Machines. The plant is really just one vast room, acres of i-pace. filled with machines. They are organized in blocks and the
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blocks are separated by aisles. Most of the machines are painted in solid March Gras colors-orange, purple, yellow, blue. From some of the newer machines, ruby numbers shine from digital displays. Robotic arms perform programs of mechanical dance.
Here and there, often almost hidden among the machines, are the people. They look over as I walk by. Some of them wave; I wave back. An electric cart whines past, an enormous fat guy driving it. Women at long tables work with rainbows of wire. A grimy guy in amorphous coveralls adjusts his face mask and ignites a welding torch. Behind glass, a buxom, red-haired woman pecks the keys on a computer terminal with an amber display.
Mixed with the sights is the noise, a din with a continuous underlying chord made by the whirr of fans, motors, the air in the ventilators-it all sounds like an endless breath. At random comes a BOOM of something inexplicable. Behind me ring the alarm bells of an overhead crane rumbling up its track. Relays click. The siren sounds. From the P.A. system, a disembodied voice talks like God, intermittently and incomprehensibly, over everything.
Even with all that noise, I hear the whistle. Turning, I see the unmistakable shape of Bob Donovan walking up the aisle. He's some distance away. Bob is what you might call a mountain of a man, standing as he does at six-foot-four. He weighs in at about 250 pounds, a hefty portion of which is beer gut. He isn't the prettiest guy in the world... I think his barber was trained by the Marines. And he doesn't talk real fancy; I suspect it's a point of pride with him. But despite a few rough edges, which he guards closely, Bob is a good guy. He's been production manager here for nine years. If you need something to happen, all you do is talk to Bob and if it can be done, it will be by the next time you mention it.
It takes a minute or so for us to reach each other. As we get closer, I can see he isn't very cheerful. I suppose it's mutual.
"Good morning," says Bob.
"I'm not sure what's good about it," I say. "Did you hear about our visitor?"
"Yeah, it's all over the plant," says Bob.
"So I guess you know about the urgency for shipping a cer- tain order number 41427?" I ask him.
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He starts to turn red. "That's what I need to talk to you about."
"Why? What's up?"
"I don't know if word reached you yet, but Tony, that master machinist Peach yelled at, quit this morning," says Bob.
"Aw, shit," I mutter.
"I don't think I have to tell you that guys like that are not a dime a dozen. We're going to have a tough time finding a re- placement," says Bob.
"Can we get him back?"
"Well, we may not want him back," says Bob. "Before he quit, he did the set-up that Ray told him to do, and put the machine on automatic to do its run. The thing is, he didn't tighten two of the adjusting nuts. We got little bits of machine tool all over the floor now."
"How many parts do we have to scrap?"
"Well, not that many. It only ran for a little while."
"Will we have enough to fill that order?" I ask him.
"I'll have to check," he says. "But, see, the problem is that the machine itself is down and it may stay down for some time."
"Which one is it?" I ask.
"The NCX- 10," he says.
I shut my eyes. It's like a cold hand just reached inside me and grabbed the bottom of my stomach. That machine is the only one of its type in the plant. I ask Bob how bad the damage is. He says, "I don't know. They've got the thing half torn apart out there. We're on the phone with the manufacturer right now."
I start walking fast. I want to see it for myself. God, are we in trouble. I glance over at Bob, who is keeping pace with me.
"Do you think it was sabotage?" I ask.
Bob seems surprised. "Well, I can't say. I think the guy was just so upset he couldn't think straight. So he screwed it up."
I can feel my face getting hot. The cold hand is gone. Now I'm so pissed off at Bill Peach that I'm fantasizing about calling him on the phone and screaming in his ear. It's his fault! And in my head I see him. I see him behind my desk and hear him telling me how he's going to show me how to get the orders out the door. Right, Bill. You really showed me how to do it.
15
Isn't it strange to feel your own world is falling apart while those of the people close to you are rock steady? And you can't figure out why they're not affected the way you are. About 6:30, I slip away from the plant to run home and grab some dinner. As I come through the door, Julie looks up from the television.
"Hi," she says. "Like my hair?"
She turns her head. The thick, straight brown hair she used to have is now a mass of frizzed ringlets. And it isn't all the same color anymore. It's lighter in places.
"Yeah, looks great," I say automatically.
"The hairdresser said it sets off my eyes," she says, batting her long lashes at me. She has big, pretty blue eyes; they don't need to be "set off in my opinion, but what do I know?
"Nice," I say.
"Gee, you're not very enthusiastic," she says.
"Sorry, but I've had a rough day."
"Ah, poor baby," she says. "But I've got a great idea! We'll go out to dinner and you can forget all about it."
I shake my head. "I can't. I've got to eat something fast and get back to the plant."
She stands up and puts her hands on her hips. I notice she's wearing a new outfit.
"Well you're a lot of fun!" she says. "And after I got rid of the kids, too."
"Julie, I've got a crisis on my hands. One of my most expen- sive machines went down this morning, and I need it to process a part for a rush order. I've got to stay on top of this one," I tell her.
"Okay. Fine. There is nothing to eat, because I thought we were going out," she says. "Last night, you said we were going out."
Then I remember. She's right. It was part of the promises when we were making up after the fight.
"I'm sorry. Look, maybe we can go out for an hour or so," I tell her.
"That's your idea of a night on the town?" she says. "Forget it, Al!"
"Listen to me," I tell her. "Bill Peach showed up unexpect- edly this morning. He's talking about closing the plant."
Her face changes. Did it brighten?
"Closing the plant... really?" she asks.
"Yeah, it's getting very bad."
"Did you talk to him about where your next job would be?" she asks.
After a second of disbelief, I say, "No, I didn't talk to him about my next job. My job is here -in this town, at this plant."
She says, "Well, if the plant is going to close, aren't you inter- ested in where you're going to live next? I am."
"He's only talking about it."
"Oh," she says.
I feel myself glaring at her. I say, "You really want to get out of this town as fast as you can, don't you?"
"It isn't my home town, Al. I don't have the same sentimen- tal feelings for it you do," she says.
"We've only been here six months," I say.
"Is that all? A mere six months?" she says. "Al, I have no friends here. There's nobody except you to talk to, and you're not home most of the time. Your family is very nice, but after an hour with your mother, I go crazy. So it doesn't feel like six months to me."