while he got his every week from the union—that he laughed every now and then to himself and at times felt like shouting as loud as he could, fuck all you company bastards, all ya ball breakin pricks. We/ll showya. We/ll makeya get on yaknees and begus ta come back tawork. We/ll breakya ya fat fucks.
With each day Harry felt bigger. He walked around the plant waving at the guys, yelling to them above the noise; thinking that soon it would be silent. The whole fuckin shop/d be quiet. And he had cartoon like images in his mind of dollar bills with wings (lying out the window, out of the pocket and pocketbook of a fat baldheaded cigar smoking boss; and punks with white shirts and ties and expensive suits sitting at an empty desk and opening empty pay envelopes. There were images of gigantic concrete buildings crumbling and pieces flying out of the middle and himself suspended in air smashing the buildings to pieces. He could see himself crushing heads and bodies and heaving them from the windows and watching them splatter on the sidewalks below and he roared with laughter as he watched the bodies floating in pools of blood and drifting toward the sewers and he, Harry Black, age 33, shop steward of local 392 watched and roared with laughter.
At night, after supper, he went to the empty store the union was fixing up to use as a strike headquarters. He did little and talked a lot.
Harry slept better, deep and without dreams; but before sleeping he would lie on his side and let the various images of empty shops, crumbling buildings and splattering bodies drift through his mind, more real, more vivid, the features and images more sharply defined, the flesh more pulpy, more flaccid; the cigar tips glowing, the smell of cigar smoke and after shave lotion resented and enjoyed. Then slowly the images would start overlapping each other, become entangled and whirl together in one amorphous multiexposure picture and Harry would smile, the sneer almost disappearing, then he slept.
The last day of the contract Harry whistled as he worked. Not really a whistle, but a flat hissing sound that at times approached a whistle. A new contract had not as yet been signed and there was to be a union meeting that night. When the working day was over Harry walked happily from the shop, slapping many of the men on the back with as deep a feeling of comradeship as he was capable of feeling, telling them not to forget the meeting and he would see them at the hall. Some of the men stopped in the bar before going home and slowly drank a few beers, talking about the strike, wondering how long it would last and what they would get. Harry bought a beer and walked around the bar slapping a back or squeezing a shoulder, not saying much, simply a this is it, or tonights the night. He hung around for half an hour or so then went home.
* * *
The officers were already on the platform when Harry got to the hall. He walked away from the steps on the side of the platform and walked around to the front and vaulted up onto the platform. He shook hands with everyone there, smiling his smile, and listened for a few minutes to each group huddling on the platform, continuing to go from one to the other, as the hall slowly filled, until it was 10 minutes past the official time for the meeting to start and the President of the local indicated that he would start the meeting soon and the groups broke up and the men took their seats, Harry sitting in the second row on the end, adjusting his chair so he could be seen between the two men in front of him.
The President sat, taking papers from his attache case, looking them over, occasionally passing one to some one else, a brief and hushed discussion following. Eventually he had the papers sorted as he wanted and he rose, remaining behind the small desk in front of him. The men in the hall quieted and the President called the meeting to order and called on the Secretary to read the minutes of the last meeting They were read, voted upon and officially accepted by the rank and file. Next the Treasurer read his report consisting of many figures and explanations of expenditures, of how much was in the treasury and how much in the strike fund, the strike fund figure read last, slowly and loudly and the nonofficial members of the clique scattered throughout the hall applauded, as planned, and whistled, many others joining them. This report was voted upon and accepted by the rank and file.
Then the President got down to the business at hand and informed all the members that they knew what they were really here for tonight. More applause and whistles from the clique and others. The President raised his hands, solemnly, for silence. Your negotiating committee has been working hard for a long time trying to get a fair contract and wage for you men. Applause. We/re not asking for much, just what we work for. But the company wants you to do all the work while they keep all the money. Boos and the stamping of feet. Let me just read their last offer. He yanked papers from the desk, crumpled the edges in his hand and looked at them scornfully. They want us to keep a 35 hour week-a loud no—give us a lousy 12 holidays—another no—the President continued to read through the noise that followed. No holiday for birthdays, keep time and a half for overtime —another roar—a stinking 25c an hour raise, and only a small increase in their contributions to the welfare plan and they want it to be controlled by a independent trustee —a look of contempt on his face as he looked at the men and read—and a lot of double talk that amounts to nothing and they have the nerve to offer us this—hoots and catcalls. But we showed them, pounding on the table and yelling defiantly, we showed them what kind of stuff union men are made of: we told them to go to hell. He sipped water then wiped his face and lowered his head slightly and waited for the men to quiet down. Now, we all know how hard we work—dont forget I sweated for 20 years myself over a lathe and that was before the union when they was really sweat shops—applause—the President raised his hands. And the company knows how hard you men work but do they care—a NOOOOO from the clique and a few others, then a roar from the men—but we care, dont we—a roaring YEEEEES—youre damn right we do, and by jesus theres not a man one of us whos going to allow them to get away with this—a roar—and you can bet your life they know it. He paused, took a sip of water, cleared his throat. All we/re asking for is an honest wage for an honest days work and decent working conditions, and thats something that every American as a free man is entitled to, pounding on the desk emphasizing the words american, free, entitled, and leaning slightly toward the men as they roared and stamped their feet. Now we all know what we/re asking for—the men in the hall looked quizzically at each other, trying to remember just what they were asking for—but I/ll read them as they were presented to the company. A 30 hour week-cheers—a $1 an hour raise—cheers—a 25% increase in the companys contributions to our welfare plan to be supervised by the union, looking up from the paper, leaning forward and pounding on the table, I said supervised by the union so those goddamn company lawyers and accountants cant cheat you out of what you should get—whistling and stamping of feet—16 paid holidays, including every members birthday, or double time if he has to work on any of those holidays—applause. He straightened. Now . . . your negotiating committee met with theirs and after 2 weeks of head to head bargaining—and theres not a man one of us who doesnt know that you deserve everything weve asked for— and after 2 weeks the Vice-President told us that the Company couldnt afford to meet our demands—roars and boos . . . We/re going to meet with them again but, I want everyman here to understand that we never have and never will have any intention of allowing them to bulldoze us into accepting a contract thats not fair for the rank and file of this union—whistles, roars, stamping—and no matter how many of their slick or conniving tricks they try or no matter how long the strike lasts theyre not going to get away with it—a roar—and if they think theyre dealing with jerks they got another guess coming . . .
The President of Local 392 continued for another 30 minutes, interrupted with cheers, the stamping of feet, whisding, explaining that if they gave in to the company now theyd grind their faces in the mud for the rest of their lives; and how every union member in the country was behind them, pledged to give all assistance and aid—and that means money—as long as the strike lasts; of how the union was completely ready and geare
d for the strike—an empty store had been rented as a temporary strike headquarters, signs have already been painted and instructions have been printed telling each brother when he has to walk the picket line—denouncing and promising . . .
When he finished he introduced other members of the board who talked about what they were doing to help the strike and their union brothers. When they finished the President introduced brother Harry Black, shop steward and militant union brother, who was to be in charge of the strike headquarters. Harry tried to look over the heads of the men in the hall as he spoke, but was unable to keep from seeing their faces so he lowered his head and closed his eyes until they were open just enough to see his shoes and the edge of the platform. Like Brother Jones toldya the unions rented a store for a strike headquarters, you all the know the place its next ta Willies bar and a free $10 bag of groceries will be given ta everybody every Saturday morning for as long as the strike lasts and the place is big enough for everything so that we dont have ta worry about it and before we/re through with this strike the bossesll be on their knees begginus ta come back. Harry turned, opened his eyes and tried to find his seat but was unable to focus his eyes and he shook his head from side to side trying to orient himself and the President came over to him and tapped him on the shoulder and pushed him toward his seat. Harry stumbled, knocked into one of the members sitting near him and finally found his seat and sat down, sweat dripping from his armpits, his shirt stuck to his chest and back. He lowered his head, closed his eyes for a few moments and heard nothing until he finally raised his head and saw the President once more speaking to the men.
Now you have some idea of how hard we have been working for you to get everything in order for the strike and have it setup so we can take care of everything no matter how long the strike lasts. He sipped water then wiped his face with his handkerchief. He just stood there for a few minutes, head slightly bowed, listening to the men roar and when he noticed that it was starting to subside he turned once again toward the men and raised his hands, looking humble and worn, for silence. The men quieted and he looked around the hall, slowly, still keeping the humble expression, then once more started speaking. He reviewed the preparations that had been made; told them that everyman had to put in a couple of hours a week on the picket line and that his book would be stamped after every turn on the line and if anyone didnt have his book stamped that he had better be able to prove he couldnt walk or his book would be yanked, we/re not going to allow any scabbing—yells and cheers—and coffee and sandwiches will be given to all the men on the line and explained a few more details of how they would conduct the strike before putting up to the rank and file whether or not they wanted to accept the companys offer or go on strike. Just as he finished speaking one of the nonofficial members of the clique made a motion that they tell the company ta go tahell and go on strike. Another member seconded the motion and the President yelled that a motion has been made and duly seconded. All in favor say aye and a roar went up as some men murmured, a few looked around confused, but almost everyone remained in the current of the evening and added their voice to the roar after the initial aye. The President banged on the desk, the motion has been accepted by acclamation, banged the desk again and another roar went up along with the scraping of chair legs on the floor as the men got up and started pounding each other on the back. The meeting was over. The strike was official.
* * *
Although the picketing wouldnt start until 8 oclock, the beginning of the normal working day, Harry was in the strike headquarters at 6:30. It was a small store that had been vacant for many years and a telephone had been installed as well as a small refrigerator, stove and large coffee urn. There were many folding chairs around the room and an old desk in the corner. Against the rear wall were dozens of picket signs. Harry sat behind the desk and looked at the phone for a few minutes hoping it would ring and he could answer it, local 392 strike headquarters, Brother Black, Shop Steward talkin. It probably wouldnt be long before the phoned be ringin all the time and hed be talkin ta the President and all the other officers all the time about how he was runnin the strike. He wished he knew somebody he could call so he could tellem how he was there and what was goin on. It wouldnt be long before the menll be showin up for the picket line. He leaned back in the chair and it moved slightly. He looked down at the legs and noticed they had wheels so he pushed himself back and forth a few times. He stopped and looked at the phone again for a few minutes, then pushed hard against the desk and the chair rolled back to the wall.
The first few men came a little before 8. Harry got up, rolling back his chair, slapped them on the back and told them everything was all set. The signs are over there. Ya can each take one and start picketing the front of the building. Harry rushed over to the pile of signs and selected three, giving one to each man, trying to remember what else there was to do. The men started to leave, then one of them asked when they got their book stamped. Harry stared for a minute, book stamped, stamp. His jaw started to quiver slightly. Ya gonna stampem now or after we finish walking. uuuuuuhhh . . . They gonna be stamped after? A few more men came in and started talking—book, stamp—with the men who were ready to leave with their signs. No one was looking at Harry. He managed to turn and move toward the desk. The books were to be stamped. Yes. He pulled out a few drawers then he knew definitely what it was he was looking for. A rubber stamp and a stamp pad. He pulled the big drawer all the way out. Looked. Yeah, there it was. He took them out. I guess I might as well do it now. Bring your books over here. The men with the signs went over and Harry stamped their books. Any sonofabitch that dont get this stamped is gonna get his ass inna sling. One of the men who had just come in asked what was going on. Ya gotta get ya book stamped before ya go out. He came over to the desk with his book out. Ya gotta get a sign first, and Harry went back to the pile of signs and handed one to each of the men. O K, now I/ll stamp ya books. Ya oughta put a sign up so the guysll know. I was just gonna do that, and Harry stamped their books and the men put the signs on and looked at each other, smiling and joking. O K you guys, hit the concrete. Its afta 8. And dont all you guys stay in one spot. Spread out and keep moving. No standin still.
The men left and Harry went back to his desk and stamp pad. He ripped a piece of paper off a pad and printed a sign, get book stamped before going, and stuck it over the pile of signs. Men continued to come in and Harry handed out signs and stamped books; told some of them to go to the rear of the plant, and keep movin, no standin still; and when the men came in or back from picketing they poured themselves cups of coffee and stood around the store, or out in front, and talked and joked. In a few hours Harry started to panic with so many men around. Something inside his arms, his stomach, legs, seemed to be tightening and caused him to grind his teeth. He told one of the men to take over for a while, telling him to make sure he stamped the books, and went to Willies next door. He went to the end of the bar and had a couple of drinks and started to relax. He stayed for a while, drinking, until the tenseness faded. He left the bar and walked over to the picket line to see how things were going. He looked scornfully at the cops who were there in case of trouble and waved to the men as he walked around to the side to see how things were going there. He asked one of the men if anybody was around back and he said he thought so and Harry figured he might just as well take a look anyway. He walked the block to the rear of the factory and spoke to the men for a few minutes, reminding them to keep movin so the fuckin cops couldnt have nothin ta say, then went back to the office. He went back to the desk and resumed stamping.
The office wasnt as crowded now, many of the men standing outside in the warm May sun talking, joking, enjoying having a day off with nothing to do but hang around and drink beer and talk with the boys; and others used the time to wash and polish their cars, a steady stream of men walking through the office to fill buckets with water.
During the day Harry made a few more trips to the bar, staying outside after each trip to talk w
ith the men and tell them how they was gonna show these ball breakers who was boss. During the afternoon one of the Union Officials came in and asked Harry how everything was going. He told him he had everything under control. I keep the guys movin. The cops aint got nothin ta bitch about; and you can bet nobodys gettin in the shop except a few pencil stiffs. Youre a good man Harry. Harry smiled his smile. And dont forget, if you need anything just charge it to the union and put it on your expense voucher. And dont forget to send your voucher in each week. Harry was glowing. He nodded. Dont worry about nothin. We/ll break their backs. The official left and Harry stretched out in his chair and smoked for a while, talking occasionally to one of the men, then slowly once more started to feel squeezed. He got up from the chair and walked to the back and stood in the yard for a while and started to feel better, but soon some of the men came back too, some bringing chairs, others cards, and in a few minutes a card game had started and Harry went back into the office. He figured hed go for a drink, then asked one of the men if he knew of a joint that delivered beer around there. Yeah, theres a guy down a ways on 2nd avenue. Harry called and an hour later the truck pulled up and a keg of beer was rolled in, tapped and Harry drew the first glass. Before the end of the day the keg was empty and Harry called to have another one delivered, but was told it couldnt be delivered before 5 so Harry said to bring it the first thing in the morning.