The Jig of the Union Loller

by Michael Burnham

  “I can’t exercise. My knees hurt.”

  “Your knees hurt because you’re overweight, dear,” Connie said. “You can have pain-free knees and be fat, or you can exercise through the pain until you’re thin enough that the pain goes away. There are things you can do to fight the pain, like taking an aspirin before you walk, but there’s nothing you can do to fight the excuses if you’re intent on hiding behind them. Exercise is the only way, believe me, but once you develop healthy habits, the weight will come off in a hurry, and once you lose ten pounds you’ll know you can lose twenty, and once you lose twenty pounds, you’ll feel much better about who you are and how you look. It’s not just the weight, though. It’s the feeling that you control the things in your life that are important to you. Once you adopt the right mindset and put some real energy into it, you’ll see successes, and before long you’ll realize it doesn’t stop there, that with a little effort and self-discipline you can do just about anything you want to. Honest. You can lose the weight. I guarantee it.”

  Connie released Joan’s wrists, and Joan wiped away tears with the palm of each hand.

  “Geez, you think then Claude will think I’m sexy again?” Joan said.

  Connie smiled. She rolled to her knees, and from there stood up. She extended her hands and helped Joan to her feet, then gave Joan’s hands a quick squeeze. Connie leaned forward and kissed Joan on the forehead before taking a final look into her eyes and dropping her hands.

  “He’d better,” Connie said.

  Chapter 29

  The warm, cloudless sky of the previous weekend marked the first sign of trouble. All moisture on the east coast, the weather channel said, had been drawn in by Hurricane Jessica, whose pace put her on schedule to hit Rhode Island in 36 to 48 hours. At the electric company, top brass put employees on preliminary emergency alert.

  In the stores department, that meant a lot of hustle. Schulke spent half the morning on the phone ordering wire—enough to double the current stock. He sent Darezzo and John Carrollton scurrying with forklifts to clear space for the wire, but when they began removing a pile of debris from the far corner of the yard they discovered a huge raccoon, dead for two days they guessed, and called Frank from the crane to determine if the carcass were too rotten to turn into a nice hat, which Darezzo envisioned wearing with his long leather coat to his high school’s Thanksgiving Day football game, and when Frank said he thought the pelt could be salvaged Darezzo bolted to the storage cabinets for work gloves, an asbestos mask, and an array of cutting tools to make his first-ever attempt in the furrieric arts. The whole department gathered in the yard to watch Darezzo clip and carve, screaming in unison when he cut through bones or peeled back fur to reveal the coon innards.

  When Schulke discovered he was alone in the department and came outside to bark at the men, even he became engrossed, and soon joined the shouting chorus of Darezzo’s advisors. When Darezzo finished, Frank changed his mind and said flies had probably eaten too much of the raccoon to make a good hat after all.

  “Nonsense,” Gino said. “Gives it more character.”

  Darezzo stuffed the pelt into a plastic convenience store bag and put it behind the driver’s seat of his truck.

  As the group returned inside, Schulke turned to Scotty.

  “Any word on New York and Quebec?” he said.

  Scotty flipped a thumbs-up. “Feeney just sent an e-mail. Ten crews are on standby in Albany and twelve crews are standing by in Sherbrooke.”

  “Good.”

  If the storm hit hard and the governor declared a state of emergency, Rhode Island could hire mercenary crews from other utilities to help restore power, with the state footing the bill from its emergency coffers. When it happened the other way around, with Rhode Island Electric sending crews to help other areas restore power, the company charged exorbitant fees for its assistance, and not a penny found its way back to the state.

  Claude drew rain gear duties. He loaded all the rain gear in stock onto a large flatbed dolly and carted it over to six folding cafeteria tables set up on the far wall near the bays. He arranged the gear by size.

  “Yo Franko,” he yelled, holding up a tiny raincoat. “Think we can get Cheryl from accounting to squeeze into this?”

  “She don’t need it,” Frank shouted from the crane. “Tell her rain is God’s way of saying it’s time for a wet tee-shirt contest.”

  The company’s outdoor personnel already had rain gear, naturally; these sets were for office cubicle dwellers pressed into service as bird-dogs—people who helped foreign crews find their way to downed lines in Rhode Island’s most obscure corners. The gear kept the bird-dogs dry, but also served as a uniform that legitimized their presence in scenes, and among people, with which they probably felt unfamiliar.

  In the middle of the activity, Schulke halted everyone to introduce the department’s new man, who turned out to be a woman, Felicia Lopez.

  “Felicia was the successful bidder for the material handler second class position we had open in the stores department,” Schulke said. “I have full confidence that with our guidance and support, and through her own initiative, Felicia will have no trouble learning the job and progressing smoothly to material handler first class, and then onto stockperson. I expect you to afford her the same respect you would any other member of the department, if not more. From her experience as a field engineering assistant she already has a basic understanding of how we function, and from her years with the company we know her as a talented, dedicated individual who will be a welcome addition to our team. Felicia, happy to have you aboard.”

  The men broke into light applause, and stepped up one by one to shake her hand. Schulke gave her a new hardhat with her name on the side, shook her hand, and gave her a peck on the cheek.

  “Hey boss,” Darezzo said, “how come I didn’t get an introduction like that?”

  “Yeah Tom,” Gino said. “Where’s my kiss? I got a couple cheeks you can smooch if you’re still in the mood. Better late than never.”

  “Very funny,” Schulke said. “Felicia will receive her seniority and pay increase as of today, but because of the hurricane I’m sending her temporarily back to field engineering, since she knows that job well and can be useful if the storm does a lot of damage. Felicia, anything you’d like to say?”

  “Nope.”

  She waved to the group, tucked her hardhat under her arm, and left through the side entrance.

  “Ok,” Schulke said. “Back to work.”

  Schulke turned and went to the office, but the rest of the men lingered.

  “Man, she’s something,” Elton said. “I can’t believe it, the Aztec Princess is one of us.”

  “So much for working,” Darezzo said.

  “Gimme a break,” John said. “Her butt is huge.”

  “I don’t know about huge,” Darezzo said. “It’s bigger than it was five years ago, but come on, back then it was perfect. Perfect ass. Perfect black hair. Perfect dark eyes. Perfect little boobies, and not an ounce of fat on her. Remember that dance she did on Cinco de Mayo?”

  “Oh my god,” Elton said. “The bathroom was jammed with jerkers after that one. I didn’t really know her then, just that she was pretty. She seemed so meek and quiet. I never expected her to come out and put on a show like that. The way she moved, it was the sexiest damn thing I ever saw.”

  “You guys need to get laid once in a while,” Frank said.

  “I know,” Darezzo said. “Where’s Sharon when you need her?”

  Everyone laughed. Elton tapped an open palm off the back of Darezzo’s head.

  “What’s Felicia’s deal?” Gino said.

  “Dating a cop,” Frank said. “Big guy, too. They live right around the corner. And her son, he’s in high school, and he isn’t anyone to mess with either.”

  “She has son in high school?” Darezzo said. “She doesn’t look old enough.”

  “She has a daughter in high school too,” Frank said. “St
arted young, I suppose. But she’s a good egg, and I hope none of you is dumb enough to think you have a chance with her.”

  #

  Before lunch, Schulke came back from overhead lines with a full report on the storm. Jessica had slowed some at the Carolinas, but still packed strong winds. Schulke wanted three men to work an hour of overtime at the end of the day, and instructed everyone else to take care of things at home this evening and be prepared to spend the rest of the week, if necessary, on the job. If the hurricane picked up speed and the men were needed earlier than expected, he’d call—and he didn’t want to get any answering machines.

  Claude, Scotty, and John were the next three on the overtime list, but since the delivery they expected required the crane, Frank hung around too. As the others left for the day, Schulke came into the office to say the delivery truck driver called to say he’d be late, and the four might have to stay a little longer. Frank grabbed the newspaper and headed for the bathroom. Scotty and John went to the line shed to buy a drink and a snack from the vending machines. Claude climbed to the nest and watched the clouds roll in from the south.

  He’d planned to let more time pass before beginning his headaches, but with the impending hurricane he reconsidered. During emergencies, employees worked eighteen hours and slept six until the crisis abated. If an employee were truly afflicted with stress-related headaches, Claude thought, wouldn’t such a schedule bring them out? How, a month from now, could he convince his superiors he’d developed debilitating headaches in just four weeks, when there’d been no evidence of them even during the long hours of hurricane duty? No, he decided, if the storm hits, the headaches will start.

  And then, he said to himself, paradise will be mine. He pictured himself sleeping in late, waving to neighbors from the hammock, fishing, fishing, fishing, and watching all the day baseball games he’d always had to miss. He saw himself on a tropical island, with Jamie but without Joan, surrounded by scantily-clad, laughing women who tickled him and whispered things in his ear that other scantily-clad women begged him to reveal.

  Once the shipment arrived and the four men unloaded it, Claude punched out, swung home, picked up Jamie, and stood in line at the supermarket for bottled water, canned food, soda, and chocolate. After they put the groceries in the truck, Claude drove to the mall. He’d been meaning to buy a leaf mulcher for a while, and figured the looming high winds justified the purchase. As he looked at different models with the salesperson, Jamie headed to the clothing store to say hello to Peter, and told her father she’d meet him in the photography store on the upper level. Claude bought a nice mulcher, oversaw its delivery to the truck, and went to the photo store, where he found Jamie on one knee in front of a glass case inspecting zoom lenses for her 35 millimeter camera. He told her to pick out whichever lens she liked best, and when she did, he took it to the counter and bought it with his credit card.

  When they returned home, Claude and Jamie set up a makeshift hurricane shelter in the basement. They dragged over two old chairs from the storage shed, hauled down the television from Jamie’s room, and filled the small area with games, food, water, and blankets. Claude went to the truck and brought back a bag of emergency equipment he’d taken from stores for Jamie and Joan: hard hats, rain gear, heavy duty flashlights, dozens of batteries, and even flares and a first aid kit, just in case. When they finished, Claude and Jamie helped Joan tape windows, then went to the family room for a game of cribbage.

  The next morning, the forecast said the coast-hugging storm remained on track to hit Rhode Island, with the worst weather expected the following day around noon. With a day to go, dispatch, telecommunications, and meter personnel at the company ran through final checks to be sure the electrical reporting equipment functioned correctly. Line crews tested their chain saws, which worked off the hydraulic systems in the bucket trucks, so they could clear tree limbs quickly when the time came. The stores department spent the morning driving supplies to Rhode Island Electric’s network of small outposts throughout the state.

  “What do you think?” Claude said to Scotty as they drove wire and transformers to the storage shed at Chopmist Hill. “Are we in for a biggie?”

  “I doubt it,” Scotty said. “Every year some hurricane is supposed to wipe us out, and each time it turns out to be a dud. The news people are looking for ratings, that’s all. We’ll get some wind and some rain, and some lines will go down, but it won’t be the horror show the media’s making it out to be.”

  “Yeah. Remember when Gloria hit? We all went out back and played in the rain, and damned if that didn’t turn out to be the worst part of the storm.”

  “I know,” Scotty said. “That’s the good part about living in New England. No tornadoes like the midwest, no hurricanes like the Carolinas, no mudslides or wildfires or earthquakes like the west, no giant bugs or reptiles like the south. An occasional blizzard is all we get, and lately we haven’t even had many of those.”

  Claude nodded, and pulled the company vehicle onto the dirt road leading to the Chopmist Hill substation.

  “Actually, I hope we get popped a little,” Scotty said. “All that overtime makes a nice payday when the whole thing’s come and gone.”

  When Claude and Scotty returned to the department, they received a surprise. Work had gone so well that Schulke was sending everyone home at two o’clock. He wanted them to get a good night’s sleep and report back at four the next morning.

  The group headed directly for the Dub and started drinking.

  #

  When his alarm rang at three the next morning, Claude heard the wind rattle the windows in their grooves. Trees swayed to the gusts, though no branches had yet come down, and the front yard flag he never took in rippled with a sound that reminded him of a small outboard motor churning against the tide. It had not begun to rain.

  As he climbed into his truck, he paused, resting an arm on the door and the other on the roof. The wind blew warm. The trees reminded him of the lake, rustling as they did in the steady breeze that gathered momentum over the open water, turning their leaves upward as they did when they expected rain.

  Everyone else in the state ceased activity to brace for the storm, but Rhode Island Electric hummed. As Claude pulled through the front gate, line trucks honked hello on their way out. Light streamed through the windows on all floors of the main building, from the front door of the line shed, from stores, and from the garage, while meter reading trucks and telecom vans idled in the courtyard, locked and riderless, their exhaust indicating the swirling wind patterns created by the U-shaped design of the surrounding building. Someone parked in Claude’s regular space, so he wheeled around the line shed and pulled into a spot where falling limbs wouldn’t pose any threat.

  Apparently, most other departments had called their workers in at three, not four as Schulke had. Non-union, non-essential personnel, like training coordinators and marketing analysts, scurried across the lot to the emergency storm room, where they’d don headphones to handle the overflow phone volume. The human resources department joined the kitchen staff to serve meals to the entire workforce and clean the dishes after. The president and top brass put the finishing touches on a media room from which they’d update the public on storm damage and restoration efforts as events unfolded.

  Stores moved slowly. Despite the early-morning energy running through headquarters, everyone knew little would happen until the storm actually hit. Claude spent the first three hours of his day signing out rain gear and taking trips to the cafeteria for free food. Scotty manned a computer to monitor work orders and customer service reports. Schulke sent the others to move three regulators he deemed too close to an elm branch, and to secure items that could be blown around, both inside and out.

  “Aw, Tom, why do we have to tie everything down in here?” Elton, who had plenty to drink at the Dub the previous afternoon, said.

  “You know why,” Schulke said. “If anyone opens the back door while the bay doors are up, the wi
nd’s gonna zip through here like a virgin through a frat house. Anything unsecured goes straight to the back yard.”

  Around eight, customer service reported seven outages throughout the state. In each case, a limb fell on a service connection, knocking out power to an individual home. A click of the computer mouse showed Scotty that crews had arrived at six of the seven locations.

  “Nothing big,” Scotty told the group gathered in the office. “P.R. work.”

  “Get a weather update,” Schulke said.

  “Raining in Westerly,” Scotty said after another mouse click. “Jessie’s running a little ahead of schedule. Let’s see, Philadelphia’s mayor declared a state of emergency. Big damage on the Jersey shore. Winds on Long Island gusting to 140 miles per hour.”

  “That’s a hurricane,” Darezzo said. “Break out the cards.”

  “Not yet,” Schulke said.

  “Come on, boss,” Frank said. “Now’s the time. It’s going to be a long day.”

  “All right,” Schulke said. “But go play in the stacks somewhere. Not here.”

  The crew left. Schulke leaned back and put his feet on an upside-down metal wastebasket. Scotty remained at the computer. Claude straddled a backwards chair, leaning on the backrest with a view to Scotty and the computer screen.

  “Aren’t you going with them?” Schulke said to Claude.

  “Nah. I’ll stay here and watch the reports. Maybe there’ll be something you’ll need me to do.”

  #

  By late morning, the rain fell hard on the pavement and trees now waved in long looping arches. Leaves, small branches, and bark dotted the empty streets. The card game broke up, and most of Schulke’s men gathered at a window near the bathroom to watch the storm.

  “It’s funny,” Elton said. “You expect a hurricane to be this amazing catastrophe, blowing houses to splinters and clearing a path of destruction. But it’s really kind of peaceful. If you walk down Thompson Street when it’s all over and see four or five big limbs down, you think wow, what a terrible storm. You don’t realize it happened over ten or twelve hours.”