Blue Collar Blues (2 page)

Before his day ended, Valentino would pack out all finished stock on Cooley carts, which were three-sided double-shelved metal carts that held twelve complete jobs. One job consisted of a rear cushion, rear back, two front cushions, and two front backs. He would then verify the pack-out count, submit the total to the supervisor, and finally roll the cart across the aisle to River Rouge Build.

River Rouge Build was located in the southeast corner of Troy Trim. This operation assembled the cushion covers to the front and rear cushions onto foam rubber pads and steel track frames for three of Champion’s luxury car lines, Rembrandt, Syrinx, and Remington. Once they were put together these items were sent on to River Rouge Assembly to be added to the cars.

Ten years earlier, when several jobs were being sent to Mexico, Champion lost some of their main car lines. But at the same time the River Rouge Assembly Plant, which was a subdivision of Champion, was expanding. Troy Trim was always eager to bid on new jobs for Rouge Assembly. Just this year, Champion had bid on a job to house the very profitable Facial Operations, which consisted of pouring color-keyed plastic into molds that produced the facial bumpers.

As for Valentino, River Rouge proved highly lucrative for him as well.

Because they were freefloating workers, the A-team tended to get most of the overtime. Supposedly, that favoritism had stopped because of the complaints from other employees, but everyone knew that the same group of people were still getting the majority of overtime.

And Champion’s hourly workers lived and fought daily for overtime. But the price was high: it reduced them to beggars. Even though the workers may not need the money, they were as obsessed with getting overtime as an angry drug addict always needing more.

Khan placed her purse beneath her table, unlocked her cabinet, and took out her sewing tools. She looked at Valentino and said, “No wonder you look beat. You’re going to kill yourself working so much overtime.”

It was a shame to see such a pretty man so worn out. Tino was just over six feet tall, with wide-set shoulders and a narrow frame. Most of the women in the plant thought Valentino was beautiful. Especially Luella. Until Valentino matured, Khan had never realized that one man could spend so much time apologizing for being so pretty. Even behind his glasses no one could miss the indecent length of his lashes.

As she focused on her cousin, Khan felt her own hurt over R.C. move out of the way. She and her cousin had always been close. Khan was also close to Valentino’s father, Uncle Ron, who was the union boss at the Troy Trim plant. “Now, show me a picture of that baby. I know you got some new ones.”

Valentino’s face lit up like a river of gold when he flipped out a new photo of Jahvel from his wallet and handed it to Khan.

“Tino, if this boy gets any prettier, I’m personally launching his modeling career.”

Tino flinched. A man didn’t want his son to look pretty. Tino especially hated the idea that his son would inherit his problems. Being a man, and being respected, was more important—especially for a black man.

Two years ago, Valentino had been hooked on the crack pipe. He lost his job at Champion, then was fired from a bussing job at a low-end restaurant. During that trying time, his wife, Sarah, stuck with him. But when Uncle Ron finally kicked them out after Valentino stole money from him, Valentino and Sarah were homeless. Sarah soon found out she was pregnant and moved back in with her parents. They tried to convince her to abort the baby and divorce Tino. Sarah refused, and this proved to be Valentino’s wake-up call. He went through drug rehab and kicked his habit. Sarah stuck it out.

“Sarah wants Jahvel to go to Harvard. Neither of us want him to become the third generation of Lamotts working in a factory.” He smiled at his cousin. From the center aisle, a hi-lo driver blew his horn and signaled for Valentino.

“Hey, it’s time to get to work.”

“Yeah,” Khan mumbled, snatching her thoughts away from R.C., “and my partner’s not here yet.”

Tino slid off the table. “When Luella gets in, tell her I put that stack of white front cushions on her table. I need them repaired as soon as possible. Rouge River’s on my ass.”

It was a typical Monday morning. Tired workers grunted their hellos and good mornings, followed by the angry whirring sound of power sewing machines gearing up. Even the machines had an attitude this morning.

* * *

Fifty-five minutes later, Khan was hunched over her machine, sweating like a mad dog poised for the kill. It had taken her less than an hour to sew up most of her float.

The power of the machine’s humming vibrated from her fingers to the tips of her toes, but it hadn’t done much for the throbbing pain in her head. Where was Luella? It just wasn’t like her to be so late and not even call. Then Khan’s thoughts returned to R.C.

Fuck it. That bastard owes me an explanation.

She reached beneath her table and retrieved her purse in search of change for the telephone. As she did so, she inhaled the unpleasant odor of a man who thought he could camouflage not taking a bath with an overdose of cologne—her supervisor, James Allister. So much for the phone call.

Scratching his head with a pencil, Allister stood by her machine with the time sheet in his hand. “Mornin’, Davis. I need you to pick up two hours of production to cover Luella’s job until she gets in.”

Khan looked at the time sheet and rolled her eyes. Thirty years ago the union and the company had agreed to let each unit monitor the amount of overtime granted to their employees. The rule was that, while one employee might get more overtime than another, no one should ever get more than thirty-two hours ahead of the other people in the unit. Everybody kept an eye on everyone else by watching the postings that the supervisors put up near their desk every Monday. If one worker was posting eight hundred hours and another posted eight hundred and fifty, everyone knew there was a problem.

The thirty-two-hour spread was agreed to because everybody’s job was so different that it was impossible to maintain the overtime spread any closer. The agreement was rarely enforced until the late 1980s, when overtime started becoming scarce. Now, everyone watched the postings like a Budweiser lizard watching a frog. And everyone knew that if they were offered overtime and refused it, the amount of the hours they refused would still be added to their total overtime hours. If someone was twenty-six hours ahead of the others in the unit and was offered six hours of overtime, it would put them at the limit whether they accepted the hours or not.

The cold coins in her hands felt like hot metal against Khan’s sweaty palms. They burned with the fire she felt in her teeth and gut. “Not today, Allister. I’ve got plans this afternoon.” Of course she didn’t tell him that her plans had suddenly changed: instead of spending a romantic day with R.C., all she wanted to do was go home and cry in peace. “Give her a few minutes. I’m sure she’ll be in.”

“Can’t wait. I’ve got Rouge on my back and you’re low on hours. If you don’t want the overtime, I’ll have to charge you.” Allister made no attempt to hide the smirk on his chalk-white face.

Khan turned to see that Chet, who ran the listing and welt-cord machine in front of her, was almost out of work. Luella’s absence was stopping progress.

The scent of Allister’s cheap cologne sickened her and she turned up her nose. “Sorry. Not today,” Khan said, silently cursing Luella under her breath. Khan just couldn’t deal with more hours. She needed some time to herself.

Turning back to her machine, she sewed a few stitches in the plastic cording, then pushed the button for the arm to cut off the excess. Swiveling to her left side, she placed the cypress-cloth cushion and leather facing between the welt cord, then pushed the knee pedal to lift the foot and shoved the stock beneath it. She could feel the thick, smooth texture of the luxury body-cloth against the tips of her fingers as she lockstitched the top, following through to the end of the 5/8-inch sew seam. After clipping the threads, she spot-checked her work, then tossed it on the cart beside her table and noticed that her watch said six A.M. Where the hell was Luella? Khan just couldn’t deal with working overtime today, of all days. She felt like she could barely make it to quitting time.

There were four more cushions left. In two minutes Khan would be out of work. Without Luella moving work down the line, Khan, like Chet, would be cooling her heels.

No such luck. Khan looked up to see Mary Kemper, a sewing operator from the Syrinx unit, sitting down at Luella’s machine. Khan sighed. Mary could sew triple production, but half of it was usually garbage. The quality curve on their line would plummet today. Any other day, Khan would care. But right now, she couldn’t worry about quality. She felt her problems were greater than Champion Motors.

* * *

At that precise moment, Luella was driving like Road Runner passing Wile E. Coyote on her way to work. When Luella had tried to start her car this morning, her DieHard had been as dead as yesterday. She’d waited fifty minutes for a tow truck to give her a jump, and when she finally took off for work, she was furious. At the corner of Big Beaver and Alpine, she was just a mile away from Champion. It was still raining and she was driving too fast. Her bald front tires caught an unexpected puddle and she skidded off the road, losing control. Luella crashed into the pole that supplied electricity to eight city blocks as well as to Champion Motors. The pole went down and the lines were cut, dancing in a crazy spray of deadly white light.

Khan was forcing the last two pieces of rear backs beneath the sewing foot when the foam edges of the stock stuck on the side of the foot. With her left hand holding the stock in place, she yanked the wheel with her right hand, then pressed down on the foot pedal.

Immediately, the plant went on emergency backup power. The system provided electricity for the emergency lights and certain strategic computer systems, but no production operations.

Khan heard the sound of the generator and looked up at the blinking lights. Even without electricity, her powerful sewing machine was still moving from the force of its own momentum, sending size-ten needles piercing through her left middle finger, again and again, making a trail up past her knuckle and stopping at the center of her hand. The coarse green thread felt like a wet whip against her tender skin. Blood began to seep through the stitches, each a sixteenth of an inch apart.

“Ahhh.” Khan sucked in her breath and turned her head away. “Oh Lord, what have I done! Oh my God!” She screamed.

The bluish tinge from her engagement ring was the last sparkle of light she saw before losing consciousness.

Chet hollered for a mechanic. He and Valentino worked for fifteen minutes to dismantle the machine and release her hand.

Still unconscious, Khan was whisked off to William Beaumont Hospital.

* * *

When Khan opened her eyes, it took her a moment to get her bearings. Everything around her was beige. She couldn’t be in the plant. Then she inhaled the sharp smell of disinfectant and, looking around, remembered what had happened. She looked down at her hand, which was covered with blood and throbbing.

She heard the sound of footsteps coming toward her and prayed that it was R.C., that somehow he had heard of her accident and realized the mistake he’d made. Even though she knew this was foolishness, her heart sank when the doctor entered. He mumbled some medical terms to her that she didn’t try to understand. What did it matter? She was injured and in pain. And the man she had loved for five years wouldn’t be there to take her home.

Damn you, R.C.! her mind screamed as she felt a hypodermic needle piercing her skin.

She watched through squinty eyes as the doctor worked on her hand. Since the shot they gave her for pain didn’t work, she felt every one of the thirty stitches he looped through her swollen hand. But that ordeal was nowhere near as intense as the pain in her heart.

The doctor tried to soothe her with comforting words. Still, Khan tuned him out. Her thoughts ran back to the day several years before when her Uncle Ron had told her that R.C. would never marry a factory worker. He had been right.

A spasm of pain seared through her fingers, and Khan winced in agony. By the time the shot finally began to work, the doctor was finished and her hand was bandaged.

* * *

Four hours later, Khan was back at the plant. The doctor in the medical office at Champion provided her with a slip that released her from work for the remainder of the day and put her on temporary disability until she had her stitches taken out. Though she was excused from working, she still had to report back to him on Tuesday.

By 11:40 A.M., Khan had parked her car at the Virginia Park Townhouses—home. It was nearly fifty-seven degrees and the sun was just coming out. A small wind lifted the budding branches in the front of her condominium complex, then let them fall again. The warm breeze carried the scent of spring as she placed her key in the lock and opened the door.

Once inside her compact condo, she was greeted by the sensual fragrance of French mulberry displayed in decorative wrought-iron pedestal bowls.

Wincing at the pain in her hand as she hung up her coat, the anger she had felt earlier flushed through her again like the hot flash of a woman going through menopause. She felt confused. Exactly how, she wondered, was she supposed to feel?

Disgusted with herself, she clicked on the television set and turned to BET, Black Entertainment Television. The top ten videos were on. Maybe that would change her mood.

“Ha! Ha!” the choir said.

I don’t see a damn thing that’s funny, Khan thought as she shed her work clothes and slipped on a pair of diamond-patterned silver and pink cotton pajamas.

“Put your hands together,” she heard the choir shouting from the television at the opposite end of her apartment. They were stomping on the devil. In her mind, she envisioned R.C. Her knee twitched in anticipation. Hell, she thought. I can do better than that.

Khan tried not to look at the picture of R.C. on her dresser. The harder she tried not to look, the more it kept drawing her eyes like a magnet. Yet she couldn’t put it away—not yet.