Wire Wrap

By John Westling

Living in Surrey, British Columbia, Canada, JONN RICKARD is beginning to rebuild his life after his recent divorce from an alcoholic, First Nations woman. The year is 1968. Still a U.S. citizen, but retaining a work visa, he’s employed as a Manufacturing Engineer for a Canadian firm.
One night, entering a local bar, he witnesses a man who appears to be a logger, dragging Jonn’s drunken ex-wife out the back door, in an obvious attempt to rape her. When he attacks the logger, he’s met with a gun. In the ensuing fight, Jonn ends up taking possession of the gun, and in self-defense, shoots the logger dead. He’s arrested for manslaughter and jailed.
The sole survivor of a fatal police van crash, Jonn flees Canada and returns to San Diego, his former home. Finding a job with a San Diego firm called Di-Graphics, he starts life over again as a Plant Engineer, hoping the Canadian police won’t pursue him because they can’t identify which prisoner is missing.
Months later, Jonn transfers to the Manufacturing Engineering Department and begins working with a college friend NIL ERIKSON. Later, risking it all, they sell themselves as a package deal to a startup branch of Hunnibern, (a Minneapolis based corporation). The two embark on what seems like an impossible mission to start up a half-million square foot manufacturing plant from nothing, to full-scale production in nine months. Young, cocky, and brazen, the two work tirelessly, along with other engineers, overcoming seemingly impossible obstacles and delays.
After successfully meeting the challenge of the startup, each engineer guards his area of responsibility with pride while solving vexing manufacturing problems, dealing with human relationships, and refusing to bend to management whims. They are all irreverent, egotistical, and brilliant individuals.
Jonn falls in love with KAREN OLSON, the switchboard operator and lobby receptionist, only to find that she is married. Crushed and betrayed, he buries himself in his work to avoid the pain. He finds emotional satisfaction by helping several women regain control of their lives, sometimes bending the rule of law to protect them. His innate curiosity and ability to color outside the lines become his trademark, allowing him to find otherwise hidden ways to improve the manufacturing process, which ultimately govern his salary, and his future.
Immensely successful as an engineer, Jonn is promoted into his first supervisory slot, but stumbles, searching for his place between the highly technical manufacturing world and that of managing people. Reconciling his relationship with Karen after she files for divorce helps him find his footing again, giving him the courage to take care of some unfinished, and risky business. His actions will surely prevent another woman from being killed. Maybe more.
After five years of intense work, Hunnibern announces that the San Diego facility will be shut down over the next year, and the product transferred to Phoenix, Arizona. Not wanting to relocate to the hot hellhole, Jonn begins to find a way to stay in San Diego and keep Karen at his side.
Spooked by a newspaper article describing the pursuit by the Canadian RCMP looking for an escaped alleged killer thought to be in the San Diego area, Jonn quickly runs into trouble.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Westling
• Release date: Jan 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463547502

John Westling

About the AuthorA former surfer, with a Master’s Degree in Industrial Technology, John spent his creative years as an engineer, college electronic engineering instructor, and Luthier manufacturing musical instruments for musicians worldwide. John is now pursuing a writing career and has published several books including Counter Clockwise, and Wire Wrap. Now well into his next book, a fictional novel, writing appears to be John’s fourth career.

Book preview

Wire Wrap

A Jonn Rickard Novel

Copyright © 2020 by John Westling

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by any means, without permission from the author.

Contact: https://jwsixes.wixsite.com/website

Preface

Here’s your opportunity to live vicariously through the main character, Jonn Rickard. It’s an opportunity to witness and experience the very things you always wanted to tell your boss, people you disagreed with, and corporations in general. I hope Jonn Rickard will inspire you to believe in yourself, stand up for what’s right, and never give up. 

I have no idea who will read this novel. Still, I sincerely hope it will find its way into the lives of some factory workers, manufacturing engineers, managers, and students who may find some satisfaction in justice and leadership. 

Except for the deaths of two characters, this novel is loosely based on my personal experiences working for two corporations in San Diego. Would I do it again? Definitely. Especially if I were blessed with such wonderful mentors and a great working partner again. 

I sincerely hope parts of this novel will have a positive effect on the reader. 

John Westling

Chapter 1

Divine intervention might have started long before the crash. 

The explosion vaporizes the rain droplets on the front of the orange jumpsuit, forcing my lungs to collapse, momentarily singeing fourteen days of unshaven stubble. My incoherent mind is screaming, confused by the pain, the watery blackness… a synaptic firestorm. Run! Goddammit, run!... No identifiable body parts, no witnesses, no more van, no more jail — gone in a single flash of white light. 

The slightly borrowed ‘69 Barracuda eagerly consumes the dash-lined miles, in cadence with the distant sound of wipers… Dumb guy, dumb guy, dumb guy. Warm welcome heat begins to thaw frigid legs. A gift, conjured up by the big rumbling Hemi engine, delivered without permission from an untouched heater switch. 

Pain, grating raw nerves is receding, chased by aspirin snatched from my now abandoned and cold apartment. Cutting a path through the black, troubled night, fending off countless torrents of rain, the Barracuda reluctantly slows, nervously approaching the imposing Canadian border complex. 

Slowly… slowly advancing until the customs agent puts down a paperback, leaning toward the recently opened glass window. 

Driver’s license, please. The night I went to the bar for a beer, I left my driver’s license on the kitchen table… two weeks ago. Pulling out my wallet, I fish out the recovered license, handing it to him with authority.

What is your purpose for entering the United States? 

Going to Seattle to play a hockey game tomorrow night. Plausible deniability. He hasn’t attempted to write anything down, like my license number or ID number. 

Who’s your team? 

The Surrey Bandits. It’s an old guy’s league. We’re gonna play the Seattle Sounders. 

I played for a while until I broke a leg. 

Sorry to hear that. Who was your team? 

Vancouver Canucks. Western Hockey League. 

No shit? They’re a hell of a team! 

Yeah, it was fun while it lasted, but those days are long gone, eh? 

At least you still have your teeth! 

Reaching into his mouth, he pries loose the retainer, holding two front teeth, sporting a big toothless smile. 

Fistfight, or stick? 

Goalpost. 

Jesus, that must have hurt! 

Don’t know. The last thing I remember is waking up in the hospital drugged up with a bunch of wires in my mouth. 

You must be one tough son of a bitch! What happened with your leg? 

Skate got tangled up with another guy along the boards. Then, someone else took a cheap shot after the whistle blew and slammed me into the boards. I couldn’t stand. 

Shit, man, you aren’t going to show me your fake leg, are you? Still not writing. 

Nah. The docs saved it, but it was no good for skating anymore, so I retired. 

Well, I’m glad you’re still alive, man! 

Handing my license back, he says, Keep your head up, and beat the shit out of those Seattle bums for me, eh? Be on your way. Don’t want to be late, eh! 

Thanks. Enjoy the rest of your book. What’s the name of it? 

"Body Language. Talks about how the body speaks the truth unconsciously without our consent." 

Speaks the truth, eh? Think it works if you know the signs? 

Dunno yet. I’m only half-way through it. 

Well, enjoy it, eh? 

Misdirection… works every time. 

I watch carefully in the car mirror as I’m pulling away to see if he writes anything. Instead, as I hoped, he picks up his book and continues reading. I find it sad that a talented hockey player ends up in a dead-end job as a border agent. 

It’s then I fully realize how lucky I am. 

In the rainy night, I pass through Bellingham, Mount Vernon, Marysville, and Everett, almost without noticing.

The borrowed Plymouth runs like a precision clock, laying down the miles to the rhythm of the wipers. I’m focused on my next step toward becoming invisible.

Chapter 2

Exiting I5 into an industrial area, a mile from the Seattle train station, the impatient Barracuda pulls into the deserted dark parking lot at St Mary’s Church. The car stops quietly near a trash bin at the rear of the church. A black trash bag with wet clothes settles to the bin bottom, in a smelly corner, carefully covered with someone else’s white trash bags. 

Still at idle speed, the big muscle car parks for the final time in the back corner of the lot, fenced on two sides. The one-way conversation from the DJ on the radio announces the next tune. Take Five. Brubeck. My favorite tune. It would be a sacrilege to turn off the radio, especially in a church parking lot, for God’s sake. 

When it ends, the radio falls silent as I remove the key and get out again, this time for good. After wiping the surfaces free of fingerprints, doors are locked, and the keys find a temporary home in a warm pants pocket. 

Hesitating only for a moment, a half-mile distant, the thoroughly wiped keys find a new home in the trash bin at the side of a Pep Boys auto parts store. Manny, Moe, and Jack aren’t here yet, and the store is dark, offering willing shadows covering my detour. 

One way to Eugene, Oregon, please. The Amtrak ticket clerk remains impassive, poker-faced, as she slides the ticket and change across the counter. 

Approaching the coach door after crossing the northbound tracks, I wait as the black porter loads the gear bag and two hockey sticks into the compartment under the floor of the coach. Trudging up the steel steps, I find a seat by myself next to a window in the 4 a.m. vacant coach car. 

Before the train arrives in Eugene, the conductor passes through, collecting our tickets and announcing our arrival in five minutes. Exiting the train, I retrieve the bag and sticks from a different black porter and hand him a two-dollar tip. 

The station is old, built in 1906, the words cast in the bronze plaque bolted to the brick wall by the trackside door. 

After buying a ticket to L.A. on the Coast Starlight, I find my way around the corner to a mom and pop diner for a big breakfast. Seems like a week ago was my last meal. Jail food. 

A little lacking in proper nourishment. 

It’s a long haul to L.A. My mind wanders, hoping to ignore the boredom. My fish paper-wrapped cash is still in my bag. Thirty-thousand dollars U.S., by the last count. Ten in each package in large bills. Don’t have a credit card — on purpose. Nor a bank account. On the one hand, I didn’t trust Canadian banks to keep the money safe. 

On the other hand, it kept my alcoholic ex-wife from getting any more than a disdainful parting shot after the divorce was final in the Surrey courtroom. Thanks for fucking up our life! So far, I’ve never regretted the statement. It’ll be a long, long time before I’d even consider getting involved with a First Nations or Native American woman. The alcoholic trait. 

I never thought I’d be happy to see the smelly, shitty L.A. station where I’ve stopped several times over the years. I feel like I’ve been locked in a cage with wheels for the last twenty-four hours. 

Picking up my bag and sticks, I walk through a huge door opening into the crowded station. I get a ticket to San Diego on the Coast Starlight train route leaving in three hours. 

From suits to rags, all manner of normal-to-freakish humanity is here. In the bathroom, there’s a guy on the floor, passed out cold, with a needle still stuck in his arm. Space reeks of urine and day-old farts. What a fuckin’ zoo. I try to hold my breath to avoid any airborne diseases. 

The train is almost full, so I have no choice for a vacant seat. I find an open one next to a guy about my age, dressed in clean jeans and an Izod shirt with the crocodile embroidered on the chest. He’s wearing Blue Ribbon tennis shoes, sold by a company owned by some guys in Oregon, but made somewhere in Japan. At first glance, he looks reasonably normal. 

We pass the time talking about everything under the sun, except me. He works for a defense company called DiGraphics in San Diego, doing some manufacturing job in a department called Tube Plant. I tell him I’m looking for a job, and he says DiGraphics is hiring. 

When we arrive in San Diego, we exchange names and wish each other well. 

Taxi!... Aunt Emma’s Pancake House on El Cajon Boulevard, know where it is? 

Si. 

I order a big breakfast of eggs, a waffle, and a steaming cup of coffee. Everything is the same as I remembered, except for the waitress’ faces. 

Hunger satisfied, I head down the street to a used car lot, where, after a lot of bullshit and dickering, I buy a used Volkswagen Karmann Ghia in need of some bodywork.

I wanted a Karmann the first time I laid eyes on one. It’s a shitty factory green color, but that will change later after I invest in some Bondo. 

The Karmann, sounding, of all things, like a VW, wanders around my old college neighborhood, looking for an apartment rental sign. Finding one in front of a nice-looking two-story apartment building, I rap on the manager’s door.

A middle-aged blonde greets me with an accent just like my grandmother’s — Swedish. Cigarette smoke wafts out the door, wrapping around my neck, threatening to choke me. 

She shows me the only vacant apartment, downstairs, in the corner of the L-shaped pink stucco building. I fill out the requisite form without having to give her anything more truthful than my name, telling her I don’t have any references because I’ve been traveling around the U.S. for the last three years. No mention of Canada.

After all, it’s a college town, and the building owner is used to renters skipping out. We trade the first three month’s rent for the key, check the door to make sure the key works, and I get back in my car.

Now, I need to find a phone booth that actually has a phone book hanging inside. Finding one after several business-filled blocks, I look up an old college friend of mine, and dump in a quarter. 

Hello? 

Charlie, its Jonn Rickard, a voice from the past. 

Who the fuck is this? Charlie asks in his raspy smoker’s voice. 

Goddammit, Charlie, its Jonn Rickard, the guy that used to drive the car when you put wiretaps on people’s phone lines for those sleazy divorce lawyers. Remember? 

Oh yeah, now I remember! Where the fuck is you? 

A mile from your house. I need a credit card and driver’s license, but don’t use a name even close to mine. Use this one, and this address, giving him a plausible name and new address. 

Okay, gimme two days. Drive by the house and get ‘em out of the mailbox. And leave three hundred bucks in the empty envelope. 

Won’t the mail guy find it? 

As far as they know, a no-name person lives here and never gets any mail. 

Thanks, Charlie. I owe you. 

You owe me three hundred bucks. That’s it. End of story. Same deal. Don’t ever mention my name to anybody, or you’re dead. Click, followed by a dial tone. 

Charlie paid his way through college by becoming a master at fake ID’s and doing wiretaps. He paid me in cash after every night of driving the getaway car all over the county while he hooked up homemade wiretaps. The lawyer's stooge just needed to park near the address given to him, turn the shortwave radio to a certain channel and wait for the occupant to make or receive a call. The blackmail recordings will never make it into the courtroom. Sounds like he’s still paranoid. 

Two days later, I open a checking account at Bank of America with a new ID and credit card, with a balance of five hundred bucks. Now I have a little more credibility, although my true self is invisible for all practical purposes. 

Kinko’s, over by the college, has terminals for rent by the hour. I type up a resume, accounting for my education and my purported wandering for the last three years, carefully arranging the contents, so the job listings are from businesses not keeping employee records — places like burger stands, gas stations, and car washes.

Satisfied, I get fifteen copies made on nice paper, folded to fit in a matching envelope. It has a new address and phone number and my real name. I'm assuming any legitimate company will do a background check.

First one gets dropped off at the front desk at DiGraphics, handed to a stunning brunette receptionist named Jenny, the source of the Jungle Gardenia fragrance. I don’t bother to distribute any more. 

Even though my folks and brother live nearby in La Mesa, I’m in no frame of mind to see them again for a while, especially the old man. Instead, I spend time and money buying used furniture and a single bed for the apartment, along with a set of dishes, pots and pans, and utensils.

It reminds me of moving out of my parent’s house into my first apartment. It carried a certain sense of freedom and control then and does even more now. I’m essentially starting my life over, and I realize how depressing the thought is. Why couldn’t life just let me be successful? 

DiGraphics sends me a letter of interest, and two weeks later, I start my first day on the job working in Facilities Engineering. The fourteen, now outdated copies of my resume, fall reluctantly into the trash can in my apartment.

Chapter 3

Boom! ... A huge explosion slaps me in the back and deafens my ears, causing a careless glance back over my right shoulder. Boom! After banging my head and face with shock waves escaping from a second explosion, my body reacts by crashing against the partially open hallway door. 

What the hell was that? The blast confuses my mind. My hearing is half gone, and an overdose of adrenalin is forcing my heart rate through the roof. I have to loosen my stupid goddamn tie to breathe. 

Slowly, I gain some reasoning ability, leaning with my shoulder against the textured white hallway wall. Glass hits the floor, following metal of some kind. I see a billowing white puff of smoke emanating from two large canvas bags, upside down on a large steel rack along the edge of the hallway. 

My eyes don’t focus well yet, but see the blurry image of two white canvas bags, upside down and deflated, now hanging from a rack supporting four other fully inflated white bags, also upside down. 

Glass is all over the floor, crunching under polished leather-soled shoes. An odd smell hangs in the air. The cloud of acrid smoke below the deflated bags begins dissipating into nothingness. The plant is a workplace, for God's sake! This stuff isn't supposed to happen with people around, placing them in dangerous situations. 

The door at the opposite end of the room opens. Jerry, the guy I met on the train from L.A., bursts in with a shocked look on his face. 

You okay, Jonn? Jonn… isn’t that your name? 

Yeah. What the hell happened, Jerry? 

Looks like two of the tubes imploded. Happens every so often when the tubes are pumped out, sealed, then annealed. Sometimes the glass is defective and implodes. That's why we shroud them in heavy canvas bags. 

Being new on the job and unfamiliar with the process, I had wandered into what is termed the ‘tube plant’. An area where glass TV-sized cathode ray tubes are assembled with the electron guns that form the characters on the face of the tube, just like a television. Placed in big brick-lined electric ovens on a special support rack, heating them just short of glowing red. 

I was in the midst of measuring every wall divider and major feature of the entire building. I’m using the results to re-design the interior layout after I manage the moving of equipment to a new building in El Cajon, twenty miles away. Working late at night so I could have some peace, I don’t have time to be in a goddamn explosion. 

I’m sure somebody dropped the ball when my background checks either didn’t get full attention or never got any — another lucky roll of the dice. I knew we had military contracts, but I'm still unfamiliar with the scope of what DiGraphics does. Later, I learn the tubes are at the heart of the whole Navy ANEW submarine chasing system on P-3 Orion planes. They have some sort of patented internal steel mask allowing electrons to pass through to create alphanumeric characters on the screen at a very high speed. Wizard stuff...

When I applied for this job, I needed to qualify for a secret clearance to be able to work in this facility. 

Jerry reminds me the plant is a dangerous place to be, as the tubes are heated to a high temperature and evacuated with a liquid nitrogen vacuum pump, designed to pull every single air molecule from the inside of the tube before the final seal. 

A single worker named Bobby is the one that seals the new tube. I met Bobby while touring the plant with my boss, who told me on this tour Bobby has some sort of magical gift allowing him to heat the thin cherry red glass neck of the tube, then carefully pinch it off, thus sealing the fully evacuated tube. I guess if he fucks up, the tube leaks and sometimes implodes, even before it gets bagged. Seems Bobby is the only one with the skill and big enough balls to do this dangerous job. 

No shit, Sherlock, it is a dangerous place. I had missed all the warning signs placed above the entry doors. Jesus, I gotta learn to be more observant. A reminder of all the other things I can’t seem to get right in life. 

The rest of the evening requires tediously measuring every inch of the plant. I really hate doing these kinds of mind-numbing jobs. But what the hell, I'm getting engineers pay to do it, and it takes my mind off of the abrupt unwanted change in my life. It would be far easier if I had just died in the wreck.

Chapter 4

Six months later, on a lunch break from supervising the move of equipment to the new plant, I’m sitting at a table in a hamburger joint called Veronica's Buns, four blocks from the new DiGraphics plant. Veronica, the middle-aged owner, specializes in various recipes for the burger buns. Veronica has some very nice buns herself. I can’t imagine the sign outside is referring to hamburger buns.

The contents inside the baked buns are secondary to the enclosure. Some of them are really good. Jalapeño Sourdough is my choice today. The place is about half full of customers, and the air conditioner is going full blast — another blistering summer day in El Cajon. 

Veronica's is decorated with various fifties posters, neon signs, old license plates, and pictures of famous and not so famous people. Some signed with a pen. They’re all hanging on walls painted with a variety of pastel colors. The air inside the building smells like just-baked bread, reminding me I’m hungry as hell. 

Halfway through my burger and curly fries, the guy supervising manufacturing engineering at DiGraphics walks in and places his order, choosing a Sweet Potato bun. As he takes a seat near me, waiting for his order, he glances over in surprise and comes over to my table. 

Hey, Jonn, how's the move going? 

Hi, Bob. So far, so good. It looks like we might even finish on schedule. 

Been a hell of a move, but we sure needed the extra space. 

"How big a success do you expect the microfiche product to be?" 

Marketing reckons they can sell double the original estimate. If that happens, we can easily add a second and third shift. 

You still like the layout for the assembly lines we came up with? 

I think we need to make a more efficient way to move the reader from one station to the next. Possibly some sort of roller conveyor, or something. 

Then he asks, What are you gonna do when this move is all over? 

Probably keep movin' sticky-backed templates around for the rest of my life. Some issues need to get resolved in the downtown plant. Some tube plant engineers think they got shorted a few square feet in their new office layouts. Can't stand the idea of having less land than a subordinate. It's petty if you ask me. I doubt having more space will make them any more intelligent. I take another bite of my burger. 

"Yeah, I heard rumors. It's the ol'; my dick is bigger than your dick syndrome. Kind of stupid if you ask me." 

Continuing, he changes the subject and asks, Ever thought about switching over to manufacturing engineering? 

Actually, I have. My education was all about manufacturing engineering, even though it was called industrial technology, 

Bob continues, "The people we have supervising the microfiche reader production aren't the type that can find ways to improve production. They just don't have the background for it. What we need is some manufacturing engineers to take a good look at how we're doing the assembly, and research some equipment we could use to speed things up. I've heard about your background, and manufacturing engineering might be more interesting than pushing paper dollies around." 

Jeez, Bob, bend my arm a little more! said with a wry smile.

How soon would you need me? I’m hoping for some time to figure out my options. 

A month from now, we'll be balls-to-the-wall. Hopefully, the startup will go smooth. I could use at least one engineer at startup, in case it goes wrong. Simple stuff at first, like analyzing material handling, line stocking, line balancing, and quality control.

Shit, here we go again — trial by fire. I’ve never actually been a manufacturing engineer. I’m going to be scrambling to figure it out. 

So, we're talking a month from now? 

Yeah. I trust I can convince your boss that your talent would be better utilized on the production line, spoken as he looks to see if his order is ready. 

Thanks, Bob, I’m always up for a new challenge. It’s only a half-true lie. I’m not sure I can figure it all out fast enough before I’d be exposed as incompetent and get my ass fired. As far as talent is concerned, I suspect he’s seriously ill-informed about me. 

Veronica calls Bob's order number, and he retrieves his Sweet Potato bun concoction. Gross-a-Mundo! Not something I'd order! 

We manage to solve most of the world's problems over lunch and walk back to DiGraphics in the summer heat, wanting to take a nap rather than get back to business. 

The next day my boss, Roy, manager of facilities engineering, informs me Bob has called him. Agreeing with Bob, Roy congratulates me and tells me how much he appreciated my work for him. What a good boss is supposed to do, encourage you to do better, and help you on your way, not throw up roadblocks because he thinks he’s being abandoned.

I agree to keep supervising the move to El Cajon for the next thirty days, or until it's complete. He's been a good boss, but I won’t be a bit sad when I can stop dealing with prima-fuckin-donna personalities like I found downtown. If this works out, the change will give me a new start. I might get in control of my future. A desperate thought if there ever was one.

Chapter 5

I’ve officially been a manufacturing engineer for six months now. Nil Erickson and I have been working together, supporting the production line for microfiche readers. I met Nil in college during a class with Oliver Galreath in Production Management at San Diego State. 

A shouting match erupts on my way to the paint shop. I see Miss Judy, our engineering assistant, hands on her hips, standing in front of Jimmie Taranti, a production line supervisor. 

Several weeks ago, Nil and I asked Judy to follow the trail of a critical part that sets the focus on the microfiche reader lens. Assemblers have had a lot of trouble with this part not fitting correctly during the assembly process. It’s killing the production schedule. 

Judy found what we had suspected. Only ten percent of them were inspected in any incoming batch from the vendor. Nil and I previously sent a production line directive to Jimmies' area, telling Jimmie not to use any of these parts unless they had a QC stamp on them. We also directed QC to do a one hundred percent inspection on this part until the vendor starts delivering reliable parts. Instead, when a bad part didn’t fit, Jimmie got another one from inventory that fit better instead of returning them to the vendor. He was throwing the bad parts in the dumpster. The inventory ran out regularly. The head of manufacturing is furious. 

In her usual diligent manner, Miss Judy had followed up, even talking to the operators assembling the reader with this part. 

It was no surprise the shit hit the fan today. 

Judy towers over Jimmie, which I’m sure really pisses Jimmy off. 

"Jimmie, goddamn it, you were directed not to use the bad parts. You're fucking up the whole inventory system." She moves closer. 

Bullshit, Judy, get the hell out of my area. I'm in charge here, not you! He backs up. 

"Fuck you, Jimmy. Follow the rules for once, will you please?" Her cheeks are bright red. 

I could see Judy had, once again, pushed somebody's button with her confrontational style, and this will certainly escalate. If you crossed her personally, she'd kick your dick into the dirt, and you'd never find it. No thanks… 

Approaching them, holding my hand up, I suggest a time out. Judy gives me a sideways glance, then refocuses her blazing eyes on Jimmie. They stop yelling for a moment, and I jump in. 

Judy, I understand your frustration, but I'd suggest we talk about this in the office. I'll see you there in a minute. 

She gives me a killer look, but leaves out the fuck you part, and walks away… still in a huff.  How the hell am I going to get Judy calmed down this time? 

I notice a few of the women on the U-shaped assembly line are smirking. 

Word is they don't like Jimmie very much. He's a slave driver, as well as being chauvinistic. Some don’t like him a lot. They're enjoying listening to him being thrashed. A short Italian guy, being dressed down by a tall young woman. They’d stand up and applaud if Judy slugged Jimmy in the nose. Perfect! 

Jimmie, why do you insist on screwing up the inventory? The directive we gave you means what it says. No goddamn parts without a QC stamp! Unless you cooperate, it won’t work. That's all Judy is asking for. I’m choosing to be polite rather than kick his stubborn ass. 

Well, she sure has a shitty way of asking! 

Jimmie, she’s still a little immature, but she's trying to change. Ain't the first lie I told today. 

I gotta keep this line moving, and I can't waste my time with bad parts. 

I hear that, but there's a system in place to prevent this. Only use the parts stamped by QC. What’s so hard about that? 

Then, why the hell do I get parts that aren't inspected in the first place? 

Good point. We need to talk to the guys in Production Control and find out why they're stocking bad parts. 

Okay, Jimmie, I'll get it corrected. I'll have a little chat with Judy, too. Another white lie. Judy’s waiting to have a little chat with me! 

Okay, but do it soon. I can't be dealing with this shit all the time. 

He's still pissed, especially at Miss Judy. 

Back in the office, I find Judy at her desk, still a red-faced. Now I’m going to catch hell, for sure. She’s rocking a pencil between her fingers — not a good sign. 

Goddammit, Jonn, don't give me another fucking lecture. Jimmie’s wrong, and he knows it. If the dumb shit followed the directive, he wouldn't have fucking line problems. 

"Judy, it's more complicated than that. After you cool down, go see Don in Production Control. How are they managing to re-stock the line with parts that aren't stamped by QC? That's where the problem really begins. Follow the trail." 

Are you sure it's a PC problem? 

Pretty sure, but I want you to find the problem. See Roger in QC, too. it's possible someone isn't doing the one hundred percent inspection like they're supposed to. 

Probably another fuckin' dumb ass new-hire. Where do they get these idiots? 

Judy, take a deep breath and calm down a little. We need to fix it. It’s costing us a fortune. 

Later, I found out Miss Judy was exactly goddamn right. The problem was with a new-hire in QC who was never given the change in procedure to do a one-hundred percent inspection on the suspect part. 

What’s the vendors' address, Judy? 

It’s right here. Turn right. 

When we go inside, don’t get in his face, okay? Let’s see what he has to say first. 

What’s he going to say? Sorry ‘bout that? C’mon, Jonn, get real! 

Would you rather stay in the car? Maybe you should. 

Hell no. We should just cut this guy off. I want to hear his excuse. 

I took a big chance here, thinking it would be a good education. 

We’re here to find out why parts from your shop don’t meet the specs. I begin. 

If they don’t meet the specs, then why aren’t they kicked back? Don’t you inspect them?

Judy interrupts. That’s not the goddam point. You’re sending us shit! 

It ain’t shit until you can show me what’s wrong. 

Judy’s been tracing your parts in our plant. Only ten percent have been checked in the past. Now it’s going to be one-hundred percent. You’ll get the bad ones back in the future. I say. 

You even inspect them before you deliver them? Judy asks. 

Ten percent. 

Shit, I knew it. The other ninety percent of your parts are junk. You might try one-hundred percent if you want our goddamn business! 

Judy has a point. Parts shouldn’t leave here with defects.  Can we count on you to deliver? 

Of course, but as I told you, if I don’t see them, how do I know they’re defective? 

Point taken, I reply. 

Judy’s still fuming as we return to work. 

Judy, I asked you not to get in his face, didn’t I? 

I didn’t! Gimme a break, Jonn! 

"Would you call you’re sending us shit, a compliment? Stop antagonizing people you don’t agree with. If you don’t, you’re going to get your ass fired!" 

As long as it’s just my ass, I don’t give a shit. The rest of me will still be around.

You’d look strange walking around without an ass, Judy. 

Let’s leave my ass out of it, okay. I like my ass, you guys like my ass, so leave it at that. Jesus, Jonn! 

Deal. 

My fired ass will be home tonight, Jonn. See you around seven…?

Now I remember why shrinks coined the phrase, bipolar! 

Nil isn't back from a doctor’s appointment yet, so I dine at the Roach Coach parked in the front parking lot at DiGraphics. Not exactly cuisine food. It's summer, and the heat shimmers off the cracked, weed-filled parking lot. I start to sweat as my skin warms up from the cold air conditioning inside the building.

Chapter 6

Jonn Rickard, line three. 

I'm always amazed that somehow, out of the din of a manufacturing plant, my brain hears my name and ignores all the other diverse names announced by the switchboard operator multiple times throughout the day. 

Making my way back to my scratched and dented generic green desk, arranged geometrically with ten others, I'm wondering who's calling me. I'm not expecting anyone in particular. Worst case is it's my landlord announcing that my apartment is on fire. 

Pressing the flashing white square, number 3 button on the large black, multi-line office phone keypad, the connection to the waiting call completes silently, and I hear a muted humming, to which I respond, Hi, this is Jonn. 

Hi Jonn, it’s Ollie Galreath. My memory goes into overdrive. 

I’ll be damned if it isn’t my favorite college professor and my master’s thesis advisor, Dr. Oliver Galreath, a professor in the school of business at San Diego State. We haven’t talked for two years since I graduated. I’ve been busy with my first jobs out of college, finding my way in the real world. 

Hey, Dr. Galreath, what a great surprise! Nice to hear from you. How did you manage to find me? What’s up? I have my sources. I have a potential deal for you. Hunnibern is opening a new plant here in San Diego, and they’re looking for manufacturing engineers. My source tells me the pay should be good. Are you interested? 

Yeah, how many are they looking for, and where are they?

What a break this might be. 

Possibly five, or so. Hunnibern bought out a company making analog voltmeters. They bought it just to get the building. It's in Kearny Mesa on Balboa Avenue, next to the airport at Montgomery field.

Sure, I'd be very interested in connecting with them. I’m curious, where did you get this lead? 

I have lots of headhunter contacts in San Diego. They're always looking for guys like you coming out of our business program. I'll call you tomorrow and tell you when the interview is set up. Make sure your resume is up to date and drop a copy off at their building before they close today. It's at 2130 Balboa Avenue. See ya. 

Thanks, Dr. Galreath, I really appreciate it. We need to get together for lunch soon. Talk to you a bit later. 

As I replace the handset in its cradle, breaking the connection, I'm suddenly re-energized. 

There’s instant credibility in his call. Ollie Galreath is one of the brightest, most knowledgeable professors I’ve had. My class with him was Production Management, taken in the last year of my Master’s program. It was not part of the Manufacturing Technology program, but at the time, I thought I'd better pack in some business sense. I had also heard he was brilliant. 

I had struggled mostly with math in his course. Had it not been for his also-brilliant graduate assistant, Earl, I would have failed for sure. Earl could quickly show me how the math worked and how to apply it in practical terms. Math has always been my Achilles heel. 

I can still remember the final exam, which was just a single question... and one that mortified a student if they didn't catch on to what Ollie wanted to read in the blue test book. A hospital has just hired you. Your job is to make the hospital run more efficiently and make more money. How would you do it?

My feeble mind scrambled to sort it all out. What the hell does a hospital have to do with production management? They don't make anything. As I sit there contemplating a sure-fire F in the course, it occurs to me Ollie wouldn't present this problem without good reason. But what the hell is the reason? 

Remembering back over the course, it was all about using various analytical tools to study the supply logistics, efficiency measurement, return on investment for equipment, and profitability. Suddenly, I see the reason. The hospital was a clever ruse, intended to throw us off course.

Okay, Ollie, you're pushing me to the limit here, but I've got your number. Just apply each and every tool we learned and show how it will improve the hospital. I came prepared with three blue books, bought at the bookstore on campus. The blue books actually have a blue cover with printed information on the front, where you fill in your name and course number. Inside are sixteen pages of wide-lined notebook paper, blank, waiting for your brilliant written answers. 

It took me the entire two-hour allocated time to fill the three test blue books. Just before the bell, I turned in my handwritten work to Ollie, who's sitting on top of the desk in front of the class, brown loafer shoes off, shirt sleeves rolled up, and smoking his pipe. 

He's reading a book, the title unknown to any of us. 

I'm feeling