The Jig of the Union Loller

by Michael Burnham

  “Well it definitely won’t work on the fully-insured side.”

  When Schulke’s expression turned puzzled, Clarke rotated his hand in a series of circles, telling Mickleson to explain the company’s insurance structure.

  “With the unions, Tom, we negotiate actual insurance against disability, just like a policy you’d take out on your home or your car,” Mickleson said. “The disability company’s actuaries figure the incident rate among our union workers and then establish a per-person premium, part of which is picked up by the company and the rest of which is paid by the employees. If someone becomes disabled and the disability company pays benefits, it’s their money, and like any insurance company they’re going to watch every dollar closely. If they don’t believe a claim is legitimate, they’ll deny it.

  “But on the non-union side, our rate of absences is so low that it makes sense for us to be self-insured. That means it’s our money, with no middleman needing to pay benefits plus make a profit. We pay every penny of every benefit, plus a small administration fee. The disability company likes it because on the self-insured side it’s impossible for them to take a loss, and we like it because in the long run it’s cheaper. And because it’s our money, we can overrule any decision made by the disability company.”

  “That also means there are a lot fewer people we have to get on board with us,” Clarke said. “Dr. Bosticco, but I wouldn’t see that as a problem. If anyone challenges Dr. Bosticco, he can always pass the buck by pointing to the original diagnosis Dr. Jangro made twenty-something years ago. And that only leaves upstairs, which shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll tell them Amognes signed away a lawsuit he was certain to win, and they’ll believe me. They’ll be thrilled. I’ll probably get a big pat on the back for saving them so much aggravation.”

  Clarke stood, and the other three did too. Clarke leaned over the desk to shake hands with Shepard, then Schulke, and beamed.

  “Brianna, draw up the paperwork,” he said. “Request a check for all Claude’s sick pay and whatever vacation time he still has left, and have payroll get it to us on the double. And just to be sure, call accounts payable and have them cut a check for $5,000, which we’ll give Claude if he agrees in writing to waive all claims to future lawsuits. I’ll talk with Dr. Bosticco this afternoon, and will run it by Munson just in case. Tomorrow, we put this thing to bed for good.”

  Chapter 36

  When he arrived home, Claude searched for Malcolm’s phone number, but found nothing in the book between Knox, Katerina and Knox, Samuel. A call to information yielded no Malcolm Knox in Rhode Island. As he lit his third cigarette since coming through the front door, Claude flipped to the yellow pages and hunted for the Victory Tavern, looking under bars & grills, restaurants, taverns, inns, and diners—and even under dumps—but came up empty. Although he couldn’t remember a phone at the Victory Tavern, it had to have one, he thought, tucked away somewhere behind the bar in case someone needed to reach Hal, or contact Bots, or leave a message for Greg, or just ring up and shoot the breeze with Walt.

  “Shit,” Claude said out loud. “There’s no fucking phone there.”

  He lit another cigarette and flopped into his recliner. For a second he thought to reach back for the phone book and start looking up lawyers, but figured there’d be a zillion of them and he wouldn’t know which one to pick anyway. He needed Malcolm. But would Malcolm laugh in his face if he stopped in and asked him about being disabled?

  “If he does I’ll just have to lay the ol’ Amognes charm on him,” Claude said.

  Claude scrawled a note that said he’d be late and instructed Joan and Jamie not to wait up, leaving it on the dinner table where they’d be sure to see it. He hopped in his truck and drove downtown, parking again near the state house, walking again past different faces from the same general scene, but when he reached the Victory Tavern the door was locked, and no sign was posted to explain why. Claude asked people in neighboring businesses, and on the street, if they knew why the place was closed. Nobody did.

  He leaned up against the building and lit a cigarette. In the window of the joint across the street he saw his reflection and thought he struck a pose like Jon Voigt on the poster for Midnight Cowboy, except for the hat, and the boots, and maybe the dude-ish clothes, and of course Jon Voigt’s strong physique and blond hair. The cigarette matched, though, as did the posture. That was good enough for now. Still, without the Victory Tavern, Claude had no options, since he certainly wasn’t showing up at the Dub after what he’d gone through that morning. Going home didn’t appeal to him, either, since no matter how he sanitized what he was up against Joan would assume it was worse, and she’d probably cry, and he’d have to start yelling to convince her everything would be all right, and Jamie might ask a whole lot of questions he didn’t want to answer, because until he knew he was fired he didn’t want either of them to know it was even a possibility.

  He walked back toward the truck, stopping on his way to buy a case of beer, and drove to a small pond in the rural part of the state. From four in the afternoon until ten at night, he sat on the shore and drank. Although he made a wrong turn on his return trip, he managed to keep the truck from swerving too far from his own lane and made it home without incident. In his recliner, he found a note from Jamie: “Partying on a school night? Missed our cribbage game. Look forward to playing tomorrow. Love you. Good night.”

  Chapter 37

  7

  Brianna Mickleson had all the paperwork laid out on the coffee table of Clarke’s office by 8:30 the next morning. She set a brand new pen in the center of the table next to an empty folder in which Claude could put copies once everything was signed.

  A one-page document explained the sick and vacation payout: 22 weeks of sick pay minus three weeks used within the last year equaled 19 weeks of sick pay; five weeks of vacation minus three already used equaled two weeks of vacation pay. Together, 21 weeks. Gross amount: $18,622.80. Net amount, after taxes: $12,104.82.

  A second document, this one stretching over two pages, explained the conditions of the $5,000 bonus. In exchange for it, Claude waived his right to sue over the matter in question, and also agreed never to file any action to try to get his job back. He agreed to become permanently disabled and permanently unable to work for Rhode Island Electric.

  The final document, a thick pack of papers, explained in detail Claude’s disability amount and outlined how his certification as disabled effected other benefits offered by the company. While on disability, the company would pay his health insurance premiums to age 65, when he’d have to formally retire and enroll in Medicare. He would no longer accrue vacation pay, sick pay, or holiday pay, and would no longer be eligible for company bonuses. His benefit, equal to 60 percent of his current base pay, would never increase. The terms of the agreement required him to file for disability status with Social Security, and said that if he were approved any benefit from Social Security would be deducted from the 60 percent benefit he received from Rhode Island Electric.

  Mickleson pulled a calculator from the top drawer of Clarke’s desk and sat down to double-check the numbers one last time. Claude earned $22.17 per hour, or $886.80 in a forty-hour week. There are 52.143 weeks in a year, giving him an annualized figure of $46,240.41. Dividing by twelve left a monthly amount of $3,853.37, and 60 percent of that equaled Claude’s monthly disability benefit: $2,312.02. He’d have to scrape by on $27,744.25 a year, Mickleson snickered to herself. She took a yellow marker and highlighted the part that said his benefit was taxable.

  The last page of the packet was a letter from Munson, expressing his sorrow for Claude’s condition, congratulating him for his excellent service to Rhode Island Electric, and wishing him well in the future.

  #

  Despite a modest hangover, Claude rose on time and left the house without seeing either Joan or Jamie. On his way out the front door he closed his eyes and crossed his fingers.

  “Gimme a good day,” he said. “One good day
, that’s all I ask.”

  A trip to a coffee shop around the corner from Rhode Island Electric killed the hour and a half Claude needed to kill, and although neither the giant cup of coffee he drank nor the chocolate donut he forced down sat well in his stomach, Claude gathered himself together and made it past the company gates on time. He arrived in human resources at ten minutes before nine, a full five minutes before Clarke opened the department door so Schulke and Shepard could enter.

  “Good morning, Claude,” Clarke said as the door clunked shut behind him. “Come on in to the office. This shouldn’t take long.”

  Something he picked up in Clarke’s demeanor made Claude exhale, made his chest muscles loosen, made his breathing and heart rate move toward normal. He stood and followed the three men to Clarke’s office, where Mickleson already sat.

  “Well Claude,” Clarke said even before everyone was seated, “we’ve evaluated your disability claim and have decided it is legitimate. After reviewing your medical records, Dr. Bosticco issued you a permanent restriction against working anyplace where there might be insects, and since that covers pretty much every inch of space we own, we have declared you completely and permanently disabled. However, since the medical community is subject to fads and sensationalism like any other community, we’ve taken the extra step of drawing up a formal agreement, because I understand that particularly with phobias the accepted standards of treatment can change virtually overnight. Rather than subject you to a hassle if the trend-of-the-moment in the medical community turns, we’ve taken precautions to see that you’re protected not just today, but down the road as well. If we all agree we have a fair arrangement, and if we all sign on the bottom line, then technically this agreement will be an amendment to the current labor contract, though of course it will never be included in the contract copies we distribute. Brianna, will you run through everything?”

  Mickleson moved between Claude, Shepard and Schulke and detailed each document. She held up the checks as she referred to them, but didn’t hand them over. When she finished, she asked if anyone had questions, and spent the next ten minutes convincing Claude that his disability benefits would indeed be taxable income, and that however much he disagreed come April he was going to have to settle up with Uncle Sam. Clarke stood, and the rest followed suit.

  “Brianna, Tom, let’s give Claude and Jim a moment alone so they can discuss if this is what they want to do,” Clarke said.

  Claude held up a hand. “No need,” he said. “I’ll sign everything you got. Hand me over them checks.”

  He sat down and signed each document. He handed the pen to Shepard who also signed, and leaned back in his chair as Clarke bent over the table and signed too. Mickleson gave Claude both checks, and took from him his company identification card and his access keys. Clarke and Shepard shook Claude’s hand and wished him well.

  Schulke kept his own hands deep in his front pockets. “Take care,” he said. “I’ve got to run back to the department. Jim, I’ll have Scotty get the new posting to you this afternoon. See you later.”

  He left, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Shepard smiled. “Bet you won’t miss that horse’s ass, eh Bugsy?”

  Armed with his two checks and a folder full of photocopies, Claude walked to stores to clean out his locker and say his final good-byes, only to find everyone was at morning break, save Schulke, who puttered around the office. Claude crept along the walls until he reached the locker area, carefully peeled a picture of Jamie from inside the door of his locker, and stuffed his personal belongings inside an old company sweatshirt, tying the sleeves to keep what he could from falling out. Although Claude had worked up a hankering for a farewell hug from Felicia, he left. He’d still see the guys he cared about at the Dub. As for the others, well, leaving them without saying good-bye suited Claude fine. As his truck neared the front gate, he stepped on the brake and looked over his shoulder at the Rhode Island Electric complex. The attendant saw him stop and walked to the drivers side window.

  “Hey Bugsy,” the attendant said. “Help you with something?”

  “Yes,” Claude said. “Can you give a message to Munson when he drives in?”

  “Um, I suppose. What is it?”

  “Waaaaaaahooooooooo!”

  #

  Back in stores, Schulke caught Scotty as he punched in from break and told him to round everyone up for a brief meeting. After the meeting from which Claude never returned, Darezzo started a pool to guess the correct day and time stores would be told of Claude’s termination. Everyone who paid the $5 to enter picked the current morning, except Dan Noonan, who gave it an extra two days, and Junior, who chose a date twenty years in the future because he liked Claude and wanted to give him a show of support, but also because Darezzo made a rule that you had to guess the time without going over, giving Junior an edge if Claude’s employment happened to linger more than a couple of days. In stores, everyone in the union participated except Frank and Scotty. Even John Carrollton, who normally didn’t go for that sort of thing, ponied up a fiver to get in.

  When the whole department arrived at the time clock, Darezzo pulled out the wad of cash he’d collected.

  “What’s that about?” Schulke said.

  “Just a little pool we’ve got going boss. Go ahead and start your meeting.”

  “Well, thank you, Dave, I think I will. This won’t take long. I called you together to tell you Claude Amognes will no longer be with us.”

  “Ding ding ding, we have a winner,” Gino said. “I believe the time clock now reads 9:38, which makes me $110 richer.”

  John and Felicia slapped Gino on the back as Darezzo handed him the money. Gino kissed it, held it over his head, and stuffed it in his front pocket.

  “All right, that’s enough,” Schulke said. “Scotty, I need you to get a posting ready to replace Claude. Everyone beneath Claude in seniority will temporarily step up, and the new person will come in at the bottom.”

  “What do you mean temporarily?” Frank said.

  “Well, that’s how the contract reads, doesn’t it?” Schulke said. “A posting to replace someone on sick leave can’t be permanent because there’s always the possibility the person will come back, although in this case I think that possibility is slim.”

  A murmur rose within the group.

  “Sick leave?” Scotty said. “We all thought Bugsy was terminated.”

  “No,” Schulke said. “He claimed the headache he had wasn’t faked at all, that it was caused by a disability he has that he’s been hiding from us for all these years.”

  Frank burst out laughing. “What, did he tell Clarke stupidity’s a disability?”

  Everyone chuckled, including Schulke. Schulke ran his hand from his forehead back to the base of his neck. He shook his head.

  “No,” Schulke said, “Claude told Clarke he has an insect phobia. Said Warren used to squish bugs for him, and that’s the only reason he could concentrate enough to do his job right, and that’s why he gave Warren piss to beat his drug test. Since stores has insects, Clarke had the company doctor put Claude out with a permanent disability. He isn’t terminated, but I doubt we’ll be seeing him again.”

  “And Clarke bought a cock-and-bull story like that?” Frank said.

  “He did.”

  “Well that’s horseshit,” Elton snapped. “He doesn’t have any damn disability. What the hell did that bastard ever do to deserve a honey deal like this? I mean it, Christ, the guy never did shit around here, pulls one of the worst acting jobs I’ve ever seen in the middle of hurricane duty, and this is his fucking reward? Sent home with disability benefits for the rest of his days? Nobody around here has any balls, but this is too much. It’s joke. If free tickets are that easy to get, then put me down for a headache too. Put us all down for one.”

  Schulke held up both his hands. “Calm down, everyone, calm down. I think it’s bullshit too, but what’s done is done, and the bottom line for us is he’s no l
onger here and we need to replace him. Shepard can give you all the details on what happened with Clarke, but apparently there are legal standards to consider. Don’t forget the reason he came to stores in the first place. You do call him Bugsy, after all.”

  Schulke asked if there were any more questions, and there were none. He adjourned the meeting and sent everyone back to work.

  As Frank walked toward the back wall, Scotty went with him. Frank walked slow, forcing Scotty to pause with every other step to keep from outdistancing him, and as they moved Scotty looked up to the ring of windows surrounding the department near the roof, to the light of a bright blue sky that turned so quickly to dismal gray a few feet within the walls of the stockroom.

  “Geez, you know, I feel a little guilty now, calling him Bugsy all this time when he had a disability,” Scotty said.

  “He ain’t got no disability,” Frank said.

  “I don’t know, Frank, the flea thing, all his problems at work, the more I think about it, the more I think it’s possible. It makes sense. I’m not saying for sure, I’m just saying it’s distinctly possible.”

  “No it isn’t,” Frank said. “Nobody who fishes that much can be afraid of bugs.”

  “Hmm, I never thought of it like that. Maybe you’re right.”

  “Doesn’t matter. He’s gone. When you get right down to it, I’m happy for him. It’s not quite winning the lottery, but it’s a good enough second prize, not having to deal with Schulke day in and day out, and it proves what I always said, that Bugsy’s had an angel on his shoulder from the first day he walked in here. Just when we all thought it was over, here he comes, pulling another miracle out of his ass. Twenty-something years we all worked together, and now it’s over, just like that. You know, I’ll miss the old boy. I’ll really miss him.”

  They reached the base of the ladder and stopped. Scotty put a hand on the shorter man’s shoulder.

  “So will I, Franko. So will I.”