“The measure of a man is what he does when no one is looking.” Men nod in thoughtful agreement with the saying… when seeing it on a plaque hanging from a nail. Most guys would shudder if that’s how they were judged. One does come across male models of energy, efficiency, respectability and virtue. Other men suspect it’s just the public persona.
Once, back in the day, I considered such philosophical points while riding at dawn to an industrial plant on the outskirts of Detroit. There were a dozen of us sitting in the back of an old pick up. Another dozen were following in a van. We had all been at ManPower, Inc for shape-up at 5 am. All of us – clean shaven go getters with tool kits, drunks, old bums, lazy slobs and surly young punks – got grabbed for a big gig that could last for months.
We saw the crowd slouching by the entrance gate. Some carried STRIKE signs. As we slowed to turn in some of the men yelled, “Scabs! Scabs!” One big ape screamed, “we’ll f^ck you up if you cross the line.” Others shouted for us to join them. A few spit at us while we waited for the gate to open.
Pete was an old bum; we had teamed up a month earlier, sharing the siren song of wanderlust. We had just quit a job pounding nails into skids. (Nope, they didn’t need repair or modification; we just had to look busy. One of those ‘got the flu’ slowdowns with the foreman wanting to say he kept the temps hard at work.) The place was a rarity for back then - a clean, quiet factory, just the place to build up a stash. But we got bored. Boredom wouldn’t be the main concern on this job. He and I looked at each other. “We’re here now,” said Pete with a shrug.
Yeah, wonderful; crossing picket lines violates the blue collar code. The unions were fat and happy in 1972. But they still went through the motions. Why not? The bosses had tennis courts and full sized pools in their backyards. Mandatory double time on Saturdays and a fourth week of paid vacation could help close the income gap. Still; things could get ugly. Spit back at one of these beer belly warriors and the next thing you know guys are swinging pipes and wrenches. But, as Pete said, “we’re here now.”
The main building was huge; you could fit a few football fields in it. Three men in white shirts and ties were surveying their new workforce. Two grumpy old men, wearing blue shirts with their names stitched on, had already started the furnaces, got machinery humming and cranes ready to scoop and carry. It was the first day of the strike and everyone stood around wondering what to do next. Finally, one of the old guys told a white shirt that there was plenty of work that could be done out in the yard. The white shirt asked if any of us temps could operate an acetylene torch. Me an Pete both said, “Yep, you bet.”
One of the old dudes handed us a couple of torches, pointed outdoors and said, “you need to cut the ends off all the steel reinforcement rods. Get em level with the concrete ends.” Me an Pete went out into the yard – it was immense, acres and acres surrounded by a ten foot tall chain link fence. Half of it was filled with big concrete tubes, about 30’ long with a 4’ diameter. They were piled 5 wide and 3 high with alleyways alongside the stacks. Six rods stuck out about a foot from each circular concrete end, thousands of them. The rows seemed endless; while moving through them we guessed that the tubes would be used to construct sewers.
Pete and I finally picked a spot to start, one far from the plant and watching eyes. Pete looked at the twisted steel rods sticking out the ends, turned to me and asked, “you know how to torch these things off?”
“I don’t even know how to start the torch,” I replied.
“Me neither,” he said. “It just seemed better than ‘learn as you go’ with that crew fooling with hot furnaces and tall cranes.”
Yeah. “Looks kind of cozy in these tubes,” said Pete as he climbed into one about 10’ above the ground. “Nice in here, I didn’t get much sleep last night. Might as well take a nap.”
I climbed into one next to Pete. We were alone, almost impossible to see or find. “Shift ends at 4,” Pete noted, “we gotta make sure we’re back by then.”
So we took a morning nap, told tall tales of life on the road and ate the sandwiches stuffed in our jackets. We climbed out to take a whiz, stretched our legs and then got back in for an afternoon nap. Later we bitched about being hustled over here with no mention of a picket line. Then we silently contemplated our respective concrete caves.
I thought again about the measure of a man. Pete and I went looking for a place to goof off. That’s what we did when no one was looking. But… what’s a story if not the absolute, unvarnished, unchanged, accurate on all counts truth?
As we walked back for shift end we first heard shouting, then saw the hordes of strikers milling around outside the gates, shaking fists and poking signs at the plant. There were lots more of them now, all cussing fat cats and scabs. I said, “I’ll be happy if we can get outta this place without getting busted up.”
“Me too,” Pete replied, “and I ain’t coming back here. It’s gonna get cold and snowy pretty soon anyway. You ever worked on a shrimp boat?”
I never did, but it sounded better than temping out to factories. A month back in Detroit was long enough. The next day Pete and I were heading south on I-75.
DJO©1/26/11
