check of the items he needed, and, satisfied he had it all, grabbed his jacket and duffel bag and headed out the door.

  “Hey ho,” he called when he saw Warren by the open trunk. “Who’s ready for some fishing?”

  Warren smiled and pointed out two cases of beer in the trunk. Claude set his bag in, and Warren closed the trunk.

  The car was a two-door Grand Marquis, at least 15 years old, faded blue with a rumble in its tailpipe and a torn vinyl top. All four wheels were hubcap-challenged. The passenger door had a large dent in it, and opened only after a hard jerk, and the driver’s side rear view mirror had no glass. Newspapers, fast food bags, and empty coffee cups littered the back seat.

  Claude didn’t understand why a guy with no wife, no kids, and no mortgage would drive such a hunk of shit. Warren earned the same $22.17 an hour Claude did, and, like Claude, pulled in another $5,000 or so a year in union-mandated bonuses. Without Joan, or Jamie, or the house, Claude wouldn’t hesitate to sink a week’s pay each month into a snazzy babemobile.

  Neither man bothered with his seat belt. Before he started the engine, though, Warren asked Claude about the money. He figured $40 for the gas, and $15 for one of the cases of beer. Claude gave him $60 and told him not to worry about the change.

  An hour later, Warren wheeled the Grand Marquis off Route 1 toward the ocean. Claude wasn’t aware of any marina in the area they were headed, and was surprised when Warren stopped the car in the parking lot of a restaurant across the street from a beach.

  “Your friend docks here?” Claude said.

  “Oh no,” Warren said. “There aren’t any docks here. We have to go to meet him.”

  Ah, Claude thought, now I get it. He once drove by a yacht club in Marblehead, Massachusetts, and recalled watching high school kids in little speedboats shuttle rich people to their boats. When he and Warren climbed over the grassy ridge, Claude expected to see a small bay dotted with boats of all sizes, like in Marblehead, and nervous old men shouting “slow down” to wide-grinned teenagers buzzing between the floating obstacles.

  Instead, Claude saw a beach. He scanned the water for a fishing boat, but didn’t see one. Warren, carrying the beer plus his own shoulder bag, led Claude behind a grassy dune to a turned-over wooden rowboat, set his load on the sand, and flipped the boat over. Spiders scurried up the sides of the boat and disappeared from view. Warren reached into a deposit of seaweed and lifted two oars, formerly blue but now faded to gray, with pieces of leather nailed to the handles and crevices running from the leather all the way down to the blades. Claude imagined the splinters he’d get if he ran his hand the length of an oar.

  “Are you serious?” Claude said.

  “Sure. Ken’s got an extra anchor. Don’t worry, I’ve done this a zillion times.”

  Claude helped Warren carry the boat, oars, duffel bags, and beer to the water’s edge. The pair climbed in, and each took an oar.

  In ten minutes, after they’d rowed a fair distance, Warren pulled in his oar and opened a beer.

  “Here’s to a good day’s catch,” he said.

  Before long a red and white wooden vessel, low to the water, chugged toward them. When it neared to within fifty feet, Claude heard the engine stop, and the boat swung in a full circle before the bow gently bopped the drifting rowboat.

  “Ahoy there, maties,” came a call from the boat. “Top of the morning to you.”

  From the wheelhouse emerged a tall, thin man with salt-and-pepper hair wearing blue jeans and, despite the cool temperature, a short-sleeved t-shirt with blue and white horizontal stripes. The egg-shaped rims of his sunglasses extended low enough to touch each side of his bushy moustache. One of his white canvas sneakers was torn, and a pinkie toe showed itself through the hole. Claude placed the man in his early fifties.

  The man climbed down a ladder on the side of the boat and extended a hand to Claude.

  “Ken Hale,” he said. “Nice to see you. Welcome to the Lady Gray.”

  Claude returned the greeting and introduced himself.

  “Good morning, Mr. Taylor,” Ken said to Warren. “Nice to see you. Toss me what you’ve got in the boat and we’ll head out to catch us some fishies.”

  Warren handed him the duffel bags and beer, which Ken passed to Claude, who set them on the deck. Ken asked Claude to hand him the small anchor near the cabin door, and passed it to Warren. When Warren tied a clumsy clove hitch, Ken hopped into the rowboat to add a half hitch, then leapt back to the ladder and helped haul Warren up over the rail.

  Ken led the pair into the wheelhouse, where they put the beer into coolers of ice. He showed Claude where he stored the life vests and other emergency equipment and where to find the fishing gear. He gave Claude an above-deck tour and oral history of the Lady Gray, then brought him back to the wheelhouse and cracked open beers for them both.

  “Thank you,” Claude said. “This is a nice boat. I appreciate you taking us out. I hope we aren’t costing you a day’s work.”

  “You aren’t,” Ken said. “I only fish two or three days a week. It’s really a sideline for me. It’s not my main source of income.”

  Claude was curious but didn’t ask. Three rifles hung on a rack on the cabin wall, next to a set of licenses and permits.

  “Hartwick Kensington Hale IV,” Claude read. “Is that you?”

  “It is indeed,” Ken said. “Isn’t that an awful thing to do to a child? Kensington was my great-great-grandmother’s maiden name, and Hartwick was her mother’s maiden name. My dad was Hartwick Hale, investment banker. They called me Little Hartwick until I was twelve. Every time I told them how much I hated the name Hartwick, I got a lecture on how fine it is, and what a fine tradition it comes from, and how wonderful it is to be a Hale. One day I told them I didn’t care what they wanted, I was calling myself Tony and they’d have to get used to it. My parents about had twin coronaries—Tony was an Italian name, they said—and finally consented to call me Ken. I’d have it legally changed, but I’m too lazy.”

  “So where are we going?” Claude said.

  “I know a pretty good place. Hope you’re as excited as I am, Claude.”

  “Call him Bugsy,” Warren said.

  “Bugsy? All right, Bugsy it is. Anyway, I hope you’re primed for a good day of fishing.”

  Warren and Claude responded at the same time, Warren to say he was primed for a good day of fishing and Claude to say Ken could call him Claude instead of Bugsy, but Warren’s statement was both first and louder, so Claude allowed himself to be cut off. He didn’t return to it. Ken started the engine and pointed the craft toward the rising sun.

  “Blackback flounder should be striking now,” Ken said. “It isn’t dawn or dusk, but I’m sure we can entice one or two into a mid-morning snack down near the ocean floor. I have some mussels and crawlers in that little cooler if you want to go for blackb
acks. I’ve also got some shrimp and crab bits if you want to go for porgies. It’s been a good summer for porgies.”

  “Can we go for anything bigger?” Claude said.

  “Sure,” Ken said. “I’ve got two rods loaded with 40-pound test and 8/0 Sproat hooks. Cod and pollack aren’t peaking quite yet, but feel free to go for them if you’d like.”

  “Thanks,” Claude said. “I think I will.”

  He asked if he could smoke, and Ken laughed and said of course, so Claude lit up. He drained his beer so he could use the can for an ash tray, and Warren tossed him another.

  “Ken,” Warren said, “Bugsy’s the guy I was telling you about. His father was president of the UUW way back.”

  “Aha,” Ken said. “This should be interesting. Warren and I have had many conversations about unions, but disagree about what they are and what they should be. Maybe you can help resolve some of our differences.”

  “Doubt it,” Claude said. “It’s been so long since I seen a real union in action, I forget what it’s like.”

  “There’s a start,” Ken said with a sniffle as he turned the wheel to avoid a large piece of floating garbage. “What’s your union doing wrong?”

  “What’s it doing right?” Warren said, but although Ken fired a smile Warren’s way, he returned immediately to Claude and held his stare as Claude took a long drag of his cigarette and held the smoke a count before exhaling.

  “The biggest pisser nowadays,” Claude said, “is that union members aren’t there to help each other. If a guy has a problem with management, the union should support him, a hundred percent, from the union president all the way down to the regular joes. But our union doesn’t do it that way. The union brass, forget it, they saw how good it is for them personally if they just cozy up to management. Management tells the UUW reps what they want—what management wants, that is—and if the reps deliver it, they can sit back and watch the bennies roll in. Easy days in a nice office with nothing to do. Tickets to anything. Trips to conferences in California. It’s a racket, and all they have to do is sell their members short.”

  “Short?” Ken said.