Jason son of jason, p.2
The Land of Plenty, page 2
This film of smoke covered the sky. The factory was a good mile from town and there were no lights on the tideflat. There were a few lights marking the ship channels in the harbor, and the reflection of the lights over the main streets of the town, but that was all. Once the tideflat around the factory had been a marsh, until bulkheads had been built around it and mud from the bottom of the harbor pumped in behind the bulkheads. Gradually the tideflat had been drained and packed, and as the bunch grass and bulrushes had taken root in it, and the scrub willows that grew beside the drainage canals had spread, a small prairie had formed around the factory. Only one road connected it with the highway, and a spur with the main line of the railroad. There were a few empty freight cars on the siding, and a few automobiles huddled in the parking space at the entrance of the factory.
All the way across the tideflat and across town there was felt an accident at the power house. One of the men moving behind the switchboard, for some reason that was never known, brushed against the deadly wires and in an instant half the town was dark. The street cars ran blindly for a few feet and stopped; the people looked toward their companions who had so suddenly become invisible. In the houses the darkness settled like a weight. At the factory the very nerves and muscles of the machines were cut, the motors began whining down to silence, the men moved automatically to press the control buttons. Thousands of great and small precautions were taken, thousands of dangers avoided, casually, as part of the moment’s work, and then the men settled themselves to wait. The crew on the presses worked feverishly in the dark trying to save the doors that were partly finished. The electricians hurried through the building, trying to find the break; in the fireroom the fireman cut the steam that was going to the kilns. In the factory a man climbed under the roof, feeling his way up a ladder that seemed to lean outwards, crawled over a shaky plank bridge to set a valve, finding it by burning his hands along the pipe. And out at the head end of the mill, where the logs were lifted from the steam vats, a man was hurt when the hoist that lifted the logs suddenly stopped.
The factory was a large rectangular building with a long peninsula thrust out from it, to the edge of the water, like the handle of a frying pan. The long peninsula was a relic of its early days, when the logs had been moved in from the vats on trucks that ran on a narrow-gauge track. The logs were sawed into lengths while they still floated in the water of an inlet, lifted into vats and steamed for two days under pressure. Then they were taken into the mill through the long corridor that thrust out from the factory, washed and cleaned and peeled into veneer; moving on, then, through the complicated processes that transformed them into doors and desks, into panels for walls and furniture.
The man who was hurt worked at the far end of the peninsula, where he was running the hoist that lifted the logs into the factory. He was a new man and, since he worked off by himself and the accident happened swiftly and silently, it was a long time before anyone found him. When the lights went out the log had lifted enough to be free to swing. It was a large log, six feet through and nine feet long, the butt log of an enormous fir. It lifted very slowly, for the motor of the hoist was geared down to give it greater power. There was a strained singing sound from the motor as the cable tightened and the hooks buried themselves in the wood at each end of the log, and the sap and water spurted out around the hooks as they sank into the wood. Then the log stirred in the shadow of its own steam, rising like some great awkward beast awakened at night, rising and swaying until it was almost clear of the ground.
The motor stopped when the power was cut. A brake prevented the log from dropping back, but it began to swing, very slowly, until the uneven track let it go. Slowly and silently it moved through the darkness to where the hoist man was staring at the darkened lights, picked him up and pressed him against the foundations. For a time it held him there, crushing through the brief defense he made against it, breaking through his arms, his clothing, the frail protection of his flesh. Then it settled back slightly, leaving him jammed against the piling.
This happened in the instant that Carl was groping his way toward the wall. He did not know it. He knew only that there was a tremendous amount of work that had to be done and that it could not be done as long as the factory was dark. When he realized that the lights were not coming on again a wave of despair, almost of physical sickness, swept over him, and when he thought of how he was going to answer the manager about the orders that had to be got out, his hands clenched and unclenched nervously. He was a new foreman. A year before he had come to the factory as an efficiency engineer with a contract to cut operating costs and power to weed out the incompetent men, and before the year was over he had been given charge of the night shift to show what he could do. Nothing like this had happened since he came into the factory. He knew what to do in case of a fire, and he had learned what men to give the cutting orders to when the shift started and where to check up when the stock seemed to be running short, but nothing had ever happened to make him wonder what to do when the lights went out.
He shifted his hold on the wall and wiped his moist palm on his overalls. The factory rocked when he released the wall. He grabbed it again, his fingers clamping on one of the cross-pieces. He felt the sweat on his forehead.
Oh, Christ, he said silently. Come back on.
Tomorrow he would have to face the manager. Every afternoon, when he came to the factory, he went at once to the office where MacMahon sat behind his polished desk reading the order sheets and checking them with the records of the output of the night before. There was an order sheet on MacMahon’s desk now, he knew, marked with the three red stars that meant urgent and headed with the code symbols that told where it was going. An export order, five thousand doors for Sydney, and the cars were on the track, the ship was loading. Here in the factory they were half through and there was a holiday tomorrow and the men did not want to work tonight. The precious time passed. He knew what MacMahon would say. He could imagine MacMahon trembling with nervousness and worry and pacing back and forth in his office saying, Carl, that’s your problem. I can’t help you with that. All I know is it’s got to get out. Over and over, thinking of the cars on the track, the demurrage piling up and the ship’s loading, the penalties for delay. It’s your problem, Carl, while his secretary Miss Hazen tiptoed around the office not wanting to notice while he was being bawled out and afraid of MacMahon’s temper when the work was jammed up.
Somebody yelled again, a long yow! dragged out like the whistle at the end of the shift.
Listen to that, he said to the darkness. Listen to that.
“Morley!” he called out. “Morley!”
There was a stir in the darkness. He could hear Morley skating over the thin planks and hear the papers rustle while he moved. The gnawing sound of Morley’s feet stopped.
“Morley!” he called again.
He could hear Morley turn around. Jesus, he said silently, you crippled?
“Yes?”
“Where the hell are you?”
“Here I am.”
“Where?”
“Here. Over here.”
“What the hell you doing over there?”
“I—” Morley said.
For Christ’s sake. You see? he asked the wall. Is it any wonder?
“I got turned around,” Morley said. He heard an edge of panic in his voice. “I must have got turned around.”
“Well, come here.”
He heard Morley skate over the thin floor, testing each plank before he put his weight on it. His shoes made a dragging, tired sound in the darkness. Take your time, he said silently. We got all night. “Don’t take all night,” he said. The scraping sound speeded up. He could hear the rustle of the papers and picture Morley wading through the dark, swinging his arms in wide circles ahead of him. Then he heard Morley bump into the wall.
“I got turned around,” Morley said breathlessly. “I must have got turned around somehow. I was surprised when you called me. I was going the wrong way. I thought you were ahead of me. So I was surprised when you called me and here you was behind me. I thought the conveyor was right here. I was all turned around.”
Carl nodded. You’re always turned around, he said silently. Wouldn’t be the first time.
Morley gave a sigh of relief. “What happened?” he asked in a low voice. “What’s the matter?”
He held to the wall. Morley’s voice sounded odd and frightened. It was almost a whisper.
“The lights,” he said briefly. “The lights went out.”
There was no shouting for a while. His breath went out and he found that he had been holding his breath. He released the wall with one hand and drew his handkerchief from his pocket to dry his face. As he did so he thought, The fans have stopped. The panic in Morley’s voice infected him slowly. The guy who ran past, the long steps coming down hard on the floor, running like hell; the long yell in the darkness.
“That guy that ran past,” he asked. “Who was that?”
“What?”
“Running like that. He’ll break his fool neck.”
He pushed the handkerchief back in his pocket. The heat crept up over his neck and face and the blisters of sweat stung like insects. The fans, he thought. They’ve stopped too. When he breathed it was like drinking hot water.
“Ran past me like a bat out of hell. It looks like a man ought to have better sense than to run around like that. Especially when he can’t see where he’s going.”
There was a pause while Morley edged down the wall toward him. After a long time Morley said, “I should think he’d want to be able to see before he goes running around, all right.”
“Reckless son of a bitch,” he said. “Serve him right.”
Then he said nervously, “You see how it goes? What I got to put up with? Now Mac will give me hell.” His voice dropped. “If it’s Hagen again, he goes. I don’t give a damn if he’s been here fifty years. I’m not going to nurse him any longer.”
Morley did not answer. Carl brooded for a moment, bitterness with MacMahon’s interference infecting him slowly; the thought of the electrician and MacMahon’s defense of him robbed him of his strength. Ever since he had come into the factory, it had been his deepest source of trouble. From the very first, long before he had taken over the night shift and had only tried to find out how Hagen spent his time when he was not oiling the motors, when he had gone to Hagen in a perfectly friendly way and asked him so he would have it down on his records—from that time they had never got along and Hagen had never told him. When he complained to MacMahon, MacMahon had told him to go easy, Hagen was an old hand, longer in the factory than anyone else; and it had taken Carl a long time to see that MacMahon was afraid of Hagen, afraid of the bad feeling that would grow up if he was fired. Carl could not get over it. Whenever it came up he thought he saw a kind of insolence and serenity in Hagen, as though he knew that he was safe. Whenever Carl’s back was turned he knew that Hagen loafed, and bragged about his loafing, and through all the ways he got his information he knew that Hagen ridiculed him and lied about what he was doing.
Beyond them, in the darkness, there was a slight crash. A voice said mildly, “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” Morley giggled, the brief chatter of nervousness bursting from him and stopping abruptly, as though he had clapped his hands loudly at the wrong time before it was over and nobody else clapped. A voice said, “Ain’t there a flashlight in this God-damned laundry?” Then somebody let out a yell again and there was a loud horse laugh at the other end, up near the glue room.
“Listen,” he said contemptuously. “Listen to that.”
They listened. The darkness quieted down. Sometimes the yells and stray bursts of laughter broke on the silence like shots. He did not answer; their irresponsibility sickened him and he did not want to waste his voice. He tried to settle himself more comfortably to the wall. His fingers had clamped on the cross-piece. Sweat streamed down over his eyes and he could feel the tweed suit under his overalls sticking to his sweaty legs. That’s your problem, he thought. We pay you damn good money for just that problem. It’s easy, he said to the darkness, thinking of MacMahon sitting comfortably in his office and believing that he knew more about running the factory than anybody else in the world, giving orders and watching Miss Hazen flag her ass around the office, watching her bend over the low files, and at this very moment finishing a banquet with the officers from the destroyers stationed in the harbor over the Fourth of July.
He pulled at his pants’ leg again, giving a smothered grunt of irritation.
“What?” Morley said.
“My suit. It binds me.”
He lifted his leg and tried to twist around inside his overalls to get his pants more comfortable.
“I don’t see how you do it,” Morley whispered. “Wearing a suit under your overalls. I’m hot enough the way it is.”
“I don’t want to look like a tramp when I get out of here. I take off my overalls, I’m a new man. I don’t suffer from the heat, only these pants bind on me. It’s worth it to leave here feeling like a white man.”
In a far part of the factory somebody gave a cheerful yell. Take it easy, he said. He pictured them stretched out flat on their cans, the young punks trying to tear off a piece, and the crew taking it easy, the old women sitting down, everybody sneaking outside, glad of a chance to rest, glad of a chance to chew the rag while he took the responsibility and MacMahon beat it off to get drunk with the officers—all the grief, he thought. Nothing but grief.
How long? Christ, how long? Three hundred and fifty men at sixty cents an hour, cent a minute, three dollars and fifty cents a minute. Five minutes = 5 × 0=0, 5 × 5 = 25, carry two, 5 × 3 = 15 + 2 = 17−$17.50. Jesus Christ. Half an hour: 6 × 17.50: 6 × 0 = o, 6 × 5 = 30, 00; 6 × 7 = 42 + 3 = 45; 6 × 1 = 6 + 4 = 10. $105.00. Thrown away.
He cried out: “Christ! What the hell’s the matter?”
“What? what?” Morley said. “What?”
“I can’t stand this. What the hell happened?”
“I don’t know,” Morley replied. “I don’t know.”
What are you here for? His foot tapped restlessly on the floor. The factory seemed larger; the voices and the occasional sounds of activity came from a long way off. I can’t stand this, he said silently. I can’t stand to sit around and wait, always have to be doing something. Not my nature. He listened to the long swelling cry, somebody trying to test the echo, the sound bouncing back and forth under the roof.
“Bastard, I’ll put a stop to that. Yelling like that. What sense? Tell me what sense is there in that?”
“Darn nut.”
For a moment he wondered why he had ever agreed to take Morley when MacMahon suggested it. Someone he could depend on, MacMahon had said. A man he could trust. Now he suffered while Morley sneaked around the factory always looking as though he thought someone was going to plant a knife between his shoulders.
Morley said “I tell you I don’t see why they do it. Yelling like that—Some of those fellows, by George, they yell like that every chance they get. What sense is there in that?”
I need some young guy, Carl thought. Somebody with nerve.
“Yell, yell, yell,” Morley said, “that’s all they do.”
With a real interest in the work. I could say, Go tell Hagen to get them lights on or get the hell out of here. Tell him what I said. They’d stall if their mother was dying. Tell him to get the lead out. Weed them out—the prevention of duplication and unnecessary effort and the weeding out of incompetent and careless workmen—some young guy. Who? He thought over the names of some of the men he knew, keeping away from MacMahon’s pets, Hagen and all the crowd that hung around him, the half-breed Ed Winters and the kiln man Frank Dwyer, Sorenson and the nut Gil Ahab and a bunch of new men whose names he could not keep straight—there wasn’t one of them he could trust. There was Jug Bullett and Prentiss Fisher, but neither of them could keep his mouth shut, and Bullett was always running to MacMahon.
There was no decrease in the darkness; his eyes did not grow accustomed to it. He turned blindly toward the lights that had perished so suddenly, sighing with restlessness and turning his irritation against the empty globes. The rustle of voices rose like the sound of some underground river sliding through a cavern; there was a dim shuffle as the men moved casually through the dark, sure of their footing, knowing the floor around their machines as they knew their own houses even when the lights were out.
“It’s that God-damned Hagen,” he said bitterly. He dropped his voice to get away from the eavesdropping darkness. “What can I do if he can’t keep the lights on? What chance have I got when I never know if we’re going to lose an hour or two every night?”
“Shame,” Morley murmured.
“My hands are tied. As long as Mac sticks up for him my hands are tied. From the very first,” he said bitterly, “from the minute I came here. God knows I tried to get along with him. I went down to his shop. Let’s bury the hatchet, I said. What did he do? He didn’t have the decency. I don’t believe in bearing a grudge, I said, I want to get along with the men. Maybe I fly off the handle, I said, I’m only human, I said, nobody’s perfect. Son of a bitch just looked at me. Mouth hanging open.”
