Last Exit to Brooklyn - Hubert Selby Jr (15 page)

By the time Wilson had finished telling him what had
happened he had decided what to do. He stared directly into Wilsons
eyes. Well, you certainly made a mess of it didnt you? The corners of
Wilsons mouth sagged a little more. He said nothing. It seems as if I
have to do everything around here or the entire organization starts
to crumble. I did the —never mind that now. The important thing is
to get the job done. Now . . . we simply have to get someone else to
do that job. How many men do you have working on the Kearny job? 6.
Fine. Take one of the men off that job and have him change with the
man working on the Collins job. The Kearny job is all brass if I
remember correctly. Yes, it is. But it will take an hour or so to go
over the job with the man and I was trying to save all the time I
could. Save time! You have already wasted over an hour trying to save
time. Now get back and do as I told you.

Wilson got up immediately and left the office. He
went directly to the foreman of the Kearny job, and explained the
situation. The foreman took one of his men off the job and the man
went with Wilson to the 6th floor. Wilson explained to Mike and Harry
what was going to be done then told the new man who to report to
upstairs. When Harry saw him leave, and Mike and the man who had come
down with Wilson go over to the lathe with the stainless steel stock,
he left.

When he got back to his own bench his foreman was
just finishing setting up the job for Harry. Think you can finish
this job by tomorrow morning Harry? Its a rush. Yeah, sure. I wouldve
finished it today, but that wise punk Wilson tried to pull a fast one
and I had to straightenim out. He thought he could push me around,
but I fixed hisass. Harry turned slightly toward his bench and the
foreman left. He was a few feet away when Harry noticed he had gone
and he sneered and muttered, chickenshit. Afraid the boss might see
him with me. Harry jabbed at the button that turned his lathe on and
started working. Fuckim.

Harry worked as slowly as possible, moving the
cutting tool almost imperceptibly, and when the time came to go home
he still had another hours or so work before the job would be
finished.

Harry was in high spirits when he got home. As he
washed his hands and splashed water on his face he told his wife what
had happened and when she would tell him he ought to be careful, he
might lose his job, he would laugh his evil laugh and tell her, they
wouldn't fire me. If they tried that Id have the whole joint on
strike and they know it. They cant fuck me around. When he finished
eating he went up to the bar and yelled to the guys at the bar how he
told the punk ballbreaker off at work, punctuating his story with his
laugh.

Mary had already gone to bed by the time Harry got
home, but it didnt make any difference to him one way or the other
whether or not she was awake, she wouldnt bother him for awhile
anyway. He undressed and plopped into bed and looked at Mary to see
if she would wake up, but she utterd a low grunting noise and pulled
her knees up closer to her chin. Harry stayed on his side, facing
Mary, and fell asleep.

The next morning Harry went up to the 6th floor
before going to his own bench. He checked to make sure the new man
wasnt working on the stainless job. He smiled when he saw that he
wasnt at his bench and stayed around for a while just to be sure they
werent trying to pull a fast one; and before he left he went over to
the foreman and told him he would see him later. He made his rounds
throughout the rest of the plant and when he got back to his bench
more than 2 hours had passed. He jabbed the start button and began
working. The foreman came over and asked him when the job would be
ready, the rest of the job is finished and we/re just waiting for
this piece. He sneered at the foreman and told him it would be ready
when he finished. The foreman took a quick glance at the job,
estimating how long it would be before Harry finished, and left.
Harry stared at him for a few minutes, wise fuck, then turned back to
the job.

When Harry came back from lunch he went back to the
6th floor and checked again, then strolled around the plant. He got
back to his bench eventually and finished the job then went back to
the 6th floor. The new man was back at his bench, but a piece of
brass was in his machine. Harry went over to him. Thats betta. You
come close ta losin your book yesterday mac. He just glanced at
Harry, wanting to tell him what he thought of him, but said nothing,
having been told that morning about Harry and how he had had more
than one book pulled, for no reason at all, from more than one guy.
Harry sneered and walked away. He went back to his work, still
glowing and feeling omnipotent. He didnt particularly care about the
new guy, but he was glad he had shoved it up the boss/s ass and broke
it off. He stayed at his work the rest of the day thinking
occasionally of yesterday and of the fact that the union contract
with the company expired in two weeks and the negotiating committees
had not reached an agreement for a new contract and it was a sure
thing that there would be a strike. Harry was so happy about going on
strike—of closing down the entire shop, of setting up picket lines
and watching the few bosses going into the empty factory and sitting
at their desks and thinking and worrying about all the money they
were losing

while he got his every week from the union—that he
laughed every now and then to himself and at times felt like shouting
as loud as he could, fuck all you company bastards, all ya ball
breakin pricks. We/ll showya. We/ll makeya get on yaknees and begus
ta come back tawork. We/ll breakya ya fat fucks.

With each day Harry felt bigger. He walked around the
plant waving at the guys, yelling to them above the noise; thinking
that soon it would be silent. The whole fuckin shop/d be quiet. And
he had cartoon like images in his mind of dollar bills with wings
(lying out the window, out of the pocket and pocketbook of a fat
baldheaded cigar smoking boss; and punks with white shirts and ties
and expensive suits sitting at an empty desk and opening empty pay
envelopes. There were images of gigantic concrete buildings crumbling
and pieces flying out of the middle and himself suspended in air
smashing the buildings to pieces. He could see himself crushing heads
and bodies and heaving them from the windows and watching them
splatter on the sidewalks below and he roared with laughter as he
watched the bodies floating in pools of blood and drifting toward the
sewers and he, Harry Black, age 33, shop steward of local 392 watched
and roared with laughter.

At night, after supper, he went to the empty store
the union was fixing up to use as a strike headquarters. He did
little and talked a lot.

Harry slept better, deep and without dreams; but
before sleeping he would lie on his side and let the various images
of empty shops, crumbling buildings and splattering bodies drift
through his mind, more real, more vivid, the features and images more
sharply defined, the flesh more pulpy, more flaccid; the cigar tips
glowing, the smell of cigar smoke and after shave lotion resented and
enjoyed. Then slowly the images would start overlapping each other,
become entangled and whirl together in one amorphous multiexposure
picture and Harry would smile, the sneer almost disappearing, then he
slept.

The last day of the
contract Harry whistled as he worked. Not really a whistle, but a
flat hissing sound that at times approached a whistle. A new contract
had not as yet been signed and there was to be a union meeting that
night. When the working day was over Harry walked happily from the
shop, slapping many of the men on the back with as deep a feeling of
comradeship as he was capable of feeling, telling them not to forget
the meeting and he would see them at the hall. Some of the men
stopped in the bar before going home and slowly drank a few beers,
talking about the strike, wondering how long it would last and what
they would get. Harry bought a beer and walked around the bar
slapping a back or squeezing a shoulder, not saying much, simply a
this is it, or tonights the night. He hung around for half an hour or
so then went home.

* * *

The officers were already on the platform when Harry
got to the hall. He walked away from the steps on the side of the
platform and walked around to the front and vaulted up onto the
platform. He shook hands with everyone there, smiling his smile, and
listened for a few minutes to each group huddling on the platform,
continuing to go from one to the other, as the hall slowly filled,
until it was 10 minutes past the official time for the meeting to
start and the President of the local indicated that he would start
the meeting soon and the groups broke up and the men took their
seats, Harry sitting in the second row on the end, adjusting his
chair so he could be seen between the two men in front of him.

The President sat, taking papers from his attache
case, looking them over, occasionally passing one to some one else, a
brief and hushed discussion following. Eventually he had the papers
sorted as he wanted and he rose, remaining behind the small desk in
front of him. The men in the hall quieted and the President called
the meeting to order and called on the Secretary to read the minutes
of the last meeting They were read, voted upon and officially
accepted by the rank and file. Next the Treasurer read his report
consisting of many figures and explanations of expenditures, of how
much was in the treasury and how much in the strike fund, the strike
fund figure read last, slowly and loudly and the nonofficial members
of the clique scattered throughout the hall applauded, as planned,
and whistled, many others joining them. This report was voted upon
and accepted by the rank and file.

Then the President got down to the business at hand
and informed all the members that they knew what they were really
here for tonight. More applause and whistles from the clique and
others. The President raised his hands, solemnly, for silence. Your
negotiating committee has been working hard for a long time trying to
get a fair contract and wage for you men. Applause. We/re not asking
for much, just what we work for. But the company wants you to do all
the work while they keep all the money. Boos and the stamping of
feet. Let me just read their last offer. He yanked papers from the
desk, crumpled the edges in his hand and looked at them scornfully.
They want us to keep a 35 hour week-a loud no—give us a lousy 12
holidays—another no—the President continued to read through the
noise that followed. No holiday for birthdays, keep time and a half
for overtime —another roar—a stinking 25c an hour raise, and only
a small increase in their contributions to the welfare plan and they
want it to be controlled by a independent trustee —a look of
contempt on his face as he looked at the men and read—and a lot of
double talk that amounts to nothing and they have the nerve to offer
us this—hoots and catcalls. But we showed them, pounding on the
table and yelling defiantly, we showed them what kind of stuff union
men are made of: we told them to go to hell. He sipped water then
wiped his face and lowered his head slightly and waited for the men
to quiet down. Now, we all know how hard we work—dont forget I
sweated for 20 years myself over a lathe and that was before the
union when they was really sweat shops—applause—the President
raised his hands. And the company knows how hard you men work but do
they care—a NOOOOO from the clique and a few others, then a roar
from the men—but we care, dont we—a roaring YEEEEES—youre damn
right we do, and by jesus theres not a man one of us whos going to
allow them to get away with this—a roar—and you can bet your life
they know it. He paused, took a sip of water, cleared his throat. All
we/re asking for is an honest wage for an honest days work and decent
working conditions, and thats something that every American as a free
man is entitled to, pounding on the desk emphasizing the words
american, free, entitled, and leaning slightly toward the men as they
roared and stamped their feet. Now we all know what we/re asking
for—the men in the hall looked quizzically at each other, trying to
remember just what they were asking for—but I/ll read them as they
were presented to the company. A 30 hour week-cheers—a $1 an hour
raise—cheers—a 25% increase in the companys contributions to our
welfare plan to be supervised by the union, looking up from the
paper, leaning forward and pounding on the table, I said supervised
by the union so those goddamn company lawyers and accountants cant
cheat you out of what you should get—whistling and stamping of
feet—16 paid holidays, including every members birthday, or double
time if he has to work on any of those holidays—applause. He
straightened. Now . . . your negotiating committee met with theirs
and after 2 weeks of head to head bargaining—and theres not a man
one of us who doesnt know that you deserve everything weve asked for—
and after 2 weeks the Vice-President told us that the Company couldnt
afford to meet our demands—roars and boos . . . We/re going to meet
with them again but, I want everyman here to understand that we never
have and never will have any intention of allowing them to bulldoze
us into accepting a contract thats not fair for the rank and file of
this union—whistles, roars, stamping—and no matter how many of
their slick or conniving tricks they try or no matter how long the
strike lasts theyre not going to get away with it—a roar—and if
they think theyre dealing with jerks they got another guess coming .
. .

The President of Local 392 continued for another 30
minutes, interrupted with cheers, the stamping of feet, whisding,
explaining that if they gave in to the company now theyd grind their
faces in the mud for the rest of their lives; and how every union
member in the country was behind them, pledged to give all assistance
and aid—and that means money—as long as the strike lasts; of how
the union was completely ready and geared for the strike—an empty
store had been rented as a temporary strike headquarters, signs have
already been painted and instructions have been printed telling each
brother when he has to walk the picket line—denouncing and
promising . . .