Blue Collar Blues (7 page)

Sunday she came up with a plan to get his attention back on her.

“Will you be ready soon?” R.C. asked Tomiko in a hurried tone. “The races start in an hour.”

“No, I thought I’d dance today.” Tomiko knew how much R.C. loved to watch her perform the Butoh dance. She had learned the dance as a child, in the years when it was being fine-tuned as an art form, having only been developed in Japan in the 1960s. As an expression of artistic individualism, the themes of the dance strike deep, ranging from personal suffering to fear, mortality, and wonder. As a child, she would think about her father when she danced. Since he had died when she was very young, she had found no other way to experience her sense of loss.

Tomiko hoped that if she kept his interest with her dancing, R.C. would change his mind about the races and he would stay home today. R.C. always got aroused when he watched her dance.

But when she beseeched him to stay, telling him of the day she’d planned, he only said, “I’d like to watch, but can’t you wait until this evening?”

She was already wearing her dance costume, the exposed parts of her body powdered and her thick hair wrapped in a printed scarf. “I’ll dance for you tonight if you’ll take me shopping this morning.”

Kissing her gingerly on the mouth, R.C. opened his locked desk drawer and wrote Tomiko a check for five thousand dollars. “Here, why don’t you go shopping instead?”

It was a clear dismissal.

“Caleb will drive you downtown. You can trust him.”

“R.C.?” she began, then stopped. The check felt like fire in her hand when she accepted it—dangerous, seductive. Easing her hands behind her back, she tore the check in half. “Oh . . . nothing.”

When he walked away, she crumbled the paper in her hand and tossed it in the trash. No, she wasn’t kidding herself about the value of money, but she knew that one day she would be able to give it to him. She would always remember a valuable lesson that her mother had taught her:

“Money spent on yourself may be a millstone around your neck; money spent on others may give you wings like the angels.”

__________

Sparkling glass panels flanked the corridor of Champion Motors’ new World Headquarters in the heart of downtown Detroit. Thick-piled, violet wool carpeting and expensive, rose-violet coordinated furnishings accented the plush entryway into the building, welcoming the visitor into the world of commerce and money.

At 7:45 A.M., dressed in a silk-on-silk navy pin-striped suit, white shirt, and red tie, Cyrus Tyler stepped off the elevator that led to his office on the fourteenth floor. Wet Paint signs were still affixed to the walls of the hallway, and Cy turned up his nose, but not at the smell of paint. The company reeked of contradictions. The swank interior of the plush building only underscored the humiliations suffered by the hourly employees working for Champion.

Cy suspected that maybe ten out of the tens of thousands of hourly employees who worked in the surrounding metropolitan plants had ever gotten a glimpse of the interior of the posh World Headquarters. If only they knew, they would quit, he thought.

Some men’s egos are greater than their ability to understand differences among people. Cy would one day realize that most of the hourly workers didn’t give a damn about visiting or working at World Headquarters. As a matter of fact, the annual incomes of the hourly employees exceeded those of many of their white collar counterparts.

The new facility had just been completed last month. It had taken almost a year for Champion to move three thousand salaried employees into the twenty-story global office, and the finishing touches on the first-class building had had to be completed around the employees.

Champion Two Thousand was less than twenty months away. The company’s plan to realize Champion’s promise to its stockholders to save billions of dollars each year had not boosted the company’s stock since the program was first implemented three years earlier. The only way they were saving money was through the early retirements and voluntary buyouts of thirty-two hundred salaried employees in the United States. A series of merciless cost-cutting mandates had eroded morale in some divisions of Champion’s white collar workforce of 52,400 rather than increasing sales. Those with common sense feared for their jobs.

Cyrus Scott Tyler was one of them. Cy shook his head and then thought about the news he’d heard over the radio that morning. A Champion plant had been plagued with quarreling workers. Thank God it wasn’t Troy Trim, his wife’s plant. The slayings were today’s top story.

“There was a triangle going on there,” said one of Champion’s maintenance crewmen. “Coltrain warned the other guy. He told him that if he wanted to see his wife, don’t do it in front of him.”

Cy thought about how Thyme would not listen to his advice and leave the automobile industry altogether. Now things were getting too violent. Working at General Electric would have been a better choice. But she had been at Champion for twenty-three years. I’d be wasting my time to try to convince her to quit, he told himself. Besides, he knew that she was as devoted to Champion as he was.

The radio host had continued.

“It began at five A.M. Sunday morning, as workers filed into the Van Dyke plant to earn some overtime making heaters and air-conditioner components for the new Syrinx car line. Witnesses said that less than a half hour into the shift, Alvin Coltrain pulled the automatic pistol and confronted his estranged wife and her lover, Sean Zion, in a passageway in the rear of the plant, known as the heater area. Coltrain first shot his wife, then fired at her lover, who apparently was trying to stop him from shooting her. Coltrain then put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.”

Cy was sick of the violence. Stress at the plants was at an all-time high.

Everywhere, in all the plants, there was violence—much worse than on the streets. If Champion’s hourly workers were this stressed now, it was going to be an all-out war when they found out the company’s plans for Troy Trim. Company against union. Hell, worker against worker, for that matter. And Thyme would be right in the middle of it.

Pushing open the glass doors, Cy said good morning to his secretary. “Get my wife on the line, will you, Geneva?” Cy asked before retrieving his messages and walking into his office.

“Certainly, sir.”

As Cy unlocked his briefcase, he heard Geneva’s voice over the intercom. “Your wife’s out of the office at this time, sir. Elaine said to try back in an hour.”

“Try calling her then, Geneva. Thanks,” he said, hanging up the phone. Aggravated, he changed the channel on the radio in his office to a smooth jazz station.

Cy’s office, newly decorated in cherrywood, silver, burgundy, and black, was well lit, with tens of shiny recessed lights around the perimeter. A black-lacquered Champion clock was located on the wall behind his desk. Thick burgundy carpeting covered his six-hundred-square-foot floor space as well as his private bar and bathroom. Silver-framed pictures of Thyme, his twin sister, Sydney, and his nephew, Graham, sat beside his phone. But Cy’s most treasured items were the bowling trophies that were displayed throughout his office.

Champion Motors was taking drastic measures to remain competitive with General Motors, Ford, and Chrysler. Since Champion had started developing the trim operation for its new luxury car line, Syrinx, in Mexico, sales had increased. The corporation was seeing less and less of a need for trim business in the United States. Syrinx, as well as ten other top-selling Champion lines, was now being sewn in Matamoros, Mexico, and fifteen other lines would be moved to Mexico next year. By that point, American production would be cut by a third.

His throat felt dry as ashes and he tugged at his tie. He removed a stack of files from his briefcase and headed for the refrigerator that his secretary was considerate enough to keep supplied with fresh sparkling water. A wave of nausea swept over him. The Perrier temporarily cleared his head as he chugged down three-quarters of a bottle.

He was on the phone when he heard a knock at the opened door.

“Come in,” he said to his boss, John Sandler. “Have some coffee. I’ll be finished in a minute, John.”

Sandler declined the coffee and, with a broad smile fixed on his face, waited until Cy completed his call. When he did, Sandler handed Cy a sealed envelope.

Inside, Cy knew, was his yearly performance bonus check. Champion paid bonuses at the start of the new fiscal year in April.

“You’ll notice this year’s bonus is substantially higher than last year’s.”

“That’s good to hear.” Cy stood and briskly shook Sandler’s hand.

John Sandler, a slim, deeply tanned, white-haired man of sixty with a falsetto voice, was one of five top officers at Champion. His division was Financial Services. He reminded Cy of an aging choir boy trying to sing his way into heaven, never able to make it. Sandler was known around the company as one of the biggest liars in the business.

Cy wondered why Sandler had personally brought him his check. Usually he allocated that menial job to his secretary. Something else was going on. Cy knew that the only way to find out was to ask questions and try to gauge which answers were lies. “Does Senator Reese still plan on accompanying me on the Mexico trip next month?”

“We’re completing the final details of your meeting with the senator and the Mexican ambassador. I feel this new business venture with the Mexican government is going to prove very advantageous for Champion.”

Cy felt the hairs on his neck rise. He knew that Sandler was once again reminding Cy that if he valued his job, he’d keep his mouth shut about the company’s plan to sell off its Troy Trim plant. Sandler knew that Thyme was head of operations at the plant, but he was banking on Cy’s loyalty to Champion and to his paycheck.

“When the dollar represented gold, it was just as good as gold,” Sandler continued. “But now it’s only as good as the current state of inflation. The lower Mexican wages give us an opportunity to hold on to a little more of that gold.”

Cy was becoming more and more uncomfortable with withholding vital information from his wife. Keeping secrets about the coming changes at Champion had begun to keep him awake at night. If Thyme ever found out how much he knew, there was no telling how she’d react. Cy had many friends, hourly and salaried, from whom he was keeping important information that could profoundly impact their jobs. But this was business. Big business.

“I’ve been at this company for thirty-five years, Cyrus. I’ve seen the automobile industry bounce back and forth and go through hills and valleys. Champion Two Thousand was not designed to be a short-term palliative. Changes are occurring because we are reengineering the company.”

Cy was sick to death of hearing the strategy behind the destruction of thousands of autoworkers’ lives. How could Champion treat husbands, wives, mothers, and fathers like numbers? How could Champion ask him to decide who should be cut from employee rolls?

Sandler continued, “We need you to expedite Champion Two Thousand. As you know, this program is Champion’s strategy to remain the leader in the automobile business now and in the future. We need to anticipate global market changes.”

Sandler’s words echoed in Cy’s mind throughout the long day.

It was 10 P.M. when he left the office. As he drove home, Cy kept going over his conversation with Sandler: it was clear that Champion was throwing him a bone to keep quiet. But how long would his own job be safe? Didn’t he owe it to himself and to Thyme to be honest about Champion’s plan to dump hundreds of jobs? And how had he gotten stuck with the job of streamlining?

Cy knew he was partly responsible for Champion’s development of Mexican production. He had used his own ties in Mexico to help Champion pave its way into the Mexican market. After he graduated from high school, Cy had spent a year living in Mexico City; he had been lured there by its culture and language. After college he returned to Mexico to work in the General Motors plant in Matamoros. It was in Mexico that he had first fallen in love.

Cy’s thoughts turned to Graciella, the woman who had been his lover now for over twenty years—before, during, and after his marriage to Thyme. Cy and Graciella had two children together, and despite his love for Thyme, he still hadn’t been able to give up his relationship with Graciella.

He had met Graciella when they were both working at the General Motors plant, but it had been their mutual love of bullfights that ultimately brought them together. Graciella still kidded Cy that what he had between his legs was as strong as a bull. For reasons he couldn’t explain to himself, he felt more virile with Graciella than he ever had with Thyme.

Though he knew that he satisfied Thyme sexually, he always worried that there was something missing in their relationship. Was that why he clung to Graciella? He couldn’t let go of the myth that the black man’s penis was better hung than the white man’s and it bothered him. Though they never discussed it, Cy felt a racial wedge between himself and his wife that he had overlooked as a newlywed but which grew as maturity crept in and life’s knocks hit them. And then there was always Thyme’s resistance to having children.

When Cy opened the door of the elaborate master bedroom, Thyme was already asleep. He knew that if he didn’t wake her, she would complain in the morning.

The soothing ambience of their bedroom was perfect for relaxing. There were a few steps up to the main area, which was dominated by a round revolving bed that was eight feet in diameter. Behind the bed was a twenty-foot rectangular portrait of Thyme, her nude body draped seductively with pale pink silk. Rose petals were sprinkled in her hair and at various spots in the sheer fabric. She had been thirty-five when Cy had the portrait commissioned. She was more beautiful to him at that age than ever before.

“Wake up, Thyme. I’m home.”

Cy pressed the remote to turn on a CD. Thyme sat up on her hindquarters like a praying mantis.

“Turn that shit off. I thought we agreed on the music we were playing this month? No country.”