The Jig of the Union Loller

By Michael Burnham

loll v. lolled, lolling, lolls—intr. 1. To move, stand, or recline in an indolent or relaxed manner. 2. To hang or droop laxly. loller n.

That’s the dictionary definition. A loller is a shirker, a slacker, a goof-off, an idler, a goldbrick, a dirtball, a ne’er-do-well—all of which define Claude Amognes’s behavior quite nicely. He’s lazy and selfish; he gets into trouble taking short-cuts at work at the power company while depending on the union to bail him out; having got his job only because his father was the union president, he is never in danger of working himself to death—in fact, taking advantage of the sick-leave policy his father negotiated years ago, he has no difficulty in using the slightest indisposition to generate a week or two of sick leave where he can recover by fishing and boozing. So he’s a good-time Charlie who smokes and drinks too much and does as little work as necessary; but while all these things are true, he’s also a delightful character and fully human. He loves his daughter Jamie and in his own way also loves his long-suffering wife Joan. He alone makes reading this novel wonderful, rollicking fun. Years ago when he began his career with the electric company as a meter-reader, he’d been attacked by fleas in a basement and had to flee for his life, swatting and scratching up a storm. That incident had earned him the nickname “Bugsy” with his union brothers. Later after a scheme to get full disability and a comfortable annuity fell through when Mr. Schulke, his boss, had video proof he was faking his headaches, this traumatic attack of fleas comes in handy. Delightful in a Falstaffian way as Claude is, he is surrounded by dozens of other fully realized characters who add breadth and depth to this wonderful novel. At one point we even get the point of view of a trout! In short, The Jig of the Union Loller is a page-turner. It offers quite a picture of work in America along with much wit and wisdom about human behavior and the human condition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wessex Collective
• Release date: Aug 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301576500

Book preview

Chapter 1

Nick had jumped. The two men who’d seen him on the third floor knew it, and although they didn’t witness the final transaction, neither doubted that the Rhode Island Electric stores department had lost its second man in eighteen months.

The man in the blue cardigan stared at the closed door at the end of the empty hallway. The other man, the one with the rough complexion, tugged the cardigan.

Come on, John. We’ve got to tell someone.

The men rushed to their department and together whispered the news to the shop steward. The steward put a finger to his lips and pointed to the back exit. Not everyone in the department would take the news well.

The three men punched out for morning break, slipping their manila-colored cards into the time clock, waiting a beat while a set of red numbers thwacked onto the cards, and sliding the cards in the proper slots on the gray metal rack beside the clock. They walked along high shelves to an open door two pickup trucks wide. Once outside, they stood around a white bucket filled with sand.

Nick didn’t do it, the shop steward said. He’s still with us. I know he is.

We saw him, Scotty, the man with the rough complexion said. John and me. Nick was standing with Feeney outside the executive conference room. Wendell from meter reading came walking up, and Nick couldn’t look at him. He turned his face until Wendell passed.

Did he see you? Scotty said.

No, John said. He couldn’t. Bugsy and I were down near the safety office.

The three men looked to the ground. John slid his fists to his hips and kicked the toe of his workboot into the hard dirt. Scotty pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his flannel shirt, gave one to each of the other men, and lit his own with two firm drags before killing the flame. He exhaled a cloud of smoke as he returned the pack and lighter to his pocket.

Maybe he didn’t jump, Scotty said softly. Maybe we can still talk sense into him. Nothing frantic. Just talk, nice and calm, and hope he hears us. Before it’s too late.

It’s already too late, John said. But if it isn’t, who’s going to talk to him?

I’ll do it.

I don’t know, Bugsy, Scotty said. Maybe we better get Frank.

Me and Frank then.

Scotty ran a hand from his forehead through his thinning red hair and held the back of his neck for a second before looking up. All right, Bugsy. We’ve got the Baugh Street kids coming in for a tour, but once they’re gone let’s you and me get Frank and the three of us’ll talk to Nick.

John gave his dirt groove another hard kick. I know one thing, he said. As soon as Nick becomes management they’ll work him to death. They will. Then the first time he slows down they’ll get rid of him. I’ve seen it happen. We’ve got to make Nick understand that now, because once he’s gone, he’s the enemy.

He knows that, Scotty said. But these guys who skip, they get hypnotized by the money. It sounds like so much—wow, thirty bucks an hour when my last raise was from $24.30 an hour to $24.50. They don’t think, well now I have to become a professional nitpick, and now I have to work whatever overtime they dump on me, and now when there’s a problem with the boss it’s just me against him, nobody to back me up, just the guy making the rules against me. They don’t think of that stuff.

Again the three men gazed into the earth. Without speaking, John turned toward the steps leading to the company cafeteria. The other two continued to smoke. Five minutes later, Scotty dropped his cigarette into the bucket.

You coming, Bugsy?

Nah, I’m going to have another butt. Punch me in, will you?

Scotty nodded. Alone with his cigarette, the remaining man leaned against the brick building and daydreamed about Feeney daring to offer him a management position. As he invented the conversation, his face betrayed the speaker: a scowl when he listened to Feeney’s imaginary pitch, a smile when he heard himself tell Feeney to shove it. At last, he swayed himself upright, flicked his cigarette to the ground, and crushed it with the heel of his workboot.

That’s right Feeney, he said out loud. Me and the union, I’m in it and it’s in me. Stuff your promises up your ass, because I know your game, and I want nothing to do with you, not now, not ever. Claude Amognes ain’t no fucking traitor.

#

As Claude smoked his second cigarette, John reappeared from the cafeteria door, munching a candy bar as he approached. Claude pointed to a line of children coming over the crosswalk from Baugh Street Elementary. The children reached the near sidewalk, marched in double file along Rhode Island Electric’s black fence, and disappeared behind a stack of spooled wire and a small pyramid of new utility poles. They appeared again after rounding the corner onto Thompson Street, where their teacher stopped them in their rows. Claude and John saw the woman gesture toward the company, and then across the street to a three-level apartment house with a porch on each floor.

White dwellings lined the block along Thompson Street. Wheelless cars rested in the driveways of two apartment houses, and a neat array of hubcaps for sale adorned the driveway of a third. Tree roots pushed up the sidewalk in places but did not disturb the street itself. Everywhere hung laundry, from third-floor porches to backyard poles. Everywhere were chairs: on sidewalks, in front yards, on porches, driveways and a sprinkling of rooftops.

Near the corner of Thompson and Baugh, the teacher continued to teach. Once more she pointed to the company and then back to the apartment building.

Wonder what she’s telling ‘em, John said.

Kids, you want to get a job here, Claude said, so you can move out of here.

John nodded. They’re sweet. Those big smiles coming from under all those uneven bangs and grubby faces. Kinda breaks your heart. I’m glad we help them out.

You’re a sap, Claude said. And please, the company’s not doing this out of the kindness of their hearts. We wouldn’t know that school existed if there was nothing in it for us. Works out well that one of the guys on the utility commission has three kids there. We drop a few bills on the poor inner-city school, he looks the other way while our rate restructuring plan sails past the board. Nice arrangement.

Maybe, but it’s still good for the kids. You coming in?

Too nice out here.

What if the boss is back from his meeting?

Screw him, Claude said. Make the bastard drag me back inside if he wants me. But don’t sweat it, he ain’t back from his meeting yet. Besides, if you check my card, you’ll see I’m punched in. It’s all legit.

Claude smiled. John finished his candy bar and tossed the wrapper in the white bucket.

All right, Bugsy. See you in a few.

When he returned from break, Claude heard high-pitched squeals and with a hand over his eyes squinted into the dim interior of the building as if trying to make out the source.

Ready? Scotty said to the children. One, two, three...

Hi Bugsy, the children called. It’s about time you finished your break.

The school kids howled. Claude smiled, and walked toward Scotty.

Say hi to Miss Karakostas’s fourth grade class, Scotty said. Their principal couldn’t afford a real field trip, so they get a tour of Rhode Island Electric.

Better than some stuffy museum, Claude said. Come on, let’s race ‘em up the aisles, you know, get a little obstacle course going. I’ll put five bucks on the tall one.

Maybe another time. We’ve only got fifteen minutes until the teacher comes back and takes them to the yard for bucket rides.

A cheer went up from the class.

Who’s giving the rides? Claude said.

Derek and Leo, Scotty said. Medical took them out of the buckets, and Feeney has nothing else for them to do. The kids’ll get a kick out of it. First, though, we’re supposed to show them how our department works.

Let me join you, Claude said. I’ll learn ‘em stuff they’d never get in school.

That’s what I’m afraid of. But sure, come along.

Scotty led the group toward the front of the building and sat the children down.

We’re a stockroom, Scotty said. That means this is where we keep all the equipment needed to keep the electricity on in your house. When something breaks, or when someone’s building new houses that need electricity, our workers come here to get the things they need. Each day, our big yellow trucks drive in to drop off all the junk they’ve collected during the day. They drive right through one of these four big doors and park here, in what we call the loading bays. When we take all the junk they’ve collected, sometimes we throw it away, sometimes we put it back on one of those high shelves, and sometimes we chuck it in one of those bins over there to be recycled. How many of you recycle?

Every child raised a hand.

Good, Scotty said. Good. Once we’ve taken everything off the trucks, then we put on the trucks the things the crews will need for the next day’s job. It could be wire, or streetlights, or just about anything else that helps keep your lights on.

A thin, dark-haired boy turned to Claude. When can we ride the buckets? he said in a near-whisper.

Soon enough, spud, Claude said. But first you have to learn about the wonderful world of the stockroom.

Scotty walked to the edge of the loading dock and eased down to one knee. See this big piece of rubber? he said. It’s nailed right into the cement. That way the trucks can back all the way in without worrying about scratching the paint or denting the bumper. We have to climb on and off the trucks while we load them and unload them, so we don’t want them too far away or we’d have to jump to reach them, and this rubber lets them get in close.

A chubby blonde girl pointed to clear, foot-wide plastic strips hanging from the ceiling in the mouth of each bay. What are those? she said.

Claude hopped off the loading dock, landing without a stagger, and walked toward the strips. These keep the outside temperature from becoming the inside temperature when the steel doors are up, he said in a loud voice. They move apart easily when the trucks back in, and look, look over there on that wall. When it’s sunny with a bit of a breeze, they shoot colors onto everything that’s dark, which is just about the whole building, because those little windows way up near the roof don’t hardly let no light in at all, and because those light bulbs on the ceiling are what’s called energy-efficient bulbs, which means they don’t cost much to use but don’t light the place worth shit.

Claude shot a palm over his mouth as the children burst into giggles.

Poop, I mean. They don’t light the place worth poop. Unless it’s dark outside or the steel doors are down. Then you can kind of see in here.

Scotty started the group through the maze of floor-to-ceiling shelves, explaining what each shelf held and how it helped keep the state’s electricity on. The children remained quiet but started to fidget. Claude thought axes and giant snips might hold their attention better, but they didn’t, so when Scotty reached the spot where the department stored its forklifts, flatcarts, and dollies, and started in on the horsepower each vehicle could muster and the maximum load it could carry, Claude powered two flatcarts into the middle of the back aisle and gestured for the kids to climb on. They scrambled aboard. Scotty objected, but Claude told him to relax, he wouldn’t race them, he’d just show them how the things worked.

Now stay in the middle and don’t move, Claude said.

He twisted the handgrips like a biker revving his motorcycle engine, and the cart moved forward. Claude drove them toward the back door, wheeled them in a circle, and drove them back toward the group. When they arrived, Claude motioned for the children to sit tight, and when they did he brought a black lever down slowly and lifted the flatcart bed ten feet in the air. From over the sides of the raised bed beaming children waved to their classmates. After Claude lowered his group, Scotty gave the others the same ride in the second cart.

Can we go again? Claude’s group said. Take us up again.

Scotty vetoed the idea, noting they only had two minutes to finish the rest of the tour, which they could never do, meaning the children would be late for the bucket rides. Scotty hustled the class toward the center of the building, where Rhode Island Electric had erected four plasterboard walls and a ceiling. In the unpainted room were three desks, three file cabinets, and a sign reading Stores Department.

This is the office, Scotty said. This is where we get our paperwork done.

Claude leaned over to the tallest boy in the class. It’s where the big jerk hangs out, he said. You can tell he’s not here right now because he’s not yelling about something stupid.

A girl in pigtails interrupted Scotty. Where do those stairs go? she said.

Claude bent low and gathered the children around him. They go to the roof, he said. But if you look at the top, you’ll see a little platform.

The nest, Scotty said.

The nest, Claude said. If you’re sitting on the back of the platform, near the door, nobody down here can see you, so you can goof off all you want. But the boss don’t know about it, so don’t tell anyone, okay? It’ll be our little secret.

You’re not supposed to goof off, the pigtailed girl said.

You got a lot to learn, little wiseacre.

Scotty took over again and pointed to the ceiling, to a small cockpit suspended from two orange tracks on the roof, a metal floor beneath a tiny seat surrounded by black-knobbed levers and shifts. A safety bar ran three quarters of the way around the cockpit, and a safety harness dangled over the metal floor, its buckle reflecting incoming light from the bays. Scotty showed them a ladder on the back wall, which provided the only access, and told the children the crane took three full minutes to inch the 150 yards from the front of the department to the back. He told them the crane could lift up to ten tons, and showed them the different sized hooks and rigs that could be attached to the main lifting line. He also pointed to the yellow lights—like lights atop a tow truck—that twirled whenever Frank, the crane operator, sat in the cockpit.

Has anyone ever been crushed? the thin boy asked.

No, thank god, Scotty said, We’re very safe here. The lights twirl to let people know to be careful. We take every precaution to make sure nobody is injured, because you don’t want to wait until after an accident to start thinking about safety.

Ahem, Claude said from the back of the group. Scotty gave a shrug and a wrinkle of his face.

This is supposed to be educational, Claude said. Now children, we can’t lie to you, once in a while something falls off the hook and almost kills someone, but Frank has a horn he can use to warn people of stuff, and usually a good loud honk will get people scrambling from whatever it is is about to crunch them into a pancake. Most of the time, though, Frank just leans on the bar and does nothing, because the crane moves so slow on its tracks poor Frank would die if he had to haul his stomach up and down the ladder all day, but the good thing about that is Frank has a good view of the place, and does a good job of warning us with a quick blast of the horn whenever we need to look sharp for the boss.

As Claude spoke, a short man with oil-stained boots and a grease smudge on his cheek rounded the corner, his thick fingers holding an unopened can of soda.

Hey, everyone, Scotty said. We’re talking about Frank, and here he is. Kids, meet Frank Dombrowski.

Hi kids, Frank said. Nice to see ya.

You go up that ladder? the pigtailed girl said.

Just watch, little darling.

As Frank climbed the ladder, a voice called hello, and Scotty leaned into the office doorway to see a tall woman with long, dark hair standing opposite him in the office’s other doorway. The children ran to her.

Miss Karakostas, Miss Karakostas. Can we go on the bucket rides now?

She said yes, but first instructed the children to thank their tour guides, which they did. She herded them toward the door on the far side of the building, near the steps leading to the nest, and down the hall that would take them to the front parking lot. Claude and Scotty watched her backside as she went.

#

After the children left, everyone in the department gathered on the loading dock near a van delivering small boxes of office supplies and paper. Dave Darezzo, a short blond man who always wore a hockey jersey to work, sat on a forklift off to one side of the dock, hands folded behind his head and feet crossed on the lift’s black steering wheel. Warren Taylor, whose sandy hair was cut so unevenly everyone thought he trimmed it himself, leaned on an upright dolly. John Carrollton sat on a pile of boxes. Elton MacGibbon, a dark-haired, wiry man in his early fifties, reviewed a packing slip with the deliveryman. Although the van held nothing large, Frank started the crane toward the front of the building. Claude and Scotty joined the others.

Where’s Schulke? Warren asked Scotty.

At a meeting, Scotty said. Told me he’d be most of the morning.

Him and his meetings, Warren said. Useless A and Useless B.

John bit his nails, inspected the new shape, and bit some more. Warren stuck a pinky in his ear, pulled it out, stuck it in again, and twisted it around. Darezzo spat on the floor. All three looked up when Frank brought the crane overhead. Frank set the brake, leaned on the safety rail, and waved to the group below.

Darezzo sat up. Hey where’s Nick? he said. I haven’t seen him all morning.

Shit that’s right, Claude said. He turned and yelled toward the crane. Hey, Frank, I forgot to tell you. Nick’s interviewing with Feeney for a management spot. We need you to come with me and Scotty and talk to him.

Scotty rolled his eyes.

I didn’t know that, Elton said. He told you he’s going for a management spot?
No, me and John saw him with Feeney before break, Claude said.

Well I’ll have to have a talk with Mr. Dubois, Elton said. Give him a few things to think about.

No, we’re going to have a talk with him, Claude said. Me and Scotty and Frank. It’s already been decided.

Well I’m coming too.

Sorry, Elton my man, three’s company, four’s a crowd.

Four nothing, Frank said from the crane, I just got here and I’m not coming down. If Nick’s interviewing with Feeney, he could be in there all day. You guys take care of it without me.

With that, Scotty agreed to include Elton. Claude wheeled around without speaking and headed to the office, where he shuffled through a stack of work orders until he found one for equipment stored near the hallway leading to the overhead lines office. Claude plucked the work order from the pile, drove a forklift to the shelf containing the item, and sat.

Before long, Nick rounded the corner at the far end of the corridor. He struggled to undo a necktie, and when the knot popped loose he slid the tie from the collar of his mint-colored, short-sleeved dress shirt, crumpled it in one hand, and stuffed it into the front pocket of his blue chinos. The clumps made by his work boots echoed through the empty hall.

Whatcha got in your pocket there? Claude called.

Nick saw Claude on the forklift and stopped walking.

Looking pretty for Feeney? Claude said. So come on, how’d it go?

I was just listening.

Just listening, eh?

No concern of yours or anyone else’s. Just listening.

Me and the guys, we don’t want you even listening, Nick. Your union does a lot for you, and, damn it, we don’t like guys running around trying to stab us in the back and join management. It just ain’t good. We all got to stick together. You can’t waltz off on your brothers just because Feeney pretends to kiss your ass for a few minutes.

Thanks for the input, Bugsy. Fortunately I don’t make life decisions based on feedback from you.

Nick walked past Claude, and a few steps later arrived at the loading dock.

Hi scab, Darezzo said from his forklift.

Nick ignored him. The other members of the department gathered around. Claude pulled up in his forklift and joined the group.

Hey, Nick, Scotty said, does Feeney want you?

I don’t know, Nick said. I just went to listen.

If he gets you, he’s going to work you into the ground, Elton said. You might as well kiss time with your family good-bye.

Well, my family’s kind of the reason I went, Nick said.

How so? John said.

Nick shrugged. You know, Melissa’s a sophomore in high school, and we could use the extra money when she’s ready for college, and the wife and I, we aren’t too far from retirement age, and we were talking the other day about maybe it’d be nice if we could buy a place in Florida and not have to spend our retirement shoveling snow in New England. You know, move up a little.

The money’s not worth it, Elton said. It isn’t that much. It’s not going to send Melissa to Harvard or buy a palace on Miami Beach.

I don’t really want to discuss it any more.

Well you’re going to, Claude said. We don’t want management among us. Are you going to collect information for the next two weeks and then spill it to Feeney when he hires you? You think we’re stupid? If you’re a rat, say so, and we’ll put on our rodent gloves until you’re gone.

Nick snorted and shook his head. I knew this’d happen. Look, I’m no dupe for Feeney, or for Schulke, or for anyone, and I probably won’t even take the job if Feeney offers it to me. But as long as I’m in stores, I’m stuck. I make a decent living, sure, but I can never advance anywhere. I’m here until I retire, and then I have to live on a pension that isn’t even a full month’s pay. I hear what you’re saying about the money not being that much different between a stockman and a front-line supervisor, but don’t forget that there are other levels of supervisors. There’s coordinating supervisors, planners, department managers, and operations managers, and those guys make big bucks – I bet Feeney makes a hundred and fifty a year, easy. And remember, most of the supervisors around here are no spring chickens. They’re going to be retiring soon, and when they do the top brass will be looking to move front-line supervisors into the big chairs. Hey, I climbed poles for twelve years before I got hurt and wound up in stores. I can’t string wires any more, but I can supervise. I know the job.

Scab talk, Darezzo called from the forklift. Talking scab. Totally scabatious.

Now hold everything, Warren said. Let’s get one thing straight here.

Everyone froze. Even Frank in the crane leaned forward to hear.

Warren extended an index finger and waved it once across the entire group. A scab is someone who crosses a picket line and takes your job while you’re on strike. Nick’s not a scab. He’s a turncoat. Get the terminology right.

The group, save Nick, broke into laughter. Even the deliveryman chuckled, but then Frank’s horn sounded and all heads searched the perimeter for the boss, Tom Schulke, who emerged from the stacks near the meter reading hallway.

What’s going on here? Schulke said. This isn’t party time. Get this truck unloaded and get back to work. There are a million things to do.

Scotty and Elton returned to the packing slip and the others slowly dispersed.

Claude, Schulke said, I told you Tuesday to enter all the invoices into the computer so the vendors can get paid. They’re not done. You haven’t even started.

I’ve been busy.

Bullshit. Get going.

Claude stiffened to mock attention. Yes sir, Mr. Schulke sir! I know how vital they are to our mission, sir! I will enter these invoices as you have commanded, sir!

Claude saluted, put his toe behind his heel, turned military style, and marched away from the boss with a huge grin for the guys to see. With a clenched jaw the boss walked toward the bays. As the guys stifled their chuckles, Schulke jumped off the loading dock and disappeared around the corner.

Although he went to the office and typed the first invoice into the computer, Claude did not type a second. Instead, he rummaged through the morning paper until he found the sports section. He peeked toward the bays for a sign of Schulke. When he didn’t see one, he flipped a silent middle finger to the absent boss and headed for the bathroom.

#

After lunch, with Schulke back, Claude entered invoices into the computer. At 2:30, Claude turned his attention to stock orders for the line trucks pulling into the bays.

The first truck pulled into Claude’s assigned bay, and Dan Thompson, the junior member of the two-person crew, unloaded the scraps from the day’s work. Claude logged everything coming off the truck, then separated the trash from what might be reused. In another log, he described the reusable items and their condition and set them aside to be put back on the shelves. He next went through the trash pile and removed metal, porcelain, and other recyclable material, jotting each in a third log before dragging the new piles to the appropriate bins and tossing them in. The remaining refuse from Dan’s truck had no use whatsoever, but even garbage came with paperwork: the local trash-to-energy plant burned garbage to make cheap power, and paid Rhode Island Electric a small fee for each ton it hauled from its premises. Claude weighed the trash, recorded the figure in yet another log, and chucked it in the dumpster.

As Claude and Dan unloaded, Nate Coffey, the senior member of the crew, went to the overhead lines office, reported the work done that day, and picked up the crew’s next assignment. In the stores department, he met with Claude to review the materials needed. By now, Claude had gathered everything in the stock order and moved it to the bay.

Easy day Monday? Claude said.

You got it, Nate said. Set a few streetlights. Perfect way to start the week.

The men checked off the items as they were loaded onto the truck. The pile transferred, Dan and Nate climbed into the truck’s cab, gave a wave, and drove the big yellow beast with the smiling light bulb on its side to the company gas pumps for refueling. Once they filled it with gas and parked it, their weekend began.

Since no other trucks pulled in right away, Claude meandered to the far end of the department to check out the female meter readers as they came off the road. Before long he heard footsteps, and when Frank confirmed the source of the footsteps with a quick blow of the horn, Claude broke into a play-act, running his finger from left to right as he pretended to search a shelf for an item, pointing to a work order and shaking his head, and finishing by making a face of feigned frustration. It worked. The boss passed without comment.

Five minutes later, Claude again heard footsteps coming toward him, but this time there was no horn from Frank.

Bugsy, what the fuck is wrong with you? a tall man in a yellow hard hat holding two strips of wire said.

What do you mean, Jeff? Claude said.

I needed seven spools of 477. You loaded me with five of 477 and two of one-ought. Look at this, you idiot: One-ought is this really thin wire here, 477 is this half-inch thick wire here. See the difference? How could you not notice? If I’d strung one-ought from the Foster substation the damn shit would’ve melted the first time someone flipped a light switch.

Hey, Jeff, I’m really sorry, Claude said in a low voice.

Sorry is right, Jeff said. You’re a sorry motherfucker. You told me all seven of those spools were 477s. If you weren’t such a pussy, I’d kick your ass right here.

The printout must’ve been wrong. Sorry, man.

Stop saying you’re sorry, Jeff yelled. The printout wasn’t wrong. You got the wrong shit. Now get me two more 477s and put them by truck 317. Me and Junior have to fucking drive all the way to Foster on a Saturday for 45 minutes of work, because Feeney’s all over us. He wanted that damn substation online today.

Jeff slammed his work order for Monday on the floor by Claude’s feet and stormed off. Claude walked to truck 317.

Junior, hey man, I’m really sorry. Someone must’ve put one-oughts in the wrong place. Tell Jeff I’m sorry.

You could have screwed our production numbers, Junior said. I missed a goal last year and it lightened my bonus check about $500. Jeff’ll cool off, but you can’t keep doing this, man. It isn’t that hard. Make sure what’s on the sheet is on the truck.

Sorry man. Tell Jeff I’m sorry.

Claude ran his hand to the top of his head, then back down to the nape of his neck. Someone put one-oughts in the wrong place.

Just be more careful next time. Junior stepped from the truck to the dock. Let’s load this bugger and get the hell out of here. The Dub’s a-waiting.

Chapter 2

Most Fridays Claude’s post-work drinking began as soon as he could punch out and drive to the bar. This Friday, however, he swung by Central High School to watch his daughter Jamie, a junior at West High School, play softball. After fourteen games, Jamie had just three plate appearances and four mop-up innings in right field, but when the vice-principal hit West’s starting right fielder with a three-day suspension for smoking in the school parking lot, the coach told Jamie she’d be starting the second game of the doubleheader against Central.

Claude parked his red Chevy pickup truck and walked a short tree-lined path to the field, emerging just as West took the field for the bottom of the second inning. Claude found his wife, Joan, seated on the top row of a set of bleachers between the press box and the visitors’ bench. He climbed up and sat next to her.

Any score? he said.

Two to nothing, Joan said. Mr. Abeles kept us in a department meeting that went on forever, so I got here late. But I heard West won the first game.

Jamie done anything?

Nope. She was just about to bat, but her team made the third out. She ran over to get one ball, but it ended up being foul, I think. I don’t know, maybe it was a hit, but she didn’t do anything wrong. The coach didn’t yell at her.

In right field, Jamie chomped on a wad of gum but only blew bubbles between pitches. Her snug uniform —blue pants and a white top with red trim—showed the contours of her body: thin legs, narrow hips, b-cup breasts, slender arms. She pulled her cap lower to her eyes than the other girls, and unlike many of them let her shoulder-length hair fall as it may instead of tying it in a ponytail and pulling it through the hole above the hat’s adjustable strap. Although brown, her hair had natural blondish tints, and her eyebrows were blonder still. She had white skin, colored only by the blemishes she was prone to, and brown eyes. Jamie loved her eyes, loved looking into them in a mirror, but hated her chin, which she felt receded too far beneath her bottom teeth and didn’t match the rest of her skull.

As her pitcher delivered, Jamie rested her glove and her throwing hand on her knees. Between pitches, she stood upright, hanging her arms free as she blew a bubble or two. The first batter of the inning grounded out, but the next two singled to left to bring up Central’s leadoff hitter, a lefthanded blonde girl nearly six feet tall.

Jamie’s playing too shallow, Claude said.

So yell to her to move back, Joan said.

No. She’ll be mad.

The batter swung and lifted a lazy fly ball to right. Two small steps and Jamie stood beneath it, but instead of settling in her glove the ball hit the outside finger and caromed toward the foul line. Both baserunners scored, and the batter wound up on third when Jamie’s throw to second sailed into left field. The next batter struck out, but after that six Central hitters put up six straight hits – and scored five more runs —before a skinny sophomore tapped to first to end the inning.

When Jamie came in from the field, teammates Betty Allen and Lyndi Bayne met her near the coach’s box to console her about the muffed fly, but the public gesture didn’t dissuade some of the other West players from firing looks of disgust in Jamie’s direction. Jamie stuffed a helmet onto her head, windmilled a bat a few times, and stepped to the plate.

Leading off for West, the young man at the public address system announced, the right fielder, number two, Jamie A-mogg-knees.

Not A-mogg-knees, you idiot Claude yelled. "Amognes. Rhymes with alone."

Correction, the P.A. announcer said, "now batting for West, Jamie Amognes."

"Rhymes with let’s-see-if-she-can-atone," someone yelled from the far-side bleachers.

Jamie fouled to third, but later in the game dribbled a grounder past the second baseman for her first varsity hit.

After the game, won by Central in a rout, Jamie found her parents in the small crowd and gave each a hug.

Nice hit, Princess, Claude said.

Thanks, daddy, Jamie said. Come on, walk with me toward the bus.

I don’t see why you can’t just come home with us, Joan said.
Coach makes the rules, Jamie said.

She paused to put on her red windbreaker, then tucked her glove under her arm and started with her mother and father down the path.

Is the coach going to play you more now? Claude said.

I doubt it, Jamie said.

Why not?

Well, because Jenna’s coming back for the next game, and because I stink.

You don’t stink, Claude said.

Sure I do. But it’s ok. I don’t have to be a superstar to have fun. I like being on the team.

You know your coach’s uncle is a union brother of mine at Rhode Island Electric. I could have him put in a good word for you, maybe convince your coach you should be playing more, you know, maybe let her know that if she can find a few starts for you there might be something we could do for her in return.

Jamie laughed. What, like store huge items in the stockroom? Daddy, if I want to play more, all I have to do is practice and I’ll be good. But I don’t feel like doing softball drills twenty-four hours a day. I have a life. Besides, Allison got her father to speak to the coach about playing more, and we all think she’s a bitch because of it.

Jamie, Joan said, watch your language.

It’s true, Jamie said. Lyndi’s dad’s the chief of police, and she’s a benchwarmer just like me. We don’t care.

They arrived at the bus and Jamie climbed on.

See you tonight, Joan called.

See you tomorrow, Claude said.

As Jamie disappeared toward the back of the bus, Claude put a hand on his wife’s shoulder.

I’m going to the Dub, he said. Don’t wait up.

Chapter 3

To get to the Dublinner Inn, patrons had to park in the vacant lot next to Pablo’s XXX Video, cross the street, walk past the recently-defunct Li Phan’s Lucky Star Restaurant and the long-defunct El Salvador Laundromat, and take a left down three cement stairs to the bar’s front door. Above the stairs hung a sign, hand-painted four decades earlier by the original owner, repainted with spray cans two summers ago by members of the Diablos Por La Justicia gang. Together, the two paint jobs spelled Dublinner GrInnGo Go Fucking Home and featured a smiling leprechaun dressed in a green and gold suit with black horns and a large black penis.

The Dub had two televisions, one at each end of the bar, and a dart board. The local joke: darts sticking randomly from the walls, ceiling, bar, even the floor—everywhere except the dart board.

Aside from alcohol, the Dub sold peanuts and potato chips. Popcorn was free, and patrons were allowed to bring in pizza or hot wieners from the joint two doors down. Tall customers ducked to enter through the front door. The Dub had no windows, seven tables with seven seats at each table, and seven stools at the bar.

On the wall near the entrance, a white board proclaimed in magic marker If you’re not here to drink, get out, a motto conceived and written by Frank Dombrowski. In the lower right corner of the board, the bartenders kept a tally of women served since September 1, 1991: ninety-six. At one point, someone altered the corner to read women, blacks, hispanics, and asians served, leaving the tally at ninety-six, but Dub owners Ted and Maury, aware that a few of the regulars from the union at Rhode Island Electric were Black, Hispanic, or Asian, erased it quickly and made personal apologies to anyone who might have been offended. Though