The Losing Side
Lawrence F. Farrar
Early June, azure skies, and a brisk breeze – Tyler Bentley would have preferred to be sailing that morning. Instead, back for a second summer at Riverside Windows & Doors, Tyler lingered in his MGB sports car. He flipped on the radio; the war in Vietnam dragged on. He turned the radio off. Time to go to work.
It all looked the same; the low-lying, white-walled factory, its rooftop skylights coated with grime; the employees parking lot, a veritable used car emporium crowded with tired Chevies, worn-out Fords, and pickups of all descriptions; the Pioneer River flowing behind the plant shimmering in the morning sun. Yes, it all looked the same.
Tyler hadn’t planned on another tour at Riverside. But the internship at his uncle’s law firm fell through, and his father insisted he find a summer job. A subsequent call by Tyler’s father to CEO Jack Dornbusch, an old classmate, had cleared the way for a second summer in the factory. Tyler’s father and Dornbusch had not been close, and the response surprised and gratified Tyler’s father. In a follow-up call,a personnel manager declared Tyler had done a good job the previous summer and, although hiring had tightened, they would find a spot for him.
At summer’s end, Tyler would head back for his junior year at Wilherst College. Brown hair combed over, Tyler was six feet tall, brown eyed, and clean-shaven (an ill-fated effort at cultivating a mustache a failure). At 175 pounds, he’d gained weight in recent months and been forced to add a notch to his belt. He possessed a nice baritone but sang mainly for his own enjoyment. Outfitted in jeans, tee shirt, low-cut work boots, and a Milwaukee Brewers’ ball cap, nothing in his appearance set him apart from his workmates.
But, as the product of Millwood Preparatory School, Morgan Woods Country Club, and skiing in the Alps, he differed from them in many respects. Self-satisfied (he knew he was smart) when he’d started, by the end of the first summer he’d managed to temper his ego with dollops of humility and empathy for workmates from less privileged backgrounds. Many pursued a hard-scrabble life, even in the best of times. By that first summer’s end, he felt he’d become “one of the guys.” Co-workers had seemed to share that assessment. Consequently, Tyler now returned to the plant with an upbeat attitude.
That attitude did not long endure. Tom Quirk, the Personnel Chief, received him in his office. A florid-faced fellow with sagging jowls, Quirk had on a short-sleeved, white shirt and sported a clip-on bow tie. He lolled back behind his desk munching peanuts from a bag. “You know things have changed quite a bit during the last year,” he said. “Surprised to see you again.”
“How do you mean?” Tyler said. Why was Quirk surprised?
‘You’ll see,” he said. “Some of these guys have been getting out of line. Bunch of malcontents if you ask me. Jobs are hard to come by these days.” Like the keeper of some fund of privileged information, he said no more.
“I was hoping for an office job this time around,” Tyler said.
“Afraid not,” Quirk said. “I’ll level with you. You’re just lucky your father knows the boss.”
Following a review of workplace rules, Quirk issued Tyler a card and ushered him down a corridor where Tyler punched in on a timeclock. Then, Quirk accompanied him out onto the factory floor to meet an assembly foreman.
The din engulfed him: the grinding of sanding machines, the clatter of punch presses, and the thwack, thwack, thwack of workmen hammering frames together. Banks of fluorescent lights, some burned out, some flickering, were as Tyler remembered them. The wet, warm air, the stained concrete floors, the paint-peeling pea green walls, and the pinups of women in various states of undress were all as he remembered them.
The sash department foreman, Jack Flynn, a slim man in his mid-forties, and clad in dark blue trousers and shirt (replete with a pocket pencil protector ), offered Tyler a perfunctory welcome. The man’s skin pale, his thick lips unsmiling, Tyler remembered him as a damp-souled company man saddled with a cranky voice. Like a committed company mouthpiece, Flynn stressed the need to do “an honest day’s work,” not take extended breaks, and not listen to complaints from “some of those bad apples who’ve been stirring things up.”
Tyler nodded, not really understanding what the man meant. Extended breaks?
“Anyway, we’re putting you back on a sanding machine. This time you’ll be the operator. Guy was doing it broke a couple of fingers the other day. So we figured you can fill in.”
Not what Tyler wanted, but, at least, he knew the drill. He wondered how the man he replaced broke his fingers. On the job? Hardly encouraging. And what about the reference to “bad apples?” Not a propitious beginning.
The foreman gestured toward a man, arms folded, slouching next to a sanding machine. “That’s Billy Hogan. He’ll be your helper; receiving frames coming out of the sander. Stacking them on pallets for delivery to the assembly guys. Same job you had last year.”
Hard-bitten, with slicked back dark hair, and acne-riddled skin, Hogan looked to be about twenty or so. He displayed no sign of friendship; none at all. Tyler marked him as someone it would be difficult to trust.
Following this introduction, Tyler took up his position behind the large sanding machine “Let’s do her,” he said. He hit the start button, and picked up the first frame. He placed it on the moving belt that fed into the machine and out the other side where Hogan fielded the frame and placed it on a pallet. One after another, Tyler lifted the frames and placed them on the moving belt. Periodically another worker came by with a pneumatic lift cart, retrieved loaded pallets, and trundled them away.
Tyler and Hogan worked steadily. The monotony and physical discomfort of the job reasserted itself. Tyler’s arms ached; his chest heaved; and his back hurt. He’d forgotten work gloves, and his hands soon became raw and sore. How, he wondered, had old Gus, his workmate the previous summer, done it all those years?
Tyler intended to get to know Hogan better over the lunch break. But the man took off. Already dog-tired, Tyler slumped to the floor next to the machine and retrieved a liverwurst sandwich from his lunch box. The maid who prepared it knew he didn’t like liverwurst. It seemed like a bad day getting worse.
~ ~ ~
A week had elapsed, and Tyler had adjusted to the work routine. Contrary to Tyler’s initial worry, Hogan performed well. He seemed sullen, however, and his spare comments signaled he’d rather be somewhere else. Or, perhaps more accurately, with someone else?
Taking his lunchbreak on the shipping dock overlooking the river, Tyler heard a voice. He glanced up and encountered a familiar face.
“Hi, Tyler. Remember me?”
“Sure. You’re Lenny Magnuson. You’re the guy last summer wanted to talk to me about books you were reading. Never heard back from you, though.”
“Yeah. I guess some of the guys thought I was getting out of my lane hanging around with a college boy like you. Anyway. I’m still here.”
Freckle-faced, crew-cut, bespectacled, and blue-eyed, Magnuson looked more like a student at the local high school than he did a third-year factory worker.
“You were nice to me. Didn’t look down on me, like the guys said you would.”
“Well, here we are again,” Tyler said. “Both of us people who like to read.”
Magnuson glanced around and then said, “Maybe I’m stepping out of line, Tyler, but I figured I should tell you the situation isn’t so good here.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s been complaining that because jobs are hard to come by the management is screwing us over. You’ll hear about it sooner or later. Word is around some people want to start a union.”
“I remember people complaining last summer. Just sounded like normal griping.” Hoping to avoid being drawn into a labor dispute, Tyler sought to remain neutral. In fact, however, over the previous summer Tyler had, in fact, substantial sympathy for the men he’d worked with.
“There’s more, Tyler. I should keep my trap shut, but word is you were given a job by the front office so you could spy on us.”
“What? Where in hell did that come from? I just got here.”
“Well there’s three or four guys and a few of their buddies been bitching ever since the company introduced new rules. They’re the ones talking about it.”
“What new rules?”
“Twelve-minute breaks, for one. Used to be fifteen.”
“Shaved off three minutes? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No more overtime. No pay raises. More time on the job before any profit-sharing. And if you show up ten minutes late for work, they’ll dock your pay.”
“Well, the economy isn’t good,” Tyler said. “Looks like they’re trying to run a tight ship.” But could petty rule changes really affect profitability? Yes, Tyler wanted to stay neutral, but it was hard.
“There’s other things people aren’t happy about. The toilets don’t get cleaned as often as they used to. Stuff like that. Nothing big, but there have been some on-the-job accidents.” It sounded like a catalogue of bad management practices.
“Seems to be good old-fashioned complaining to me,” Tyler said. “Anyway, I’m just here for the summer. Plan to do my job. That’s it.”
“Yeah. Okay for you, I guess. Like I said, some of the men think you are in with the bosses because your dad is some kind of a big shot. Anyway, just thought I’d give you a heads- up. See you around.”
Magnuson started to walk away, then turned. “My brother is over there in Vietnam. Is it true, Tyler, you can’t get drafted if you’re in school?”
Tyler nodded. “I have a student deferment.” He was opposed to the war. But he knew, for workers like Magnuson, that likely wasn’t enough to enough to fend off their resentment at his privilege.
“Sounds like you’ve got a good deal.” Magnuson headed into the factory.
What had all their talk been about, anyway? Tyler simply wanted to log in his time, satisfy his father, pick up some cash, and head back to school in the fall. But Magnuson’s warning stirred a frisson of unease. Could somebody really think he was an agent for the front office. Could they?
~ ~ ~
On Monday of the following week, a personnel clerk approached Tyler during one of those twelve-minute breaks (barely time for a trip to and from the toilet). “Quirk says for you to stop by the front office before you leave. Some forms to fill out.”
“What forms? Thought I did that.”
When Tyler showed up, Quirk waved him down the hall to Dornbusch’s office. “The boss wants to have a word with you.”
“About what?”
“Just go in. He’s waiting.”
The well-appointed office looked like something out of an upscale interior decorating magazine – paneled walls, thick carpeting, fine furniture, potted plants, and a view of the river through sparkling floor-length windows.
Dornbusch stepped around from behind his mahogany desk and gestured toward a pair of facing easy chairs. A man in his mid-fifties, he had on a light blue, cord suit. Horn-rimmed glasses, hair gone to gray, he looked much like his father, the company’s founder glowering down from a wall portrait. When Dornbusch lighted a cigarette, Tyler could not help but notice the man’s smoke-tarnished fingers. Plant regulations prohibited smoking, but Dornbusch was the boss.
“Well, Tyler, glad you could come by. We’ve had good reports on your work. Yes sir, good reports. You know it’s hard to find experienced summer help these days,” he said. “Hope everything is working out for you.” It struck Tyler that the man’s voice came laden with insincerity.
“Yes, sir. Doing fine.”
“I expect you are getting to know some of the men.”
Yes. Two or three from last summer. And two or three new ones. Kind of miss Gus, the old guy I worked with last year.”
“Well, he retired. Quite a few new employees. I imagine you are hearing a lot of what they have to say. About their work and such. It would be a big help if you could pass along some of what you pick up out there on the floor.”
“I’m not sure I understand, Mr. Dornbusch. Are you asking me to, well, monitor my fellow workers?”
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. Just kind of help the front office keep in touch with what people are thinking. There’s been talk of some kind of work stoppage. A slowdown. Just rumors, of course. Talk to Quirk or Flynn. Even to me directly. Door is always open to the son of my old friend. Would contribute to more efficient management.”
“I don’t feel like I could do that, Mr. Dornbusch. I’m just here for the summer. I want to do my job and earn a few dollars. I want to stay out of politics and stuff like that. Besides, I hear some of the men already think I’m too close to the front office.”
“Well, I, of course, understand. But hope you will give it some thought. More efficient production. Everybody wins.”
Tyler got up to leave. Why ask this from a short-timer like me? he wondered. He answered his own question. Expendable. That’s why. Was that the reason they’d hired him? Hard to believe. It gave them too much credit for foresight.
“Oh, by the way, Tyler, I understand you didn’t get in on our profit-sharing last summer.”
“I didn’t qualify.”
“Well, it seems there was a payroll error. So, I’ve authorized a check for $1,500. Hope you can use it for school.”
Dornbusch picked up an envelope from his desk.
Tyler studied the carpet, as if searching for patterns. “Thank you, sir. But I can’t take it. I wasn’t eligible for profit-sharing last summer. Wouldn’t be fair to the other temps.”
As Tyler departed the outer office suite, Quirk again mentioned the check.
Tyler declined for a second time and walked out to the lot. He did not like being co-opted by the front office (even though he thought some of the workers might be out of line). After this meeting, Tyler realized the notion of a plague on both your houses was untenable.
~ ~ ~
Back on the floor the next day, Tyler sensed workers had their doubts about him. The jovial back-slapping and good-will which characterized the end of the previous summer had evaporated. Some of the men he’d known averted their eyes when they met; others radiated overt hostility. Only two or three greeted him warmly. He’d come back for the second summer fully expecting to be recognized as “one of the guys.” It did not happen.
At the end of his second week’s Friday shift, he encountered a concrete manifestation of his co-workers’ attitude, or at least that of some of them. He retrieved a penciled note wedged under his windshield wiper. It read: “You got no dog in this fight. If you know what’s good for you, don’t come back.” He surveyed the lot as he crumpled the note. Could someone be watching him?
He’d not told his father about his meeting with the CEO. Now, driving home, he decided not to tell him about the note either. Why worry him? If Tyler performed his job, things would likely work out. When he found no more notes, it seemed he’d made the right choice. Work on the sanding machine proceeded smoothly. Hogan did his job and behaved in a civil, if not friendly, manner.
But Tyler had it wrong. Coming back from a quick break, he ran into Charlie Eubank. Charlie was a thirty-year-old sash assembler. He had thin lips, wet eyes, and hard-to-ignore protruding teeth. He wore a faded tee-shirt featuring the logo of a defunct rock band. He had on a backward-facing ball cap.
“Hi there, Tyler. See you’re still around.” The words came saturated with hostility.
“Yeah. I’m still here. Doing my job.”
“Seems you don’t get the message, college boy. We don’t like nobody taking jobs from those that need them.” He paused and narrowed his eyes. “And we don’t need no front office spies.”
“Look, pal. I’m only on for the summer. Not taking anybody’s job. And the only person I take orders from is my foreman.”
“Don’t think we don’t know you got this job because your old man is some big shot with a lot of pull. We give you a chance. Won’t be no more.”
“Oh, who says that?”
“You’ll find out.” Charlie launched a wad of chewing tobacco that splatted at Bentley’s feet and stalked away.
Later that day, Tyler discovered someone had let the air out of his right front tire. His dismissive attitude became an apprehensive one.
He found it ironic. Especially after the Dornbusch approach, he’d felt increasingly in sympathy with the workers. They were getting handled.
~ ~ ~
The run-in with Eubank served as a prelude for what came next, an encounter with the “leader” of the dissidents. Tyler had settled down on the loading dock to scarf up his lunch and get a breath of air. A short train had just rattled in to pick up a cargo of finished windows.
Unannounced, a man plunked down beside him.
“You’re Bentley. Right? I’m Sig Torgerson,” he said. “Lots of the men come to me with their problems. Been hearing about you. What I’m hearing isn’t good.” Tyler recognized Torgerson as one of the principle dissidents, probably the leader. They had not met before.
In his mid-thirties, a face like weathered wood, Torgerson was a big man, wide-shouldered, and tough looking. Curly black hair grown long, poked out from under a red bandana. His dark beard very much needed a trim. Bib overalls, rubber boots, and a John Deere cap identified him, in Tyler’s mind, as one of several farmers who doubled as workers at the plant. Word had it that, despite limited education, Torgerson possessed a lot of natural intelligence. People looked up to him.
“I’ve heard of you, too,” Tyler said.
“Just wanted to let you know some of the men think you’re reporting on us to the front office.”
“So I hear.”
“This dispute with the company ain’t really none of your business.”
“Well, you’ve got me wrong. Even if I was inclined to rat you out, which I’m not, I have no special information that would interest anybody.”
“Not the way I hear it. Word is that your old man is a buddy of the company boss.”
“He knows him, but he is no buddy. Whatever you hear is wrong. I just want to finish out the summer and be gone. By the way, for what it’s worth, I think the employees here have been getting screwed over by the company.”
The remark seemed to catch Torgerson off guard. “Sounds to me like you’re just trying to get in good with us,” he said.
“Think what you want. You’re wrong.”
Apparently unimpressed by Tyler’s defense, Torgerson rose to his feet, stared down at Tyler, and said, “Not all the men are as kind-hearted as me. Best for everybody if you just quit. Go somewhere else.” With those words, Torgerson rumbled back into the factory.
That night, depressed by all he’d experienced, Tyler told his dad he thought it best if he did what they wanted – quit his job. It would be easier for everybody involved. They could believe whatever they wanted. His father conceded it was a difficult situation, but left the decision strictly up to Tyler.
Tyler had decided to give up. But it didn’t play out as he anticipated. When he arrived at the plant the next morning for what he intended to be his last day, Lenny Magnuson greeted him getting out of his car. “Boy, have I got news for you.”
“Really? What’s up?”
“The CEO’s secretary, Jackie Peterson, has been singing like a little bird. Told her boyfriend in the shipping office that the boss had been up to no good.”
“That’s not hard to believe.”
“She says that note was on your car wasn’t put there by any of us. Boss had her write it. Said it was a joke.”
“Some joke. He must have been trying to turn me against the guys in the plant.”
“There’s more. She says that after you told the CEO to shove it, he planted the story you really were ratting people out. She knew it was a lie and wanted people to know the truth.
“Why? Why would he do that?”
Maybe he was just pissed off. Maybe he figured you’d still cooperate. Who knows?”
Whatever inclination Tyler might have felt to side with the company (which hadn’t been much to begin with) had long since dwindled to none. All that happened confirmed his earlier belief the front office had sought to use him. One thing seemed certain. Somehow he’d soon be gone. But not quite yet.
He wanted to let the men in the plant know he stood with them. He realized he was little more than a peripheral player, and they probably didn’t care. Nonetheless, he now identified with what was likely to be the losing side in the simmering labor dispute. It was, in Tyler’s view, the right side.
~ ~ ~
When Tyler headed out to the parking lot after work, Torgerson beckoned him over. “Sounds like we were wrong about you,” Torgerson said. “I figured you were just some smart-assed college kid. When we found out you’d had a meeting with the CEO, it just confirmed our suspicions. Then, Tyler, I heard about what Jackie Peterson says Dornbusch was up to. She says that even though you told him to shove it, Dornbusch let the word out you were on board with him. That you were tracking us.”
“Thanks, Torgerson. I know why you guys felt the way you did. I gotta tell you, I don’t like the way management is treating you. And I don’t like the way, they treated me, either. Hope you understand I’m with you - not them.”
“Yeah. Well, I figure we’re up against it. But we’re trying to get something done. Hope to shut down the lines for an hour or so next week. Maybe that’ll get their attention.”
“I heard you put together a manifesto citing things that need to be fixed.”
“Well, that’s a fancy term. It’s just a list. Says we’ll do a better job if they respond to some of our needs.”
Tyler rated their likelihood of success at zero. But he said, “You can count me in. I’m with you.”
“Thanks, Tyler, but you’ll just get in trouble.”
“Hey, I already am in trouble.”
“By the way, that old guy you worked with last year says you were kinda full of yourself. He also says you were a hard worker and figured you’d be on our side. Thought you’d like to know.”
“Good to hear. Gus taught me a lot.”
“Anyhow, wanted to let you know you’re square with us. Maybe we can get together for a brewski sometime. ”
“Yeah, we’re square. Good luck, next week.”
“It’s not a strike or anything. Just letting them know how we feel. Maybe even get some action. You’ll see us out by the front entrance. Aiming for Wednesday.”
Tyler knew they would fail. And he thought Torgerson knew it, as well. Their protest made no sense. Nonetheless, he made up his mind to be there with them.”
~ ~ ~
And then, like a harbinger of even more troubling developments, a day later, a fire broke out in the CEO’s office. Not a big fire, it was easily put out with an extinguisher. But acrid brown smoke drifted into the reception area. The boss had just gone out. Everyone knew he smoked. However, reluctant to attribute the fire to an unextinguished cigarette butt, the maintenance chief described it as a fire “of unknown origin.”
Of greater concern than the question of responsibility, Tyler realized, was the failure of the front office smoke detector to function. Workers had long complained about non-operational smoke detectors elsewhere in the plant. A blaze had been averted this time, Torgerson told other workers, Tyler among them. But who knew what might happen in the future?
“Kind of pushed us over the edge,” Torgerson said. “We have to have safe working conditions. That’s the law, isn’t it? Give us a break.”
In view of this latest development, Torgerson and other organizers concluded the time had come to move up the day of their protest. They now scheduled the demonstration and a reading of the petition for ten o’clock the next morning at the plant’s main entrance.
The event had been well-advertised. But a light rain began to fall, and organizers, already worried about turnout, experienced even greater concern. Intimidated, disinterested, or unhopeful, the great majority of the plant’s hundreds of workers chose not to show up.
Shortly before ten, Tyler shut down his sander and made his way to the front of the building. By ten after ten, only twenty or thirty workers, most of them not actually on duty anyway, had gathered. A pair of county deputy sheriffs leaned against their patrol car parked across the road. A local newspaper reporter tried to interview participants. Sigurd chatted with individuals, apparently hoping that with time more people would arrive. They didn’t. When Sigurd spotted Tyler, he raised a hand in welcome. “Okay, kid. Glad you’re with us. Your choice.”
Finally, Sigurd climbed the building’s front steps and began to speak to the small crowd. He was a big guy, a tough guy, but Tyler could see he was nervous. “We’ve come here this morning to call management’s attention to concerns we have about some of the rules and the work environment here in the plant. We figure, if management listens to us and makes some changes, we can do a better job. And everybody, including the company, will be better off.”
Hardly a catalogue of fiery demands, Torgerson’s remarks elicited a smattering of applause. The brief presentation that followed involved no assertion of labor rights. At best, Tyler thought, it came across as a simple appeal to reason.
Torgerson drew a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and began to enumerate what he called worker concerns (not demands).
“Twenty-minute breaks and thirty-five minutes for lunch; we’ll be better rested and more efficient.
Restoration of at least the possibility of limited overtime.
Limited profit-sharing for part-timers. Would be a big morale booster.”
Attention to sanitation. Fix the broken drinking fountains. And, honestly, the toilets and urinals stink.
A two percent wage increase. Especially, with the discontinuation of overtime. The cost of living keeps going up.
Maybe the biggest concern, more attention to safety. That fire in the front office the other day would have been caught right away with a working smoke detector. Pure luck somebody smelled the smoke.”
When Sigurd finished, there was another smattering of applause. “Fat chance,” someone yelled out.
Conscious of the disappointing turnout, several of those who did attend had already drifted away. Lasting no more than twenty minutes, the event had been a bust.
Bust or not, within an hour after the gathering, administrative staffers hand-delivered termination of employment notices to Torgerson and four other organizers. Tyler’s own role had been peripheral at best. Nonetheless, seemingly for good measure, he,too, received a notice. The directed fired employees to be off the property within an hour within an hour.
The personnel officer delivering the termination document to Tyler simply said, “you picked the wrong side, buddy.”
Their effort had failed to produce any positive result at all. Yet, in Tyler’s eyes, although foredoomed, the organizers had pursued a just cause, advocated with a large measure of dignity. Whatever reservations he’d had at the outset, he not only empathized with the men who challenged the management. He publicly identified with them, even though he realized such a posture challenged common sense. But it was the right one.
Five or six men, including Lenny Magnuson, came out to the parking area to see him off. “A lot of the boys appreciate the way you come down on our side. They figure it wasn’t easy, with your father’s connection and all. Just wanted to say thanks. Sigurd says thanks, too. He had to leave. Some kinda problem at the farm.”
“Keep reading,” Tyler said. He reached out and shook Lenny’s hand. He then shook hands with each of the others.
Tyler recalled that, when he left the summer before, old Gus, too, had shaken his hand. “Ya done good, Tyler,” he’d said. “Ya done good.” As he headed home, Tyler hoped he had done good again. He hoped his father would understand, even though Tyler had chosen the losing side.
Lawrence F. Farrar
Early June, azure skies, and a brisk breeze – Tyler Bentley would have preferred to be sailing that morning. Instead, back for a second summer at Riverside Windows & Doors, Tyler lingered in his MGB sports car. He flipped on the radio; the war in Vietnam dragged on. He turned the radio off. Time to go to work.
It all looked the same; the low-lying, white-walled factory, its rooftop skylights coated with grime; the employees parking lot, a veritable used car emporium crowded with tired Chevies, worn-out Fords, and pickups of all descriptions; the Pioneer River flowing behind the plant shimmering in the morning sun. Yes, it all looked the same.
Tyler hadn’t planned on another tour at Riverside. But the internship at his uncle’s law firm fell through, and his father insisted he find a summer job. A subsequent call by Tyler’s father to CEO Jack Dornbusch, an old classmate, had cleared the way for a second summer in the factory. Tyler’s father and Dornbusch had not been close, and the response surprised and gratified Tyler’s father. In a follow-up call,a personnel manager declared Tyler had done a good job the previous summer and, although hiring had tightened, they would find a spot for him.
At summer’s end, Tyler would head back for his junior year at Wilherst College. Brown hair combed over, Tyler was six feet tall, brown eyed, and clean-shaven (an ill-fated effort at cultivating a mustache a failure). At 175 pounds, he’d gained weight in recent months and been forced to add a notch to his belt. He possessed a nice baritone but sang mainly for his own enjoyment. Outfitted in jeans, tee shirt, low-cut work boots, and a Milwaukee Brewers’ ball cap, nothing in his appearance set him apart from his workmates.
But, as the product of Millwood Preparatory School, Morgan Woods Country Club, and skiing in the Alps, he differed from them in many respects. Self-satisfied (he knew he was smart) when he’d started, by the end of the first summer he’d managed to temper his ego with dollops of humility and empathy for workmates from less privileged backgrounds. Many pursued a hard-scrabble life, even in the best of times. By that first summer’s end, he felt he’d become “one of the guys.” Co-workers had seemed to share that assessment. Consequently, Tyler now returned to the plant with an upbeat attitude.
That attitude did not long endure. Tom Quirk, the Personnel Chief, received him in his office. A florid-faced fellow with sagging jowls, Quirk had on a short-sleeved, white shirt and sported a clip-on bow tie. He lolled back behind his desk munching peanuts from a bag. “You know things have changed quite a bit during the last year,” he said. “Surprised to see you again.”
“How do you mean?” Tyler said. Why was Quirk surprised?
‘You’ll see,” he said. “Some of these guys have been getting out of line. Bunch of malcontents if you ask me. Jobs are hard to come by these days.” Like the keeper of some fund of privileged information, he said no more.
“I was hoping for an office job this time around,” Tyler said.
“Afraid not,” Quirk said. “I’ll level with you. You’re just lucky your father knows the boss.”
Following a review of workplace rules, Quirk issued Tyler a card and ushered him down a corridor where Tyler punched in on a timeclock. Then, Quirk accompanied him out onto the factory floor to meet an assembly foreman.
The din engulfed him: the grinding of sanding machines, the clatter of punch presses, and the thwack, thwack, thwack of workmen hammering frames together. Banks of fluorescent lights, some burned out, some flickering, were as Tyler remembered them. The wet, warm air, the stained concrete floors, the paint-peeling pea green walls, and the pinups of women in various states of undress were all as he remembered them.
The sash department foreman, Jack Flynn, a slim man in his mid-forties, and clad in dark blue trousers and shirt (replete with a pocket pencil protector ), offered Tyler a perfunctory welcome. The man’s skin pale, his thick lips unsmiling, Tyler remembered him as a damp-souled company man saddled with a cranky voice. Like a committed company mouthpiece, Flynn stressed the need to do “an honest day’s work,” not take extended breaks, and not listen to complaints from “some of those bad apples who’ve been stirring things up.”
Tyler nodded, not really understanding what the man meant. Extended breaks?
“Anyway, we’re putting you back on a sanding machine. This time you’ll be the operator. Guy was doing it broke a couple of fingers the other day. So we figured you can fill in.”
Not what Tyler wanted, but, at least, he knew the drill. He wondered how the man he replaced broke his fingers. On the job? Hardly encouraging. And what about the reference to “bad apples?” Not a propitious beginning.
The foreman gestured toward a man, arms folded, slouching next to a sanding machine. “That’s Billy Hogan. He’ll be your helper; receiving frames coming out of the sander. Stacking them on pallets for delivery to the assembly guys. Same job you had last year.”
Hard-bitten, with slicked back dark hair, and acne-riddled skin, Hogan looked to be about twenty or so. He displayed no sign of friendship; none at all. Tyler marked him as someone it would be difficult to trust.
Following this introduction, Tyler took up his position behind the large sanding machine “Let’s do her,” he said. He hit the start button, and picked up the first frame. He placed it on the moving belt that fed into the machine and out the other side where Hogan fielded the frame and placed it on a pallet. One after another, Tyler lifted the frames and placed them on the moving belt. Periodically another worker came by with a pneumatic lift cart, retrieved loaded pallets, and trundled them away.
Tyler and Hogan worked steadily. The monotony and physical discomfort of the job reasserted itself. Tyler’s arms ached; his chest heaved; and his back hurt. He’d forgotten work gloves, and his hands soon became raw and sore. How, he wondered, had old Gus, his workmate the previous summer, done it all those years?
Tyler intended to get to know Hogan better over the lunch break. But the man took off. Already dog-tired, Tyler slumped to the floor next to the machine and retrieved a liverwurst sandwich from his lunch box. The maid who prepared it knew he didn’t like liverwurst. It seemed like a bad day getting worse.
~ ~ ~
A week had elapsed, and Tyler had adjusted to the work routine. Contrary to Tyler’s initial worry, Hogan performed well. He seemed sullen, however, and his spare comments signaled he’d rather be somewhere else. Or, perhaps more accurately, with someone else?
Taking his lunchbreak on the shipping dock overlooking the river, Tyler heard a voice. He glanced up and encountered a familiar face.
“Hi, Tyler. Remember me?”
“Sure. You’re Lenny Magnuson. You’re the guy last summer wanted to talk to me about books you were reading. Never heard back from you, though.”
“Yeah. I guess some of the guys thought I was getting out of my lane hanging around with a college boy like you. Anyway. I’m still here.”
Freckle-faced, crew-cut, bespectacled, and blue-eyed, Magnuson looked more like a student at the local high school than he did a third-year factory worker.
“You were nice to me. Didn’t look down on me, like the guys said you would.”
“Well, here we are again,” Tyler said. “Both of us people who like to read.”
Magnuson glanced around and then said, “Maybe I’m stepping out of line, Tyler, but I figured I should tell you the situation isn’t so good here.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s been complaining that because jobs are hard to come by the management is screwing us over. You’ll hear about it sooner or later. Word is around some people want to start a union.”
“I remember people complaining last summer. Just sounded like normal griping.” Hoping to avoid being drawn into a labor dispute, Tyler sought to remain neutral. In fact, however, over the previous summer Tyler had, in fact, substantial sympathy for the men he’d worked with.
“There’s more, Tyler. I should keep my trap shut, but word is you were given a job by the front office so you could spy on us.”
“What? Where in hell did that come from? I just got here.”
“Well there’s three or four guys and a few of their buddies been bitching ever since the company introduced new rules. They’re the ones talking about it.”
“What new rules?”
“Twelve-minute breaks, for one. Used to be fifteen.”
“Shaved off three minutes? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No more overtime. No pay raises. More time on the job before any profit-sharing. And if you show up ten minutes late for work, they’ll dock your pay.”
“Well, the economy isn’t good,” Tyler said. “Looks like they’re trying to run a tight ship.” But could petty rule changes really affect profitability? Yes, Tyler wanted to stay neutral, but it was hard.
“There’s other things people aren’t happy about. The toilets don’t get cleaned as often as they used to. Stuff like that. Nothing big, but there have been some on-the-job accidents.” It sounded like a catalogue of bad management practices.
“Seems to be good old-fashioned complaining to me,” Tyler said. “Anyway, I’m just here for the summer. Plan to do my job. That’s it.”
“Yeah. Okay for you, I guess. Like I said, some of the men think you are in with the bosses because your dad is some kind of a big shot. Anyway, just thought I’d give you a heads- up. See you around.”
Magnuson started to walk away, then turned. “My brother is over there in Vietnam. Is it true, Tyler, you can’t get drafted if you’re in school?”
Tyler nodded. “I have a student deferment.” He was opposed to the war. But he knew, for workers like Magnuson, that likely wasn’t enough to enough to fend off their resentment at his privilege.
“Sounds like you’ve got a good deal.” Magnuson headed into the factory.
What had all their talk been about, anyway? Tyler simply wanted to log in his time, satisfy his father, pick up some cash, and head back to school in the fall. But Magnuson’s warning stirred a frisson of unease. Could somebody really think he was an agent for the front office. Could they?
~ ~ ~
On Monday of the following week, a personnel clerk approached Tyler during one of those twelve-minute breaks (barely time for a trip to and from the toilet). “Quirk says for you to stop by the front office before you leave. Some forms to fill out.”
“What forms? Thought I did that.”
When Tyler showed up, Quirk waved him down the hall to Dornbusch’s office. “The boss wants to have a word with you.”
“About what?”
“Just go in. He’s waiting.”
The well-appointed office looked like something out of an upscale interior decorating magazine – paneled walls, thick carpeting, fine furniture, potted plants, and a view of the river through sparkling floor-length windows.
Dornbusch stepped around from behind his mahogany desk and gestured toward a pair of facing easy chairs. A man in his mid-fifties, he had on a light blue, cord suit. Horn-rimmed glasses, hair gone to gray, he looked much like his father, the company’s founder glowering down from a wall portrait. When Dornbusch lighted a cigarette, Tyler could not help but notice the man’s smoke-tarnished fingers. Plant regulations prohibited smoking, but Dornbusch was the boss.
“Well, Tyler, glad you could come by. We’ve had good reports on your work. Yes sir, good reports. You know it’s hard to find experienced summer help these days,” he said. “Hope everything is working out for you.” It struck Tyler that the man’s voice came laden with insincerity.
“Yes, sir. Doing fine.”
“I expect you are getting to know some of the men.”
Yes. Two or three from last summer. And two or three new ones. Kind of miss Gus, the old guy I worked with last year.”
“Well, he retired. Quite a few new employees. I imagine you are hearing a lot of what they have to say. About their work and such. It would be a big help if you could pass along some of what you pick up out there on the floor.”
“I’m not sure I understand, Mr. Dornbusch. Are you asking me to, well, monitor my fellow workers?”
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. Just kind of help the front office keep in touch with what people are thinking. There’s been talk of some kind of work stoppage. A slowdown. Just rumors, of course. Talk to Quirk or Flynn. Even to me directly. Door is always open to the son of my old friend. Would contribute to more efficient management.”
“I don’t feel like I could do that, Mr. Dornbusch. I’m just here for the summer. I want to do my job and earn a few dollars. I want to stay out of politics and stuff like that. Besides, I hear some of the men already think I’m too close to the front office.”
“Well, I, of course, understand. But hope you will give it some thought. More efficient production. Everybody wins.”
Tyler got up to leave. Why ask this from a short-timer like me? he wondered. He answered his own question. Expendable. That’s why. Was that the reason they’d hired him? Hard to believe. It gave them too much credit for foresight.
“Oh, by the way, Tyler, I understand you didn’t get in on our profit-sharing last summer.”
“I didn’t qualify.”
“Well, it seems there was a payroll error. So, I’ve authorized a check for $1,500. Hope you can use it for school.”
Dornbusch picked up an envelope from his desk.
Tyler studied the carpet, as if searching for patterns. “Thank you, sir. But I can’t take it. I wasn’t eligible for profit-sharing last summer. Wouldn’t be fair to the other temps.”
As Tyler departed the outer office suite, Quirk again mentioned the check.
Tyler declined for a second time and walked out to the lot. He did not like being co-opted by the front office (even though he thought some of the workers might be out of line). After this meeting, Tyler realized the notion of a plague on both your houses was untenable.
~ ~ ~
Back on the floor the next day, Tyler sensed workers had their doubts about him. The jovial back-slapping and good-will which characterized the end of the previous summer had evaporated. Some of the men he’d known averted their eyes when they met; others radiated overt hostility. Only two or three greeted him warmly. He’d come back for the second summer fully expecting to be recognized as “one of the guys.” It did not happen.
At the end of his second week’s Friday shift, he encountered a concrete manifestation of his co-workers’ attitude, or at least that of some of them. He retrieved a penciled note wedged under his windshield wiper. It read: “You got no dog in this fight. If you know what’s good for you, don’t come back.” He surveyed the lot as he crumpled the note. Could someone be watching him?
He’d not told his father about his meeting with the CEO. Now, driving home, he decided not to tell him about the note either. Why worry him? If Tyler performed his job, things would likely work out. When he found no more notes, it seemed he’d made the right choice. Work on the sanding machine proceeded smoothly. Hogan did his job and behaved in a civil, if not friendly, manner.
But Tyler had it wrong. Coming back from a quick break, he ran into Charlie Eubank. Charlie was a thirty-year-old sash assembler. He had thin lips, wet eyes, and hard-to-ignore protruding teeth. He wore a faded tee-shirt featuring the logo of a defunct rock band. He had on a backward-facing ball cap.
“Hi there, Tyler. See you’re still around.” The words came saturated with hostility.
“Yeah. I’m still here. Doing my job.”
“Seems you don’t get the message, college boy. We don’t like nobody taking jobs from those that need them.” He paused and narrowed his eyes. “And we don’t need no front office spies.”
“Look, pal. I’m only on for the summer. Not taking anybody’s job. And the only person I take orders from is my foreman.”
“Don’t think we don’t know you got this job because your old man is some big shot with a lot of pull. We give you a chance. Won’t be no more.”
“Oh, who says that?”
“You’ll find out.” Charlie launched a wad of chewing tobacco that splatted at Bentley’s feet and stalked away.
Later that day, Tyler discovered someone had let the air out of his right front tire. His dismissive attitude became an apprehensive one.
He found it ironic. Especially after the Dornbusch approach, he’d felt increasingly in sympathy with the workers. They were getting handled.
~ ~ ~
The run-in with Eubank served as a prelude for what came next, an encounter with the “leader” of the dissidents. Tyler had settled down on the loading dock to scarf up his lunch and get a breath of air. A short train had just rattled in to pick up a cargo of finished windows.
Unannounced, a man plunked down beside him.
“You’re Bentley. Right? I’m Sig Torgerson,” he said. “Lots of the men come to me with their problems. Been hearing about you. What I’m hearing isn’t good.” Tyler recognized Torgerson as one of the principle dissidents, probably the leader. They had not met before.
In his mid-thirties, a face like weathered wood, Torgerson was a big man, wide-shouldered, and tough looking. Curly black hair grown long, poked out from under a red bandana. His dark beard very much needed a trim. Bib overalls, rubber boots, and a John Deere cap identified him, in Tyler’s mind, as one of several farmers who doubled as workers at the plant. Word had it that, despite limited education, Torgerson possessed a lot of natural intelligence. People looked up to him.
“I’ve heard of you, too,” Tyler said.
“Just wanted to let you know some of the men think you’re reporting on us to the front office.”
“So I hear.”
“This dispute with the company ain’t really none of your business.”
“Well, you’ve got me wrong. Even if I was inclined to rat you out, which I’m not, I have no special information that would interest anybody.”
“Not the way I hear it. Word is that your old man is a buddy of the company boss.”
“He knows him, but he is no buddy. Whatever you hear is wrong. I just want to finish out the summer and be gone. By the way, for what it’s worth, I think the employees here have been getting screwed over by the company.”
The remark seemed to catch Torgerson off guard. “Sounds to me like you’re just trying to get in good with us,” he said.
“Think what you want. You’re wrong.”
Apparently unimpressed by Tyler’s defense, Torgerson rose to his feet, stared down at Tyler, and said, “Not all the men are as kind-hearted as me. Best for everybody if you just quit. Go somewhere else.” With those words, Torgerson rumbled back into the factory.
That night, depressed by all he’d experienced, Tyler told his dad he thought it best if he did what they wanted – quit his job. It would be easier for everybody involved. They could believe whatever they wanted. His father conceded it was a difficult situation, but left the decision strictly up to Tyler.
Tyler had decided to give up. But it didn’t play out as he anticipated. When he arrived at the plant the next morning for what he intended to be his last day, Lenny Magnuson greeted him getting out of his car. “Boy, have I got news for you.”
“Really? What’s up?”
“The CEO’s secretary, Jackie Peterson, has been singing like a little bird. Told her boyfriend in the shipping office that the boss had been up to no good.”
“That’s not hard to believe.”
“She says that note was on your car wasn’t put there by any of us. Boss had her write it. Said it was a joke.”
“Some joke. He must have been trying to turn me against the guys in the plant.”
“There’s more. She says that after you told the CEO to shove it, he planted the story you really were ratting people out. She knew it was a lie and wanted people to know the truth.
“Why? Why would he do that?”
Maybe he was just pissed off. Maybe he figured you’d still cooperate. Who knows?”
Whatever inclination Tyler might have felt to side with the company (which hadn’t been much to begin with) had long since dwindled to none. All that happened confirmed his earlier belief the front office had sought to use him. One thing seemed certain. Somehow he’d soon be gone. But not quite yet.
He wanted to let the men in the plant know he stood with them. He realized he was little more than a peripheral player, and they probably didn’t care. Nonetheless, he now identified with what was likely to be the losing side in the simmering labor dispute. It was, in Tyler’s view, the right side.
~ ~ ~
When Tyler headed out to the parking lot after work, Torgerson beckoned him over. “Sounds like we were wrong about you,” Torgerson said. “I figured you were just some smart-assed college kid. When we found out you’d had a meeting with the CEO, it just confirmed our suspicions. Then, Tyler, I heard about what Jackie Peterson says Dornbusch was up to. She says that even though you told him to shove it, Dornbusch let the word out you were on board with him. That you were tracking us.”
“Thanks, Torgerson. I know why you guys felt the way you did. I gotta tell you, I don’t like the way management is treating you. And I don’t like the way, they treated me, either. Hope you understand I’m with you - not them.”
“Yeah. Well, I figure we’re up against it. But we’re trying to get something done. Hope to shut down the lines for an hour or so next week. Maybe that’ll get their attention.”
“I heard you put together a manifesto citing things that need to be fixed.”
“Well, that’s a fancy term. It’s just a list. Says we’ll do a better job if they respond to some of our needs.”
Tyler rated their likelihood of success at zero. But he said, “You can count me in. I’m with you.”
“Thanks, Tyler, but you’ll just get in trouble.”
“Hey, I already am in trouble.”
“By the way, that old guy you worked with last year says you were kinda full of yourself. He also says you were a hard worker and figured you’d be on our side. Thought you’d like to know.”
“Good to hear. Gus taught me a lot.”
“Anyhow, wanted to let you know you’re square with us. Maybe we can get together for a brewski sometime. ”
“Yeah, we’re square. Good luck, next week.”
“It’s not a strike or anything. Just letting them know how we feel. Maybe even get some action. You’ll see us out by the front entrance. Aiming for Wednesday.”
Tyler knew they would fail. And he thought Torgerson knew it, as well. Their protest made no sense. Nonetheless, he made up his mind to be there with them.”
~ ~ ~
And then, like a harbinger of even more troubling developments, a day later, a fire broke out in the CEO’s office. Not a big fire, it was easily put out with an extinguisher. But acrid brown smoke drifted into the reception area. The boss had just gone out. Everyone knew he smoked. However, reluctant to attribute the fire to an unextinguished cigarette butt, the maintenance chief described it as a fire “of unknown origin.”
Of greater concern than the question of responsibility, Tyler realized, was the failure of the front office smoke detector to function. Workers had long complained about non-operational smoke detectors elsewhere in the plant. A blaze had been averted this time, Torgerson told other workers, Tyler among them. But who knew what might happen in the future?
“Kind of pushed us over the edge,” Torgerson said. “We have to have safe working conditions. That’s the law, isn’t it? Give us a break.”
In view of this latest development, Torgerson and other organizers concluded the time had come to move up the day of their protest. They now scheduled the demonstration and a reading of the petition for ten o’clock the next morning at the plant’s main entrance.
The event had been well-advertised. But a light rain began to fall, and organizers, already worried about turnout, experienced even greater concern. Intimidated, disinterested, or unhopeful, the great majority of the plant’s hundreds of workers chose not to show up.
Shortly before ten, Tyler shut down his sander and made his way to the front of the building. By ten after ten, only twenty or thirty workers, most of them not actually on duty anyway, had gathered. A pair of county deputy sheriffs leaned against their patrol car parked across the road. A local newspaper reporter tried to interview participants. Sigurd chatted with individuals, apparently hoping that with time more people would arrive. They didn’t. When Sigurd spotted Tyler, he raised a hand in welcome. “Okay, kid. Glad you’re with us. Your choice.”
Finally, Sigurd climbed the building’s front steps and began to speak to the small crowd. He was a big guy, a tough guy, but Tyler could see he was nervous. “We’ve come here this morning to call management’s attention to concerns we have about some of the rules and the work environment here in the plant. We figure, if management listens to us and makes some changes, we can do a better job. And everybody, including the company, will be better off.”
Hardly a catalogue of fiery demands, Torgerson’s remarks elicited a smattering of applause. The brief presentation that followed involved no assertion of labor rights. At best, Tyler thought, it came across as a simple appeal to reason.
Torgerson drew a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and began to enumerate what he called worker concerns (not demands).
“Twenty-minute breaks and thirty-five minutes for lunch; we’ll be better rested and more efficient.
Restoration of at least the possibility of limited overtime.
Limited profit-sharing for part-timers. Would be a big morale booster.”
Attention to sanitation. Fix the broken drinking fountains. And, honestly, the toilets and urinals stink.
A two percent wage increase. Especially, with the discontinuation of overtime. The cost of living keeps going up.
Maybe the biggest concern, more attention to safety. That fire in the front office the other day would have been caught right away with a working smoke detector. Pure luck somebody smelled the smoke.”
When Sigurd finished, there was another smattering of applause. “Fat chance,” someone yelled out.
Conscious of the disappointing turnout, several of those who did attend had already drifted away. Lasting no more than twenty minutes, the event had been a bust.
Bust or not, within an hour after the gathering, administrative staffers hand-delivered termination of employment notices to Torgerson and four other organizers. Tyler’s own role had been peripheral at best. Nonetheless, seemingly for good measure, he,too, received a notice. The directed fired employees to be off the property within an hour within an hour.
The personnel officer delivering the termination document to Tyler simply said, “you picked the wrong side, buddy.”
Their effort had failed to produce any positive result at all. Yet, in Tyler’s eyes, although foredoomed, the organizers had pursued a just cause, advocated with a large measure of dignity. Whatever reservations he’d had at the outset, he not only empathized with the men who challenged the management. He publicly identified with them, even though he realized such a posture challenged common sense. But it was the right one.
Five or six men, including Lenny Magnuson, came out to the parking area to see him off. “A lot of the boys appreciate the way you come down on our side. They figure it wasn’t easy, with your father’s connection and all. Just wanted to say thanks. Sigurd says thanks, too. He had to leave. Some kinda problem at the farm.”
“Keep reading,” Tyler said. He reached out and shook Lenny’s hand. He then shook hands with each of the others.
Tyler recalled that, when he left the summer before, old Gus, too, had shaken his hand. “Ya done good, Tyler,” he’d said. “Ya done good.” As he headed home, Tyler hoped he had done good again. He hoped his father would understand, even though Tyler had chosen the losing side.
