Baby Bones. Donan Ph.D. Berg
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in health insurance, increased back-breaking productivity standards worthy of slaves, and for a few of us with double-decade seniority, a lousy twenty-five cents an hour increase.”
An approving murmur swept past Noel.
“You can’t feed a family with a quarter. Voted Sunday we strike. Today, I say let’s do it.”
Repeated chants of strike, strike, strike reverberated from the hall’s ceiling and walls encouraged by uplifted hand waves by both men. Noel never heard either Bill or Bob so enraged. Before today, Bob spoke of caution and patience, not radical strike action. Bob’s cracking voice parroted the smoldering anger Noel overheard before the meeting from smokers lined up outside the entrance cursing and berating Dino’s inaction. At the podium, Noel’s friend, Union President Vikolas, appointed the union’s chief negotiator, twice raised backhand to wipe a furrowed brow. Noel dismissed lunchroom rumblings of a fomenting covert drive to unseat Dino. Three years ago after a university scholarship denial, Dino helped Noel obtain the present warehouse job.
“Guys, guys, calm down,” Dino urged. “We’ll get nowhere shouting. I’m as fed up with the company as you all are. Un-channeled emotion only hurts us.”
McNamar turned on his heel to stare down Dino. “Like hell.” His retort darted through the silence aimed at Dino’s head. “Hell, you’ve been saying that for months. Be a leader; be a man. We won’t get anything unless we strike.”
Renewed strike chants invaded Noel’s ears, faded like mountain echoes. He heard a louder McNamar. “Strike’s all that management understands, responds to.”
A voice behind Noel yelled, “You tell’em, Bill.”
McNamar flashed thumbs up on a raised, extended right hand. “They think.” McNamar gulped; hairy backhand wiped a turned-head mouth. “They think they can wait us out, appeal to our spouse’s fears. Look at the letter the cowards mailed to our homes?”
McNamar held a white paper sheet high above head and with two hands tore it in half, then in two again. The tossed pieces fluttered to the floor accompanied by strike-strike-strike chants. McNamar’s outstretched palms-down gesturing hands signaled for quiet. “This is a strong union community. Stores can’t exist without food. We’ll follow every damn truck; picket every receiving dock. Isn’t that right, guys?” Upward-turned palms encouraged vocal member response.
A thunderous wave of union member applause rolled back to front. Noel rose after adjacent union members stared. He clapped to support McNamar, sidestepping left to hide behind broad plaid-shirted shoulders that blocked Dino’s direct visual. Dino’s gavel rapped the podium. Members slumped into chairs, Noel faster than most.
After a throat clearing, Dino glared at the standing McNamara. “Bill, even if everyone agreed with you, we still don’t have a member majority present tonight.”
Noel, not well versed in union rules or its constitution, wondered if Dino’s comment overrode the Sunday vote making his words to Melanie a lie. He cringed at how she’d react.
“Doesn’t matter,” McNamar bellowed, chest expanding. “Our rules provide that a present and voting majority determines a strike vote. I read the meeting notice posted an entire week in the warehouse. It clearly stated a strike vote would be on Sunday’s agenda and we voted strike.”
Noel lowered gaze, away from Dino. McNamar sounded confident, rules savvy.
“We can’t go backward.” McNamar faced the members. Rhythmic supportive clapping gained volume until Noel’s hand flesh made contact without emitting sound. McNamar yelled, “I say we set a strike date tonight. Call a vote.”
All sixty in attendance, a fraction of the two hundred and thirty five Jove Foods main warehouse bargaining unit members, stood at McNamar’s urging to shout: “date, date, date.” Noel felt overwhelmed, uncertain. Dino glanced to the four executive committee members seated equally to his left and right. Noel exhaled when Dino’s twice rapped gavel restored quiet.
“The executive committee will caucus in my office. Hang loose a few minutes.”
McNamar prevented Noel’s chair-row escape. “We can count on you, right?” Steel-gray narrowed eyes surrounded by leathery brown skin bore into Noel.
“Yeah.” Noel gazed at the floor, brain-calming desire to flee.
“Good.” McNamar advanced man-to-man in adjacent row asking the same question of all.
Noel didn’t fathom what he’d gotten himself into. He needed this job to build university tuition savings. If daily living expenses siphoned off the $1,500 balance, a cherished dream of teaching high school drama further postponed. Dino said he’d be eligible for sixty-five dollar strike benefit if performing picket duty, which left weekly three hundred and thirty five dollar shortfall.
Noel pressed the meeting room’s wall-mounted water fountain button. He believed Dino and the executive committee delayed an exceptionally long time to agree on a strike date. The water spray splashed bent forward left cheek before he gulped a cool mouthful.
A hush descended like a flapped tablecloth floating to cover a restaurant table. He turned. The executive committee filed in to retake their seats. Dino, with gavel raised, stood at the table’s podium. Noel, from the fountain, stared, and strained to listen as Dino began.
“The executive committee agreed to a final negotiation session tomorrow night.” Boos drowned out his next words. Dino raised the gavel. “If no tentative agreement, we strike Monday.”
Claps and chants flooded the room. “Strike Monday ... strike Monday ... strike Monday.”
McNamar hustled front and center with flapping hands signaling for quiet.
“There’s a picket line schedule on the table,” Dino called out. “Volunteer before you leave.”
Noel, elbowed forward, wrote name under sheet column for Monday morning picket duty.
* * *
Jonas, at sister’s kitchen table, allowed fresh-brewed coffee to tickle throat as he rubbed drowsy eyes. He appreciated slow-moving mornings giving him grateful pause for his sister’s two years of hospitality; temporary, he kidded himself, when first he agreed. A town sheriff image and stronger grip on Kanosh’s pulse rated higher then living at parent’s farm twenty miles out.
Sister Luann and brother-in-law Robbie had purchased the Kanosh house four years ago when Robbie, at age forty, retired after twenty years in the U. S. Army. He hiked and boated a time or two with Robbie, her second Army husband. Luann’s twelve-year-old son, Ethan, lived with father and first husband, Ken, since age eight. Jonas didn’t understand how a parent could give up a biological child, but he’d never been divorced or paced a hospital corridor as an expectant dad.
Bored by civilian life, Robbie changed inactive Army Reserve status to active. Jonas listened to the upstairs master bedroom shower water drain through a kitchen wall pipe. He assumed Luann had returned from daily early morning neighborhood jog. Clogs thudded on wooden stair treads.
“You’re up early,” Luann said, feet planted in the kitchen doorway. Below wet black hair peeking out from scarf, a carnation flowered silk robe touched the floor. “Big day?”
“Biggest thing planned is a truck oil change.” Jonas stirred and sipped the half-mug of lukewarm instant coffee. Luann would brew favored peppermint herbal tea.
“Thought you planned to trade in that clunker after all those campaign miles driven.”
“Consider it a good luck charm.” He winked. An Elmer Fudd decaled mug clinked a saucer.
She opened kitchen cabinet. “Where’s Webster? He didn’t wake me scratching the door.”
While Luann often complained about Webster, he perceived she’d grown closer to him in the four months since Robbie’s called up reserve unit departed for Iraq duty. Luann cried on Jonas’s shoulder beneath his stoic expression when Robbie