Ghosts of Tom Joad

by Peter Van Buren

  Today’s Reeve came about because of the factory like I said, originally the R.H. Reeve Company, owned and begun by the Reeve family to make glass insulators for the power lines that were poking fingers west behind the railroads. Early on there was also some coal, long since mined out. A few of the hills in town actually started life as slag heaps, slate pulled away from the coal and discarded before anyone knew about fracking. Anyway, things soon turned discarded for the factory, too. The world stopped needing glass insulators as Bakelite and then plastic became available, and the factory changed to making glass things in molds, all kinds of things people needed like drinking glasses and cooking stuff. Those were good times for Reeve, really starting to accelerate after World War II was won and Grandpa came home to a factory job, and then as my father was working at the factory from as soon as he returned from the Korean War right up until the factory first went out of business in the late 1970s. Luckily, some Japanese investors bought it and converted half the men to unemployed and the other half to making new glass things people needed more than cookware, television picture tubes, though at lower wages than before to “save jobs.”

  This seemed at first to be Reeve’s lucky break, TV picture tubes. Most of the manufacturing process was automated, technology over craft in a vital signal we all missed. A decent number of jobs to work the furnaces and handle the raw materials. Glass was good for this kind of item, and we all looked around and knew that people would always want TVs and so they’d need what we were making. The factory sold to American television makers, stable companies like RCA, Motorola and Magnavox. We did not adjust well to the rise of flat-screen LED TVs without the old vacuum picture tubes, never even saw it coming. Wages fell, and then the jobs went away altogether as we became part of the Rust Belt. That name even became a short-hand way to sum up the loss of an entire way of life—oh, he got caught up in the Rust Belt.

  The factory was then bought by some hedge fund owned by someone, who used the factory’s physical assets to issue junk bonds defaulted on as the hedge fund moved its reserves offshore to wherever the hell the Cayman Islands are to take advantage of tax breaks created by a president most people in Reeve never voted for. In return, that president never asked us what that tax law decision might do to Reeve. Last I heard, the old factory area was owned by a European consortium more interested in the land for retail development. Ain’t nothing made in factories no more, least not in Ohio. There ain’t no jobs for anyone coming home either, though we have had several new wars during all these times for men to come home from. A thousand people a day used to walk into that factory to make a living. Now those streets could just be stage sets for some end-of-the-world germ virus movie. Hard to build a town, a life, when the best business is done at the Bowl America, $2.25 a bottle for Lite beer. Rock bottom ain’t a foundation.

  Reeve then worked according to certain principles. And this ain’t nostalgia, it’s history. A steak should be one inch thick or more. You figure out how to mind your own business and help your neighbor at the same time. A good potluck can solve most problems. Vegetables were boiled. Faith was rewarded. Things’ll look better in the morning. Three channels of broadcast TV defined the cultural high water mark. It was a big deal the first Fourth of July when your dad let you set off fireworks on your own. You were allowed to let a younger brother burn his fingers once by encouraging him to hold a burning sparkler too long, like had been done to you. We still had parades, every Memorial Day and every July Fourth, but Labor Day was just for barbecues because school began the next day and Dad had to get up for work. “I’ve got to get up for work” was the way most social events broke up, as committal a goodbye as pulling the plug on the music and putting the rugs back down on the floor. On holidays, time was measured more by “just had lunch” or “getting toward supper.” We were neither a small town nor a suburb, we were what was a common thing in this part of Ohio. We had a Dairy Queen, a Catholic school and four Protestant churches. Bowl America was the body heat of Reeve, where the men all got together to drink after telling their wives they were going bowling. The older guys didn’t even bother to leave the house with a ball, it was such a pattern of their lives. Once upon a time in this town you could ask someone the time, and they’d say “Why?” Work was controlled by the factory whistle and the sun, and both were controlled by God and equally vital. You did work from one to the other.

  Reeve could be reduced down to this: I was a boiler operator. So was my dad. Went to work every day but Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, and two weeks of summer. Bought a car. Bought a house. Sent one son to college, gave one to the Marine Corps. Have a decent pension. Living quietly now in that same house. Own it.

  That is how it was in 1977. Now, grassroots is Astroturf and I’m unemployed and unskilled and riding a bus all day. I am part of the one third of all working Americans who are “contingent.” We are part-timers or day laborers or freelancers or franchisees or temps or independent contractors or on call. I clean floors and stock warehouse shelves and deliver things you buy on-line and serve you food. I don’t have health insurance. I get sick, I don’t work, a bull whose balls have given out. I don’t get paid extra for working overtime or holidays because an hour is an hour no matter when I work it and I am not eligible for unemployment because I technically never had a real job in the first place to be unemployed from.

  A lot of days I didn’t work at all. The tough one was always Sunday with nothing but an unemployed Monday ahead. That’s the one that made you think, the one that hurt. If you could get past Monday morning, the rest of the unemployed week fell into place. When I get too old to be unemployed I’ll become retired and unemployed. I got a lot of free time, but no real weekends or time off to enjoy, ’cause it ain’t dessert without the supper first. I make too much for food benefits, but I fucking hate canned tuna and cereal for dinner. I allow companies to be flexible and nimble over my dead body.

  Sorry, sometimes on this bus, thinking this over, I get a little stirred up. Good news that Muley was back on the bus. I liked it best with him riding along.

  MULEY SAID TO me:

  Earl, you remember that one field trip we took to that “living history” Greenfield Village museum place near Detroit? Man, that was great. That bus ride was like a thousand hours, and we was sipping whiskey out of a Coke can the whole time and Mr. DeSalvo never had a clue we was so juiced up. Maybe he wondered when we kept asking when the next pee stop was, but he never let on. And we dared Donny to try and spit out the window and Jeanne told on us before he could? That Greenfield Village place was stupid though. I never seen so much old stuff before, piled-up factory equipment and old trains an’ shit like all that was important. You remember the old guy that guided us around? He was so serious about all that “Here’s where America’s industrial might was born” and “Gaze at these examples of how the American worker won the war for the United States” and “Here’s the Model T, the car that changed America,” like we cared that Henry Ford raised his workers’ pay so they could buy the stupid old cars they built. About the only good thing was we got to stay in a hotel, and we saw Tina Barker in only her bra through the window when we snuck out after curfew. The worst part was in that second museum. “Here’s a Gothic Steam Engine. This 30-foot-tall engine drove machinery used to make lead sheet flashing,” whatever the hell that was. Man, that was like when we used to have to go to the library to copy stuff out of encyclopedias for our school reports instead of copying it off the Internet like kids do now. Dead stuff from dead men. Who cares, right?

  That’s what Muley said. For me, I believed then what my dad told me. My dad believed what they told him, but it wasn’t true even long enough for his lifetime to last. Day’s work for a day’s pay, all that country and western calloused hands stuff. Maybe it started out that way for Grandpa, maybe for Dad for a while, but if it was ever true, it ain’t no more. I think the bastards made it all up. Instead now, we’re back to being sharecroppers. And I ride this bus listening to Rage Ag
ainst the Machine and trying to remember why I’m so angry all the time. I know I got this ball of anger inside me, growing like a baby, maybe a tumor, a big angry zit of meanness. I can’t remember too many things anymore. I can’t remember who the hell the Tom Joad guy is that Rage sings about, though the name sticks in my head, maybe somebody I knew from high school.

  MY OLD MAN’S best friend was Stan. He was always nice enough to me, so it wasn’t surprising to see him on the bus, too. Why not, right?

  Stan said to me:

  Me and your dad would almost always have a beer or three after work. It was a part of the day really. Go to work, finish work, stop at Bowl America, go on home. They could have put another time clock inside there and we’d not have thought twice about it.

  “You comin’ in with us?”

  “Nah, the little woman’s expecting me home.”

  “Ah, married life.”

  “Yeah, married life.”

  We all laughed. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t so funny, or that we tended to repeat the same lines and retell the same jokes. We laughed because we were supposed to laugh. It was our way of getting along. Inside the bar we drank beer. They had all those bottles of liquor on the shelf behind the bar like they was supposed to have, but I don’t recall anyone drinking anything but beer.

  “Got the car runnin’ yet?”

  “Almost. Needs a new clutch plate. Maybe a whole trans. Gonna try to get in it myself to save a few bucks. Borrowed the tools already from Schronbrunner.”

  “I’ll help you. Done it twice, second time it even worked.”

  “You seen that new girl workin’ in the front office?”

  “Somethin’, huh?”

  “Only thing that gets me into work each morning.”

  “What gets you home?”

  “I gotta get going. See you guys.”

  “Where’re you headed, Ray?”

  “Home. Where else?”

  “Time to get to the old lady.”

  “In more ways than one, right, Ray?”

  “I guess, Charlie. I’ll see you Monday.”

  “Yeah, take care, Ray.”

  I WALKED OUTSIDE the bar with your dad.

  “Well hey there, Ray.”

  “How you doing, Stan?”

  “Days getting shorter, you know Ray? Used to stay light past nine.”

  “So how’s your boy doing, Stan?”

  “Rob’s pretty happy at the factory after what happened at Ohio State. Would have been a good halfback, maybe make first string after a year if they’d give him a pass on the schoolwork part. But, that’s that. Anyway, he’s already making $5.60 an hour at the factory. Hey, you know, Rob figures your boy’ll be going off somewhere to play ball after his senior year.”

  “You think Earl’s that good, huh?”

  “Me and Rob both do.”

  Your dad and me both looked at our shoes, scraping little patterns in the dirt.

  “It was a long day.”

  “Yeah, I know. You looking forward to tomorrow night?”

  “The card party at our house? Damn, Sissy is all fired up about that. I guess we gotta make nice and play along.”

  “Lori’s been bitchin’ about never getting out anymore since she quit her job, so yeah, we’re gonna be there.”

  Your old man sometimes picked at the missing tip of his finger. Helped him think. That’s when I knew he had something to say I was gonna need to listen to.

  “Hey Stan, we had us a pretty good time a couple of weekends ago, driving up to Columbus to see that Triple-A ball team, having a few drinks afterwards, didn’t we?”

  “Yeah, almost like we was trying to, er, liquidate our assets. I know we got home safe ’cause we’re here, but damn if I can remember it all.”

  “I remember two certain young ladies from the bar.”

  “That I do recall. Professionals for sure, but damn sweet.”

  “Fallen women who looked like they needed to be picked up.”

  “You’re a funny guy Stan.”

  “Ray, the blonde in the sweater vest liked you I think.”

  “Stan, they all like you as long as you got the do-re-mi in your wallet. But we was good boys, right? Bought ’em a few drinks, sure, but kept our hands to ourselves.”

  “Yep, that’s right Ray. We’re married men. I think we both wanted to, but I wouldn’t and you couldn’t, am I right?”

  That was supposed to be funny. But your old man didn’t laugh. He stopped drawing things in the dirt and planted both feet.

  “Calm down Ray. I was just kiddin’.”

  “Like hell, you son of a bitch. I told you ’bout me and Sissy’s personal problem in confidence, as my friend. Damn you Stan, damn you.”

  “Give it a break Ray.”

  “No, you go to Hell Stan.”

  “If I’m going to Hell, Ray, it’ll be you there first waiting for me.”

  IT WAS EASY for me to remember, riding around on the bus. That was sorta my job nowadays anyway, remembering stuff as people got on and off. But the best thing I can remember was the summer before senior year that I first met Angela, Angel sometimes, usually Angie. Angie insisted for a while that she was named after the Rolling Stones song, which of course meant that she would have had to been renamed in 1973, ’cause she was already thirteen years old when that song came out, but with Angie you accepted these things even if you didn’t understand them. Angie was a fibber sometimes but teenage sweet and sincere in her fibs, and had a way that’d let her get past you with anything. She made a big deal outta crossing her sevens, wrote bad poetry and was the first kid in school to try what we thought were drugs (caffeine pills from a rest stop café that just made her stay up all night and pee). She read books, not just for school. Green eyes as green as the old kind of Christmas tree lights that could start fires. Angie, she could criticize monotony with a clear conscience.

  Of course, she was more mature than the rest of us, hell, making fart sounds with our armpits still cracked us up, so it did not take much. Angie was from Cleveland, a big, far away and exotic place to us in Reeve. She read books, not just for school. Her dad had been killed in an accident there, working on the high steel constructing the office buildings that was still being built then, and her mom, originally from Reeve, moved back when she inherited the family home. But when I first met Angie her dad was still alive and she was just visiting her grandparents in Reeve. Me and Muley talked her up one day at the city pool, and when I saw her again the next day I said, “Me and my friend was the guys who talked to you yesterday,” and she said, “I don’t remember your friend, but you can keep me company.” We went on to spend afternoons at the Dairy Queen, and at the end of the summer she asked me something no one ever had before, to write down my mailing address. She said it was a romantic thing to do, to write letters. I had no idea about this and was surprised two weeks later when Mom said I had mail. Angie wrote inside a card, like a birthday card we knew but this one didn’t have nothing already printed inside, not store bought words but stuff she thought of. She said the “sun shines for me today” and drew some flowers and signed it Molly “Bloom,” I guess because of the flowers.

  I dreamed about her, regular dreams and, you know, those kind of dreams. My head was full of her, playing on every station. When dreaming wasn’t enough, then I knew I missed her. I carried her card around until it got dirty and sweaty from being pushed and pulled in and out of my pocket. I didn’t know what to do. After days of worrying about this, I bought a post card at Schottenstein’s Drug Store, which became Discount Drug and Market before it became a CVS and now a DrugCoMart, currently owned by an investor group from Singapore that hires people to find places like Reeve on a map so they can buy more things when old men like Schottenstein die. I worked there for a while, almost a rite of passage during high school, pulling in about four bucks an hour stocking shelves alongside my friends. Our girlfriends ran the registers, our moms and dads shopped in the store and a good story about a date cou
ld get you a night off from the sympathetic manager. When someone graduated, the manager would hire one of the workers’ friends and the cycle continued.

  I asked Angie once, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” and she answered “Do I have to grow up?” She said she didn’t want to borrow someone else’s dreams, she wanted her own, going everywhere she’d never been until she’d been everywhere. I never knew what to say back, but I liked listening to what she said.

  After she moved back to Reeve, we fell in hard with each other, firing up almost without effort together, a camp fire that hadn’t been put out and just walked away from. I’m not sure what she saw in me, though it was a good postcard I had selected to send back to her that first summer, one with a picture of a giant rabbit that said BIG THINGS ARE HAPPENING HERE IN REEVE, so that might have helped. It was like texting nowadays but on paper and slower. Must’ve scratched her right where she itched.

  So then I told Angel we were like Romeo and Juliet, which was the most romantic thing me and Muley could come up with from the library. Don’t know why the old librarian looked at us so weird when we asked together for the most romantic book. It was a stupid library anyway.

  “No, we’re not Romeo and Juliet,” said Angel. “My dad’s dead and my mom just chases around replacing him with a new guy every week. Your mom’s a broken robot and your dad’s drunk into a coma. None of them give a twist about us.”