The Land of Plenty, page 11
The man who was holding the torch suddenly dropped it and stamped on the flame. “It’s no good,” he said, almost apologetically. He ground the wood into the damp pulpy earth between the tracks. “It won’t burn.”
“Who is it?” Winters asked.
“The hoist man.”
They looked at each other nervously. The man stamped again on the torch. “Log rolled,” he said. His voice was hard, almost self-consciously calm. “It was about half up when the power went off. So it stayed there with all the pull on it sideways and finally it gave way and swung. While he was waiting.” Winters nodded. He tried to remember who the hoist man was, or what he did, but he did not know him. He looked at the steamy bulk of the log. It was resting on the track and against the pilings that made up the foundation of the factory. The curve of the log was now a tunnel of light as Hagen was under the factory. The men were crowded around each end of the tunnel; it was impossible to get nearer.
Winters asked, “What can you do?”
“Nothing. We called the hospital. Broke in the office.”
Winters could see other men wandering around helplessly in the canyon between the vats and the platform. It was quiet except for the muffled voices and heavy breathing of the men around the log. There was a steady hiss of steam escaping from the closed vats; an occasional rattle as the steam pipes trembled under the pressure. The man standing beside Winters suddenly said Ah, poor bastard! in a racked voice, Ah, poor bastard!
Winters ran his hand nervously over his face. The bark splinters from the floor of the platform had stayed in his hands; he felt them on his cheek with a kind of dazed awakening; he felt the dirt stay on his face and forehead. Unconsciously he walked to the log, standing on its dark side and listening to the muffled voices beneath the factory, the words tense and indistinguishable, broken by the heavy panting as the men worked in the cramped space beneath the factory. Someone had made a foolish attempt to free the log by tearing up part of the track. A peavey was stuck in one of the ties. Winters pulled it free and carried it out of the way with a kind of senseless, mechanical orderliness; he leaned it carefully against the door of one of the vats, thrusting it deep into the earth to hold it upright.
When he walked back there was a stir among the men grouped around the log. Someone crawled backwards from under the factory. As they broke away Winters got a glimpse into the narrow tunnel of light; he could see Hagen’s face, red and sweaty, turned sideways in the narrow cramped space; he saw the hoist man lying on his side, his shoulder jammed up high against his cheek, almost over it. “Hagen!” someone said. ‘‘You’re too big! Let me under there!”
Hagen crawled out awkwardly, his shoulders forced into a knot as he pushed himself free. He put his weight on the flashlight clasped in his hand, and it dug into the mud; the steam and the water draining from the log had soaked the ground. He held it up stiffly, shifting his weight to his other hand. “Take it!” he said. Then he crawled out, breaking free of the men clustered around the log. Someone else dove under the factory with the flashlight. Hagen grabbed one of the men by the arm. “There’s a pair of jacks in the fireroom. Take somebody with you.”
The two men started off down the track. Winters had crowded up to Hagen again, and Hagen saw him. “Winters,” Hagen said, “get Carl’s light. He’s in the office.”
Winters climbed back up on the platform, suddenly released from the sense of helplessness that had paralyzed and sickened him; he felt his hands hard and firm on the post; he was conscious of his strength as he lifted himself up on the platform. He could hear them talking behind him as he felt his way swiftly along the wall. “Get some blocks for the jack,” Hagen was saying. “Anything. Anything.” Then as he left them behind even the weak reflected light of the flashlight was lost, and he stumbled along with his hand touching the wall to guide him, lifting his feet high to clear the barriers in his path. He remembered the man holding the weak torch, standing by helpless and harassed, the flame barely creeping up the grimy wood—Ah, poor bastard, he thought, poor bastard, and broke into a run.
5. JOHNNY
HE was lost.
On one side of him there was a trap of some kind for the steam pipes that led to the kilns. He could feel their heat and hear them trembling under the throb of the pumps from the fireroom. The way ahead was blocked. When he put out his hand he touched the flat expanse of one of the presses, a solid piece of metal rising like a wall, and draining with the thick, gritty perspiration of its oil.
Now what? he thought.
Tell Frankie Carl said to watch the heat. Tell Frankie Carl said to watch the heat.
He remembered Carl yelling at him and his father’s stern face. He made a feverish scurry around the barrier. No use. He was lost at the dead-end of a blank passage, lost in a dangerous tangle of creeping vines and poisonous wires, surrounded by lurking saber-toothed machinery. If he moved the other way he got burnt.
I wasn’t cut out for this kind of work, he thought.
In the jungle heat. Someone opened an outside door and a breath of fresh air fluttered around the factory like a swallow, beating itself to death against the hot pipes.
How would you like it? he asked some invisible enemy. All right, if you think you know so much. You dummy! Can’t you hear? And my foot asleep. He winced in a moment of anguish when he remembered the light full on him and Carl bawling him out in front of all the men. I should have told him: I’ll do it! Don’t be in such a rush! Something like that. Or no. Look him straight in the eye: Listen, pipe down, I’ll take care of it. Or no. Look him straight in the eye, grin, nodding slightly, Rave on, rave on. Yow! What a shock! His face dazed, his eyes popping out of his head, Carl gulped, looked around, stammering uneasily, “Now, see here….” Yow! Baby!
All at once he remembered his father telling him sternly to take it easy, and the memory cooled him off like a bucket of cold water poured over him. Tell Frankie to watch the heat!
I’m a nut, he thought despondently. No wonder he thinks I’m a nut.
But immediately he jumped to his own defense again. Why not? he thought. I’m not cut out for this kind of work. It’s too heavy for me. He thought of straightening up and bowing down behind the rattling machine, piling the endless pieces of wood on a truck, eight hours a night, every night for the rest of his life. The thought cut through him; it hurt him like a cramp; he could not think of anything else when he thought of it. Leaning over and straightening up, all night long, while his eyes burned and his back ached and the sweat ran down his face, every night for the rest of his life—his blood ran cold when he thought of it; his mind went blank; he had to think about something cheerful to drive it away. He sighed and put his hand against the press. Why was he always looking at the dark side of things? he wondered. Why couldn’t he look at the bright side, just for a change? Tell Frankie to watch the heat!
Suddenly he heard voices on the far side of the press. They were quite near. He leaped to attention, alert, inquisitive, creeping to the edge of the press so he could hear better.
“He’s a damn liar,” a voice said dispassionately. “I never said that.”
Johnny waited, but there was no answer. Presently he called out, “Do you know where Frankie is?”
“What?”
“Do you know where Frankie is?”
There was a pause, heavy with no answer, until after a time a second voice commented vaguely, “He wants to know where Frankie is.”
While Johnny waited, he relaxed against the steel wall of the press. He relaxed from weariness, although he did not know it was weariness, for he had as yet found no name for the curious hunger to lie down which attacked him at this hour every night. His hand slipped on the mushy steel surface of the press. Then he wiped his hand against his trousers, thinking that in the darkness this huge piece of machinery felt as though it were made of mashed potatoes. Something he had read once about three blind men and an elephant crossed his mind. He thought about the blind man grabbing the elephant’s trunk and saying that elephants were snakes—what a mistake! Suppose some poor blind man got in the factory, what would he think it was like?
“Maybe he’s outside,” the voice said. “There’s a door over there.”
Where? Johnny asked soundlessly. What door? He waded back through the darkness the way he had come, sneaking around until all at once he came to the secret door and a flight of steps leading down into the darkness. He stopped at the top of the steps. The fresh air tasted good. He breathed with a calisthenic regularity. Something was happening to the sky. While he watched, a red streak spurted over town and climbed toward the clouds, streaming up and up until it crashed suddenly against the far edge of nothing, crashed in a silent explosion and shattered, sending out wonderful bubbles of yellow and blue and red light that sank slowly and went out, leaving the sky as cloudy and as vacant as before. A moment later there was a distant rush of noise, a series of muffled explosions chattering together and chasing each other around the top side of the clouds.
He waited until he remembered that he was supposed to be delivering a message. A man was leaning against the building directly below him. Johnny cleared his voice and asked, “Do you know where Frankie is?”
The man did not answer, but from the darkness beyond him another voice said, “Here I am. What do you want?”
“Carl said to tell you to watch the heat.”
“All right.”
That was all. Didn’t anybody know how hard it was to get from one end of the factory to the other? Steaming and sweating and bumping into things and barking his shins? After all this, was Frankie only going to sit there without moving? Anybody could tell that it was too hot in the factory. But Frankie merely sat by the wall and continued to smoke a cigarette.
“The son of a bitch,” Frankie said abruptly.
There was no response, and no more talking. Another rocket lifted over the town. As the globes of light fell the hills beyond came to life for an instant, the trees looking gray and mildewed. The boy dropped down the steps and found a place for himself, somewhat away from the others, on a pile of steel casks. The words kept swinging through his mind, Tell Frankie to watch the heat, like some nagging song he tried to forget and couldn’t. All that, the bawling out, running through the factory, barking his shins, all for nothing! And now Frankie didn’t move; he sat there like a bump on a log; and now Carl would think he hadn’t delivered the message, and would probably fire him. Yes, and then there would be hell to pay! What’s the use? he asked himself drearily; the workingman hasn’t got a chance; he works like a dog, and what good does it do him? All right, let them fire me. All right, fire me, he thought, if you want to fire a man for trying to do his duty. But at the same time a cold uneasiness crept over him as he thought of what the folks would say if he got fired, of his mother sighing and apologizing for him, saying not to worry about it…. Then another rocket sailed over town, and the dark gloomy thoughts flapped away, scattering like crows frightened when a shot is fired.
Johnny looked about him carefully to see if anyone was near before he lit a cigarette. He shielded the flame of the match with his hand, a trick he had learned after hours of secret practice. He had bought a package of cigarettes after his first night at work, but he was still shy about smoking them for fear people would think he was showing off. Also, it was difficult for him to light a cigarette. He could get it lighted most of the time, but he could not keep it lighted after it was lit. If he smoked he was able to keep the cigarette burning, but this meant that his lungs would fill up with smoke, that he would cough and choke and feel generally despondent, and it did not seem worth the trouble it caused him.
He drew back behind the steel barrels and struck a match, jumping nervously because the light flared over a wide area and because he knew his features must be clearly outlined and visible even from the factory. In a momentary agitation, as he attempted to cover the flame, he burned the palm of his hand. He dropped the match at once and pressed his hand to his lips, sucking at the carbony residue of smoked flesh and rocking his head from side to side with the pain.
And now what? He hated to light another match. All the men sitting around, he thought, would know he had been unable to light his cigarette with one match. Even now, in his fancy, they were sitting back snickering and whispering to one another, “Look at that kid, he can’t even light a cigarette.” But then, he thought, if he didn’t try to light it again, they would be chuckling harder than ever, knowing that he had given up because he didn’t have nerve enough to try again.
For a moment, in a helpless and harrowing nervousness, he pretended that his cigarette was actually lighted all the time, and pretended to be smoking it, but this ruse was obviously unsuccessful, and the dead taste of the unburning tobacco hurt his throat. In the darkness he took the cigarette from his lips with a gesture indicating extreme surprise. What! he exclaimed soundlessly, not lighted after all! and gave way to silent astonishment while he searched through his pockets for another match. Then he climbed down behind the barrels and hid himself as much as he could while the light flared and the tip of his cigarette began to glow. With his desperate manner, as well as his appearance of secrecy, he gave an impression of attempting to set fire to the factory.
As he sat down again he heard someone scrambling across the barrels. He ditched his cigarette. “Say!” this newcomer asked unexpectedly, “ain’t you Johnny Hagen?”
Johnny jumped. “Yes,” he said. He was much surprised. “Why yes,” he repeated. “That is, yes, sure.”
“I thought so! I thought I recognized you! Maybe you know me—Connor’s my name, Walt Connor.”
Johnny jumped to his feet. This was something like it! “Hagen’s mine,” he responded warmly, clasping Walt’s outstretched hand, “John Hagen. Glad to know you.” This was more like it, he thought with pleasure, this was the way fellows introduced themselves to each other in college, or even in high school if they were smart and willing to get out in the world and learn how to meet people. So he shook hands warmly, pressing Walt’s palm with great vigor because he had frequently heard that there was no surer sign of a weak character than a flabby handshake.
“Well,” Walt said, “I never thought I’d see you here, Hagen. How long have you been working?”
“Well,” Johnny replied, somewhat off at a tangent. “I never thought I’d see you here either.”
“You just starting?”
“A week,” Johnny said. “This is the end of my first week.”
“Where you work?”
“I’m off-bearing behind the cut-off saw.”
“Ah,” Walt said. “That was the first job I had when I came here.”
“Was it?”
“Yeah. I worked there about three months, then I got put on the kiln and then I got put out in the stockroom and now I’m breaking down presses.”
He could see Walt’s large face and the expanse of his white shirt. A white shirt, he thought: How does he keep it from getting dirty? He remembered him as the president of the Student Council and the president of his class and getting two letters in football the year they never won a game. He flicked the ashes off his cigarette.
“Did you graduate this year?” Walt asked.
“Yeah.”
“You going on?”
“Yeah. Well,” Johnny said, “that is, I don’t know. I want to go this fall, but my old man won’t let me and I thought maybe I’d save enough money by the time school started, but now I was supposed to be getting three and a half a day to start—when I started I heard that was the lowest they paid—but now I found out tonight I only get two and a quarter. I was supposed to get two and a half the timekeeper told me, but then they gave everybody a ten per cent cut.”
Walt nodded. “How much did you get?”
“Well, I only worked three days on last pay day, so my check was only five dollars and twenty-five cents because they took out a dollar for insurance and fifty cents for the doctor or something and then they took off a lot for other things.”
Walt nodded again. “It don’t look like you’ll go to college this fall, does it?”
He drew back at a note of satisfaction in Walt’s voice. Rubbing it in, he thought. “No,” he said. “Are you going back?”
Walt sat down. “How the hell can I?” he said bitterly. “I’ve been working here almost a year. I haven’t saved a cent. My old man can’t give me any money—I have to give him money. If I don’t we’ll lose our house. What chance have I got?”
Chilled, Johnny said, “That’s tough.” He sat down beside Walt on one of the oil cases. What a life! He took a weak drag on his cigarette. Why look at the dark side of things? he thought. Why not look at the bright side once in a while?
“I’ll go back,” Walt said grimly, “some way or other; I won’t stay here. If I do stay here I won’t stay at this lousy job. I work like a dog now and I have to work harder all the time. The Polack I work with, he gives me the heavy end of every truck. He knows I’m new on that job and he shoves off everything on me…. Hell, at first here I had it soft; I was working with Winters and he was breaking me in, but now I work like a dog. You work with Winters?”
