With the car after that, he managed to get two bolts in and made a pass at tightening them, though he wasn’t sure how well. With the one after that, he did better; also the car following. He was getting the knack of using the wrench, though he found it heavy. He was sweating and had skinned his hands again.
It was not until the fifth car had gone by that he remembered the third bolt he was supposed to insert in the trunk.
Alarmed, Rollie looked around him. No one had noticed.
At adjoining work positions, on either side of the line, two men were installing wheels. Intent on their own tasks, neither paid the slightest heed to Rollie. He called to one, “Hey! I left some bolts out.”
Without looking up, the worker shouted back, “Forget it! Get the next one. Repair guys’ll catch the others down the line.” Momentarily he lifted his head and laughed. “Maybe.”
Rollie began inserting the third bolt through each car trunk to the chassis. He had to increase his pace to do it. It was also necessary to go bodily into the trunk and, emerging the second time, he hit his head on the deck lid. The blow half-stunned him, and he would have liked to rest, but the next car kept coming and he worked on it in a daze.
He was learning: first, the pace of the line was faster than it seemed; second, even more compelling than the speed was its relentlessness. The line came on, and on, and on, unceasing, unyielding, impervious to human weakness or appeal. It was like a tide which nothing stopped except a half-hour lunch break, the end of a shift, or sabotage.
Rollie became a saboteur on his second day.
He had been shifted through several positions by that time, from inserting chassis bolts to making electrical connections, then to installing steering columns, and afterward to fitting fenders. He had heard someone say the previous day there was a shortage of workers; hence the panic—a usual thing on Mondays. On Tuesday he sensed more people were at their regular jobs, but Rollie was still being used by foremen to fill temporary gaps while others were on relief or break. Consequently, there was seldom time to learn anything well, and at each fresh position several cars went by before he learned to do a new job properly. Usually, if a foreman was on hand and noticed, the defective work would be tagged; at other times it simply went on down the line. On a few occasions foremen saw something wrong, but didn’t bother.
While it all happened, Rollie Knight grew wearier.
The day before, at the end of work, his frail body had ached all over. His hands were sore; in various other places his skin was bruised or raw. That night he slept more soundly than in years and awakened next morning only because the cheap alarm clock, which Leonard Wingate had left, was loudly insistent. Wondering why he was doing it, Rollie scrambled up, and a few minutes later addressed himself in the cracked mirror over a chipped enamel washbasin. “You lovin’ crazy cat, you dopehead, crawl back in bed and cop some Zs. Or maybe you fixin’ to be a white man’s nigger.” He eyed himself contemptuously but had not gone back to bed. Instead he reported to the plant once more.
By early afternoon his tiredness showed. Through the previous hour he had yawned repeatedly.
A young black worker with an Afro hairdo told him, “Man, you sleeping on your feet.” The two were assigned to engine decking, their job to lower engines onto chassis, then secure them.
Rollie grimaced. “Them wheels keep comin’. Never did see so many.”
“You need a rest, man. Like a rest when this mean line stops.”
“Ain’t never gonna stop, I reckon.”
They maneuvered a hulking engine from overhead into the forward compartment of one more car, inserting the driveshaft in the transmission extension, like a train being coupled, then released the engine from suspension. Others down the line would bolt it into place.
The worker with the Afro hairdo had his head close to Rollie’s. “You want this here line stopped? I mean it, man.”
“Oh sure, sure.” Rollie felt more like closing his eyes than getting involved in some stupid gabfest.
“Ain’t kiddin’. See this.” Out of sight of others nearby, the worker opened a fist he had been holding clenched. In his palm was a black, four-inch steel bolt. “Hey, take it!”
“Why so?”
“Do like I say. Drop it there!” He pointed to a groove in the concrete floor near their feet, housing the assembly line chain drive, an endless belt like a monstrous bicycle chain. The chain drive ran the length of the assembly line and back, impelling the partially completed cars along the line at even speed. At various points it sank underground, rose through extra floors above, passed through paint booths, inspection chambers, or simply changed direction. Whenever it did, the moving chain clanked over cog points.
What the hell, Rollie thought. Anything to pass the time, to help this day end sooner—even a bunch of nothing. He dropped the bolt into the chain drive.
Nothing happened except that the bolt moved forward down the line; in less than a minute it was out of sight. Only then was he aware of heads lifting around him, of faces—mostly black—grinning at his own. Puzzled, he sensed others waiting expectantly. For what?
The assembly line stopped. It stopped without warning, without sudden sound or jolting. The change was so unremarkable that it took several seconds before some, intent on work, were aware that the line was now stationary in front of them instead of passing by.
For perhaps ten seconds there was a lull. During it, the workers around Rollie were grinning even more broadly than before.
Then, bedlam. Alarm bells clanged. Urgent shouts resounded from forward on the line. Soon after, somewhere in the depths of the plant a siren wailed faintly, then increased in volume, growing nearer.
The older hands who had watched, surreptitiously, the exchange between Rollie and the worker with the Afro hairdo knew what had happened.
From Rollie Knight’s work station the nearest chain drive cog point was a hundred yards forward on the line. Until that point, the bolt he had inserted in a link of the chain had moved uneventfully. But when it reached the cog, the bolt jammed hard between cog and chain, so that something had to give. The link broke. The chain drive parted. The assembly line stopped. Instantly, seven hundred workers were left idle, their wages at union scale continuing while they waited for the line to start again.
More seconds ticked away. The siren was nearer, louder, traveling fast. In a wide aisle alongside the line, those on foot—supervisors, stock men, messengers and others—hastily moved clear. Other plant traffic, fork-lifts, power carryalls, executive buggies—pulled aside and stopped. Hurtling around a bend in the building, a yellow truck with flashing red beacon swung into sight. It was a crash repair unit carrying a three-man crew with tools and welding gear. One drove, his foot against the floor; two others hung on, bracing themselves against welding cylinders in the rear. Forward on the line a foreman had arms upraised, signaling where the break had happened. The truck tore past Rollie Knight’s work station—a blur of yellow, red, its siren at crescendo. It slowed, then stopped. The crew tumbled out.
In any car assembly plant an unscheduled line stoppage is an emergency, taking second place only to a fire. Every minute of line production lost equates a fortune in wages, administration, factory cost, none of which can ever be recovered. Expressed another way: when an assembly line is running it produces a new car roughly every fifty seconds. With an unplanned stoppage, the same amount of time means the full cost of a new car lost.
Thus the objective is to restart the line first, ask questions after.
The emergency crew, skilled in such contingencies, knew what to do. They located the chain drive break, brought the severed portions together. Cutting free the broken link, they welded in another. Their truck had scarcely stopped before acetylene torches flared. The job was hasty. When necessary, repairmen improvised to get the line moving again. Later, when production halted for a shift change or meal break, the repair would be inspected, a more lasting job done.
One of the repair crew signal
ed to a foreman—Frank Parkland-connected by telephone with the nearest control point. “Start up!” The word was passed. Power, which had been cut by circuit breaker, was reapplied. The chain drive clanked over cogs, this time smoothly. The line restarted. Seven hundred employees, most of them grateful for the respite, resumed work.
From the stoppage of the line to its restarting had occupied four minutes fifty-five seconds. Thus five and a half cars had been lost, or more than six thousand dollars.
Rollie Knight, though scared by now, was not sure what had happened.
He found out quickly.
The foreman, Frank Parkland—big-boned, broad-shouldered—came striding back along the line, his face set grimly. In his hand was a twisted four-inch bolt which one of the repair crew had given him.
He stopped, asking questions, holding up the mangled bolt. “It came from this section; had to. Some place here, between two sets of cogs. Who did it? Who saw it?”
Men shook their heads. Frank Parkland moved on, asking the questions over again.
When he came to the group decking engines, the young worker with the Afro hairdo was doubled up with laughter. Barely able to speak, he pointed to Rollie Knight. “There he is, boss! Saw him do it.” Others at adjoining work stations were laughing with him.
Though Rollie was the target, he recognized, instinctively, no malice was involved. It was merely a joke, a diversion, a rambunctious prank. Who cared about consequences? Besides, the line had only stopped for minutes. Rollie found himself grinning too, then caught Parkland’s eye and froze.
The foreman glared. “You did it? You put this bolt in?”
Rollie’s face betrayed him. His eyes showed white from sudden fear combined with weariness. For once, his outward cockiness was absent.
Parkland ordered, “Out!”
Rollie Knight moved from his position on the line. The foreman motioned a relief man to replace him.
“Number?”
Rollie repeated the Social Security number he had learned the day before. Parkland asked his name and wrote it down also, his face remaining hard.
“You’re new, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.” For Cri-sake!—it was always the same. Questions, gabbing, never an end. Even when Whitey kicked your ass, he dressed it up with bullshit.
“What you did was sabotage. You know the consequences?”
Rollie shrugged. He had no idea what “sabotage” meant, though he didn’t like the sound of it. With the same resignation he had shown a few weeks earlier, he accepted that his job was gone. All that concerned him now was to wonder: What more could they throw at him? From the way this honky burned, he’d stir trouble if he could.
From behind Parkland, someone said, “Frank—Mr. Zaleski.”
The foreman turned. He watched the approaching stocky figure of the assistant plant manager.
“What was it, Frank?”
“This, Matt.” Parkland held up the twisted bolt.
“Deliberate?”
“I’m finding out.” His tone said: Let me do it my way!
“Okay.” Zaleski’s eyes moved coolly over Rollie Knight. “But if it’s sabotage, we throw the book. The union’ll back us up; you know that. Let me have a report, Frank.” He nodded and moved on.
Frank Parkland wasn’t sure why he had held back in exposing the man in front of him as a saboteur. He could have done so, and fired him instantly; there would have been no repercussions. But momentarily it had all seemed too easy. The little, half-starved guy looked more a victim than a villain. Besides, someone who knew the score wouldn’t leave himself that vulnerable.
He held out the offending bolt. “Did you know what this would do?”
Rollie looked up at Parkland, towering over him. Normally he would have glared back hate, but was too tired even for that. He shook his head.
“You know now.”
Remembering the shouts, activity, siren, flashing lights, Rollie could not resist a grin. “Yeah, man!”
“Did somebody tell you to do it?”
He was aware of faces watching from the line, no longer smiling.
The foreman demanded, “Well, who was it?”
Rollie stayed mute.
“Was it the one who accused you?”
The worker with the Afro hairdo was bent over, decking another engine.
Rollie shook his head. Given the chance, there were debts he would pay back. But this was not the way.
“All right,” Parkland said. “I don’t know why I’m doing this, but I think you got suckered, though maybe I’m the sucker now.” The foreman glared, begrudging his own concession. “What happened’ll go on the record as an accident. But you’re being watched; remember that.” He added brusquely, “Get back to work!”
Rollie, to his great surprise, ended the shift fitting pads under instrument panels.
He knew, though, that the situation couldn’t stay the way it was. Next day he was the subject of appraising glances from fellow workers, and the butt of humor. At first the humor was casual and tentative, but he was aware it could get rougher, much rougher, if the idea grew that Rollie Knight was a pushover for pranks or bullying. For someone unlucky or inept enough to get that reputation, life could be miserable, even dangerous, because the monotony of assembly line work made people welcome anything, even brutality, as a diversion.
In the cafeteria on his fourth day of employment there occurred the usual melee at lunch break in which several hundred men rushed from work stations, their objective to get in line to be served, and, after waiting, hastily swallow their food, go to the toilet, wash off their dirt and grease if so inclined (it was never practical to wash before eating), then make it back to work—all in thirty minutes. Amid the cafeteria crowd he saw the worker with the Afro hairdo surrounded by a group which was laughing, looking at Rollie speculatively. A few minutes later, after getting his own food, he was jostled roughly so that everything he had paid for cascaded to the floor where it was promptly trampled on—apparently an accident, too, though Rollie knew better. He did not eat that day; there was no more time.
During the jostling he heard a click and saw a switchblade flash. Next time, Rollie suspected, the jostling would be rougher, the switchblade used to nick him, or even worse. He wasted no time reasoning that the process was wildly illogical and unjust. A manufacturing plant employing thousands of workers was a jungle, with a jungle’s lawlessness, and all that he could do was pick his moment to take a stand.
Though knowing time was against him, Rollie waited. He sensed an opportunity would come. It did.
On Friday, last day of his working week, he was assigned again to lowering engines onto chassis. Rollie was teamed with an older man who was the engine decker, and among others at adjoining work stations was the worker with the Afro hairdo.
“Man, oh man, I feel somethin’ creepy-crawly,” the latter declared when Rollie joined them near the end of a meal break, shortly before the line restarted. “You gonna give us all a special rest today?” He cuffed Rollie around the shoulders as others nearby howled with laughter. Someone else slapped Rollie from the other side. Both blows could have been good-natured, but instead slammed into Rollie’s frailness and left him staggering.
The chance he had planned and waited for occurred an hour later. As well as doing his own work since rejoining the group, Rollie Knight had watched, minute by minute, the movements and positions of the others, which fell into a pattern, but now and then with variations.
Each engine installed was lowered from overhead on chains and pulleys, its maneuvering and release controlled by three pushbuttons—UP, STOP, DOWN—on a heavy electric cord hanging conveniently above the work station. Normally the engine decker operated the pushbuttons, though Rollie had learned to use them too.
A third man—in this instance the Afro hairdo worker—moved between stations, aiding the other two as needed.
Though the installation team worked fast, each engine was eased into place cautiously and, when al
most seated, before the final drop, each man made sure his hands were clear.
As one engine was almost lowered and in place, its fuel and vacuum lines became entangled in the chassis front suspension. The hangup was momentary and occurred occasionally; when it did, the Afro hairdo worker moved in, reaching under the engine to clear the tangled lines. He did so now. The hands of the other two—Rollie and the engine decker—were safely removed.
Watching, choosing his moment, Rollie moved slightly sideways, reached up casually, then depressed and held the DOWN button. Instantly, a heavy, reverberating “thunk” announced that half a ton of engine and transmission had dropped solidly onto mounts beneath. Rollie released the button and, in the same movement, eased away.
For an infinitesimal fraction of a second the Afro hairdo worker remained silent, staring unbelieving at his hand, its fingers out of sight beneath the engine block. Then he screamed—again and again—a shrieking, demented wail of agony and horror, piercing all other sounds around, so that men working fifty yards away raised their heads and craned uneasily to see the cause. The screams continued, fiendishly, unceasing, while someone hit an alarm button to stop the line, another the UP control to raise the engine assembly. As it lifted, the screams took on a new excruciating edge, while those who were nearest looked with horror at the squashed, mangled jigsaw of blood and bones which seconds earlier had been fingers. As the injured worker’s knees buckled, two men held him while his body heaved, his face contorted as tears streamed over lips mouthing incoherent, animal moans. A third worker, his own face ashen, reached for the mashed and pulpy hand, easing loose what he could, though a good deal stayed behind. When what was left of the hand was clear, the assembly line restarted.
The injured worker was carried away on a stretcher, his screams diminishing as morphine took hold. The drug had been administered by a nurse summoned hurriedly from the plant dispensary. She had put a temporary dressing on the hand, and her white uniform was blood-spattered as she walked beside the stretcher, accompanying it to an ambulance waiting out of doors.