Blue Collar Blues (37 page)

“I didn’t marry you for your money, R.C.”

“There’s something else. You know my friend Oxford?”

Tomiko nodded. He’d called a couple of times over the last few months. Unlike some of R.C.’s friends, Oxford had always been very polite with Tomiko, always asking when she and R.C. would fly out to Seattle for a visit.

“Well, Oxford and I go back to the Vietnam War. Right after the war was over, I had to borrow money from Oxford to get my first business up and running. But I lost all of it. I was never able to pay him back, but Oxford let it go. When I started developing my horse business, I convinced Oxford to invest. I promised him he’d double his money. So now losing the ranch means I’ve screwed Oxford over again.”

“Is that why you seem to avoid him?” Tomiko asked gently.

“Yeah. I’m avoiding my own buddy, and it doesn’t feel good.”

“R.C., we’ll handle it together. I’m making good money now.” R.C. didn’t look as relieved as Tomiko expected. “What’s wrong, R.C.? Is there something else?”

“No, no. You’re such a sweetheart, I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He smiled, caressing her face.

When the doorbell rang, Tomiko jumped up to get it. Outside in the circular drive, she saw two green plain-looking cars. She could tell there was writing on the doors, but it was hidden by dust. The man standing in front of her held up a badge.

Tomiko noticed that they wore guns, but they were dressed in street clothing.

“Can I help you, sir?” She thought they might be there because of R.C.’s bankruptcy.

“I’m Special Agent Milford from Kentucky Immigration. Are you Tomiko Richardson?”

__________

The heat was on. Everyone was ready. Including Khan. It was going to be ugly, but it was too late to turn back now.

“Are we going to stand for this bullshit? Scabs coming in here stealing our jobs?” one man shouted.

“Hell no!” A woman spoke up. “Fuck that shit. I got kids to feed.”

Khan didn’t know all her co-workers by name, but in the five years she’d worked at Champion she’d come to know their voices and their faces.

Khan’s eyes wandered the crowd. She could see broken bottles and signs being held high in people’s hands. When she turned back around she spotted Monica, a member of the Jehovah’s Witnesses, which was a well-represented group at the plant. Standing next to her was Nelson, a member of the prayer group that sometimes opposed them. They were chatting with each other, holding up their signs. This is what Uncle Ron meant by solidarity, she thought. People whose personal lives may be oppositional but who came together in crisis; union brothers and sisters coming together for one goal. She forged ahead in love and prayer.

Ron elevated his strong voice above the noisy crowd. “What are we going to do about it, then? Are we going to show Troy Trim that the union workers won’t stand for this bullshit!”

“Damn right.” Khan joined in. “Let’s show ’em.” Caught up in the moment, she was ready to fight. Being surrounded by so many people she worked with every day, now unified, was seductive. Everyone was adding to the momentum to keep that emotion going, that adrenaline flowing.

“I’m ready to kick some ass!” someone shouted.

“Let’s do it! Yeah! Yeah!” the phrase reverberated through the crowd until everyone was shouting the same words: “Let’s do it!”

It was the time to defend families and exact revenge. The strikers ran toward the closest scab van with vengeance on their minds.

By now several police cars had entered the scene. And in the far distance Khan could see more police coming on horseback.

There must have been twenty-five cops, many on horseback, trying to control the crowd, but it was futile. The union workers were growing in number every minute and already vastly outnumbered the police. The workers pushed against the line of cops. The cops pushed back. It was only a question of time before there came one push too many from either side.

Taco José screamed, “Let’s cream those sons of bitches!”

A scab worker yelled from the van as the union workers surrounded it, “Hey, we’ve got families to feed too! Don’t get mad at us. Your problems are with Troy Trim.”

“Then get your own fucking job to take care of your families,” a union worker shouted. Enraged, the union men hurled beer bottles toward the opened window.

Smash!
The scab worker ducked inside, narrowly avoiding being hit. But the bottle connected with the window and cracked it. The scab workers in the van huddled together, knowing that the next bottle thrown would break through the glass and leave them utterly defenseless.

At that moment, Khan noticed more police arriving with sirens blasting, lights flashing. Squad cars and more police on horseback began to establish a line of defense.

Khan was terrified. She wasn’t willing to challenge a twelve-hundred-pound animal. The sight of the mounted police trotting fearlessly near the fence only further fueled the anger of the men and women whose lives depended on the outcome of events here tonight. The union workers, black and white, were fighting for their rights. And if the big man refused to acknowledge them, it was time for war. This time everyone had something to lose. And color was invisible here. Salvation and survival reigned.

“We don’t want to hurt anyone. Please, people. Get back!” yelled one police officer armed with a billy club.

It was too late. Hundreds of union members swarmed the scab vans, attacking with kicks and shouts. To her horror and amazement, Khan found herself among them.

Crash!
Scab workers screamed. More union workers hurled bottles and whatever else they could find at the vans. Finally the first scab was hit. His limp body leaned against the broken window. At that moment more union workers swarmed the van. Feet, bats, fists, stones, and multitudes of bottles rained down, a monsoon, most directed at the already wounded man.

“We’re going to war, motherfuckers. You are fucking with our gig!”

A sharp jolt shook the van. “What the hell are they doing?” one scab asked.

“We getting ready to kick y’all’s ass,” Khan yelled behind a horde of men who, with their backs and shoulders against the van, were now beginning to rock it.

“Omigod, omigod!” one scab shrieked. The others in the van soon joined her in panic as the van slowly rocked back and forth. The suspension of the van began to creak and bend. The angry mob pushed harder and harder, tipping the van a little more each time.

“They’re going to tip us over—I have to get out of here!” Khan heard a shout and saw a man bolt for the rear door. Khan could see inside the van. Two men tried to restrain him, but his insane rage had served to strengthen him. He pushed them aside, leaping through the door and into the arms of the mob. The other scabs stared at the action, perhaps wondering what had been going through the poor man’s mind. The beating he received was bad enough to bring even Evander Holyfield down.

The van was nearly overturned now; it needed just the final nudge. Khan stood watching the mob and yelling along with the rest. “Kill ’em, kill the bastards!”

An officer on horseback beside her stayed still, probably knowing he was powerless to stop the mob unless he shot at them. There were far too many workers. “Hey, why don’t you go home, little nigger bitch.” He sneered at Khan.

“Fuck you, pig!”

“Why you little piss-ant.” He pulled out a can of pepper spray and squirted Khan in the eyes. She screamed. The pain, the burning were more than she could bear.

At that moment all she wanted was to stop the burning of her eyes.

Khan stumbled. All around her she heard screams and cries. The scent of pepper spray was everywhere. It filled the air. She pushed herself to her feet, took one step, and fell down again. Her hands frantically clawed at the pavement as she attempted to rise. Tears rushed down her cheeks as she struggled to breathe and clear her vision. The tears made the noxious spray burn even more. She felt as if someone had poured acid in her eyes. She opened them as best she could and ran toward the next van, eyes still burning but mad as hell.

Boom!
She rammed her shoulder into it. The weight of her small frame added to the others’ and the van tipped over. A mounted cop moved toward the overturned van. Khan swiveled, only to see a flashlight shining in her face and a horse rearing back on its hind legs.

To her right, she could see bodies climbing all over the vans like roaches. She could hear the thud of the policemen’s billy clubs pounding against flesh, followed by cries of pain.

On and on it went. Khan lost all track of time. Red and blue lights flashed on the backs and faces of workers. Everywhere she dared to look, she saw people she knew lying on the ground. Their faces and bodies were dirty, and some were covered with blood. There was no way she could know if they were dead or alive.

The sky above took on the eerie glow of a wartime.

Where was Ron?

In agony, she knew she still had to forge ahead. She refused to lie down and give up the fight.

Between the workers and the cops, it was like a game of cat and mouse. The cops, union members themselves, treated the strikers as though they were criminals when they were just trying to protect their jobs, to survive.

Khan dove through the masses and pushed her weight along with the others, trying to stop the next van that was exiting the company premises.

From the corner of her eye, Khan saw three policemen beating a woman with a billy club. Then she spotted Uncle Ron just as the same three cops turned their attention to him. She left the van and ran toward him, against the crowd.

The vans were slowly retreating, but now the workers didn’t want the fight to end. Small groups began to chant, “Solidarity forever! We shall overcome!”

Sweat dripped from her nose and onto her lips. She quickly licked it off. It seemed as if that small little drop quenched her thirst. Full of anger, she moved forward.

“Fuck this shit! Bitch get over here, asshole!” someone shouted.

Blood spattered onto Khan’s face but she didn’t bother to wipe it off. She just kept pushing her way through the crowd.

Seeing all these angry people rushing to cause more violence just seemed to get in her way of getting out. And now just the thought of losing her job was making her angry. Annoying cries disturbed Khan’s thoughts. Just hearing all the angry sounds made them seem like a brick wall in front of her.

When Khan thought she came to an opening in the crowd, police cars swarmed in, blocking it. Khan stopped and looked around the deranged crowd and spotted her uncle. She ran over to him and saw a policeman grabbing his collar. Khan heard the officer say to Ron, “Get out of here before I have to take you to jail.”

“The hell you will,” she said, stepping in and helping her uncle ward off the blows. The wallop she felt on the side of her head knocked her on her heels. Struggling for balance, she grabbed the policeman’s sleeve.

Together, she and her uncle kicked and fought the policeman until he backed away.

Khan turned away from her uncle to see if she could spot anyone she knew who needed help. Then when she turned back, Khan noticed that Ron was battling with two more police officers. Sirens, shields, and sticks hadn’t stopped the union members from defending their turf. More police cars arrived, but no one seemed to care. It was too late to stop now.

Somewhere a gunshot went off with a roar that reverberated above the cries of the crowd. Men and women scrambled, falling on the ground to cover their heads.

Everyone fell to the ground.

Another gunshot!

Frightened horses reared, their nostrils flaring, their huge black eyes rolling back in terror.

Immediately, Khan fell to her knees, trying to crawl toward the fence, fear driving her. She felt a woman’s small hand tugging at her blouse behind her, trying to hold on. They had to get to safety.

When she touched grass, she tried to scramble to her feet. She had almost succeeded when a hand closed around her ankle, pulling her down. Crashing to the ground, her teeth bit into her bottom lip hard as she fell into a soft mush she realized was horseshit. She was dazed for a moment, but the taste of blood seeping onto her tongue assured her that she was still conscious. However, the man still held her ankle in a relentless grip.

Khan dug her hands into the grass, clawing out clumps of it, dirt encasing her fingernails. She held on. “Let go!” she said, kicking, trying to turn over on her side and ward the man off with her arms. “Let me go!” she screamed, kicking harder.

From a few feet away she could hear the thuds of fists pounding against the man’s back. She turned and looked into the eyes of her uncle, who was now attacking the scab worker.

More gunshots rang out. Just ahead Khan saw a pregnant woman being carried in the air and passed across uplifted hands to the fence.

Please, Lord. Please, Khan prayed silently, don’t let anyone get killed. Please Lord, don’t let that woman lose her baby.

Blood was flying in every direction. And when the emergency vehicles tried to enter the scene, shouts rang out. The crowd encumbered their movements.

Someone else grabbed her once again from behind; she didn’t know who. She felt a crushing blow against her shoulder, then heard a bone crack. She froze. Pain seized her in its vise and rushed to her spinal cord. She squeezed her eyes shut and felt tears singe her cheeks. She was certain either her shoulder or collarbone was broken.

Now someone kicked her in the abdomen, a punishing blow, and she doubled over in agony. The pain as unbearable. Suddenly, someone was pulling her back. Looking up, she saw Taco José lifting her up to the fence.

“Now you stay out of the way—you’re hurt bad enough as it is. We’ll handle this.” He went back into the fight.

“This shit ain’t worth it,” one of the scabs shouted from beyond the fence. “Champion ain’t paying us enough money for this shit.” One scab worker broke away on foot and managed to run from the riot. Knives were stuck in tires, and the whoosh and bump of the vans lowering filled the air. Those inside stayed, powerless to move.

Veils of light peeked through the sunrise as darkness began to wash out of the sky. Khan heard the cry of the morning’s first hawk. Then a group of birds swarmed, large ones, reddish brown, their wings arched. They circled lower, so low that Khan could see their yellow feet and eerie black talons. In this horrific setting, the sight frightened her.