Lately,
I can't seem to help thinking about my last couple of years living in
Massachusetts. Particularly the spring of '97. I had been working at a
factory that made paper bags for two years. This company made several
types of bags: potato bags with the plastic mesh in the front, "sew"
bags with the string you pull to open the top, the kind of bag with the
waxy seal (known as "hot melt" in the industry) that held the tops
closed, and something called "pasted valve" bags. I was primarily
involved in making the pasted valve variety. These bags are flat on the
top and bottom, and are opened by ripping open whichever corner has the
valve -- a strip of paper inserted into the bags just before their tops
and bottoms are glued closed that both allows the customer ordering the
bags to fill them with their product and prevents the contents from
spilling out until the bags are ripped open by hand. You've seen these
bags before: they contain cement, or fertilizer, or quick-dry, or some
sort of polymer, and so on. They can be a bitch to make, believe me.
In
fact, during the early part of '97, I was getting so fed up with making
them, I signed up to be an apprentice operator in the press department
of the same plant. Under union rules (some day I need to explain the
concept of a union to the cell-phone-camera-and-body-piercing kids who
are young enough to be my own), when the company posted a job opening,
regardless of what it was with very few exceptions, the senior-most
employee who signed up for that position got it for thirty days. If it
was clear that he/she couldn't handle it after thirty days, he/she was
moved back to his/her prior position in the factory. If things were
working out, then it was up to the employee to decide whether to stick
with it or go back to his/her earlier job. As it happened, I got the
apprentice position. It meant taking a cut in pay, too. But with a few
days left during my trial, I was asked by the vice president if I wanted
to go back to my old job. I said no. He wasn't happy to lose an
operator, but hey, union rules are union rules.
All
of the guys in the press department had more seniority than I did, and
they were very much into the male bonding scene. The ringleader of this
circus was Jerry. Everyone loved Jerry -- even me. Or, I should say,
especially me. Every morning -- and I mean every morning -- when
he got his press up and running, he'd take an air hose, aim it at a
small recess in the press' frame, and squeeze the handle. This made a
loud piercing noise similar to that of a steam train's whistle. "All
aboard!" It was his way of letting the entire plant know that the train
had left the station. You have no idea how much this annoyed people in
some of the other departments.
Then
there was Juan, a guy from Spain. Juan had a hard-headed demeanor which
always kept me on edge. He could make me wonder whether he was about to
slit my throat for the hell of it, although he would never do such a
thing to anyone. That was just the way he was wired up. I noticed one
thing about him early on: He could see everything. I'd go to inspect the
print as it was running, and I'd focus on the larger stuff -- print
registration, image crispness, and the like. Juan would see a yellow
speck on white paper that I would never have caught, stop the press,
clean the plate, and start back up. I witnessed shit like that dozerns
of times. I'm a press operator nine years later and six hundred miles
away, and I still marvel at his powers of observation.
On
the other end of that spectrum was John, an Irishman. John was a
wonderful guy to be around. I liked him more than anyone else in the
department. But he was no pressman. A two-color job he could handle.
Three or more, and he was lost, for some reason I never understood.
Jerry once told me, "Most guys, Pauly, they don't know shit when they
come to the press, but over time, they learn and they get better as they
go. Not John." I think John's staying power was due to the fact that
everyone liked him -- he was just that kind of guy. I still miss him.
And I have no idea what's become of him.
Wayne,
on the other hand, was a stinking asshole. He was intelligent, he was
articulate, he knew how to do his job, and he did have a heart. And he
had a vicious sense of humor -- which I've learned to appreciate over
the years. But he was chiefly an asshole, and he didn't care who knew
it. So many times, I wanted to belt him. However, he knew one thing I
didn't: karate. So I let it all go.
And
Wilson. He was in charge of the ink room. If there is one m'fug I would
never dare tangle with, it's Wilson. He wasn't mean, his eyes weren't
black as coal, he didn't have a bloody mouth, nothing like that. He just
seemed indifferent to what is known as the "finer things," but in a
threatening way; it's hard to describe. There was nothing fancy or hip
about Wilson. He was who he was, and that was good enough for him. Your
first impression of Wilson upon seeing him is, this dude's a
motherfuckin' moron. And your first impression is totally wrong. Wilson
was smart the way local yokels all over the country are smart. Maybe
that's the threatening part about him. You meet him, and you
instinctively start trying to fleece him; next thing you know, your head
is mounted on a wooden plaque hanging on his wall. You don't screw with
a guy like that.
And
I'll never forget Chris. They called him Eddie Munster, which was
funny, because Chris wasn't much more than five feet tall. Funnier
still, all the other guys in the press department were average to
extra-large in size, including me. And that holds true today.
Confession: I'm about 6' 2", about 220 pounds. I'm bigger than most
guys. But at the print shop I currently work in, I'm probably slightly
over average. I was around average at the bag plant nine years ago.
Printing and bigger-than-average people seem to go together -- hell if I
know why. But regarding Chris... At some point, a roster of the members
of the press department utilizing images of the Jolly Green Giant was
put on display. Every member of the pressroom was represented by the
Giant except Chris, who was represented by a silly cartoonish eagle.
Chris had no problem with it. For all I know, it was yet another male
bonding thing.
Anyway...
It
was the last day of June. I was working second shift that day. Entering
the plant, I noticed people were surlier and more withdrawn than
normal.
"Oh, hey, Mimus," John said.
"Hi, John," I replied. He looked upset.
"Haven't you heard the news?"
"What news?" I wondered.
"They're shuttin' the plant down."
There
was no set date. But it didn't matter. The place visibly went to hell
in the two and a half months I remained there. My last day was in
September. On the eleventh, believe it or not -- nowadays the date
September 11 always brings two things to my mind.
Jerry
quit before I did, in spite of more than twenty years of service and a
considerable severance package waiting for him if he chose to stay. He
lasted two weeks at his next job. I don't know where he went from there.
Juan
was still working at the bag plant after I'd left. But I knew he was
looking for a new job -- I'd ridden with him to one interview. Lord
knows what he's up to now.
John remained at the plant for a while, too. I don't know where he is now.
Wayne told me he intended to stay to the end. Afterward, he planned to go back to college. And that's all I know.
Wilson left to work at some place in Gardner, Massachusetts. And that's the last I heard of him.
Chris
stayed at the plant. I have no idea what he's up to, but I have this
feeling that he's doing okay. Men who have what's known as "Little Man
Syndrome" tend to excel at getting by, if not getting ahead.
And that's all the reminiscing I can do for now.
