Читать книгу The Light in the Mirror - David I. Lane - Страница 12

8

Working the Graveyard

The next morning, Richard sat with his uncle after breakfast to talk about his experience with the kids.

“Di’ ye think ministerin’ to youth is somethin’ ye might want to do with your life?”

“Right after the meeting, I was thinking along that line. But later—this morning actually—I realized I wasn’t cut out for it. I don’t see it as God’s purpose.”

“Why di’ ye say that, laddie?”

“A youth pastor has to accept how one minute young people act like little children and the next like mature adults. You can’t become impatient or frustrated as I did, although I tried hard not to show it.”

“I hope ye’ll keep an open mind. Remember, in any kind o’ work, ye have to develop appropriate attitudes and skills.”

“Sure, Uncle Mac. And I’d be happy to substitute for Cal again sometime.”

Nodding his approval, Mac suddenly changed the topic of conversation.

“Ye know, Richard I’ve been ponderin’ somethin’. I remember how ye said recently that ye wished ye had more money saved in the bank.”

Richard nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“I was just talkin’ to a friend o’ mine whose son works at a vegetable cannery. Well, he says they need more help on two o’ their shifts. What di’ ye think?”

Richard wasn’t sure about working at a cannery; he tried to imagine the kind of people he’d have to work with. He knew that some of them would be pretty rough types.

“I guess I could check on it.”

“That’s the spirit! Look into it, and if ye found ye dinna like it or they dinna need ye, nothin’ is lost. And, it just might turn out to be somethin’ gude.”

Richard knew full well that his uncle understood his hesitation, that he felt such a job was beneath him. For the past two years, he had worked in the university library in a white collar job that his uncle had helped him get. But this summer the library didn’t need him.

“I’ll go apply tomorrow.”

Dressed neatly and armed with his resume, Richard ate a quick breakfast, and started for the cannery. Twenty minutes later, he spotted the cannery’s sign and pulled into the company parking lot, nearly hitting a heavily-loaded truck that was pulling out. The driver of the truck yelled something at him that Richard wouldn’t repeat in polite society. I’d better concentrate on my driving or I won’t need a job.

He parked and got out of the car in time to meet one of the employees who was hurrying toward an old pickup truck. He stopped the man and asked, “Could you tell me where I might find the general manager?”

“You go through that door over there,” the man pointed, “and then you turn to the right and Jangle’s office is third—no fourth—door down. His name is on the door. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you,” said Richard, encouraged by the man’s courteous manner.

Richard quickly found Mr. Jangle’s office door and knocked.

“Yes? Come in!” called a loud, high-pitched voice.

The short, middle-aged man with a round, red face and a fringe of red hair around a shiny pate was seated at a battered wooden desk, covered with papers and stained coffee cups.

“Yes, come in! Take a seat. I’ve been expecting you.”

Richard found this remark strange, since he hadn’t made an appointment. “You’ve been expecting me?”

“Yes, of course. You want a job don’t you? And, if I’m not mistaken, and I rarely am, you’re holding your work record. Let me have it, and then we’ll talk turkey . . . or rather vegetables.”

“Well, I am looking for a job.”

“Good!” said Mr. Jangle, slapping the papers on his desk, and taking the resume from Richard’s out-stretched hand. “I like a man who’s decisive.”

“Hmmm, says you’ve got computer skills. That could be handy. I see you sold home-canned peas and carrots at the County Fairground. Don’t see any reason for folks to can their own vegetables in this day and age. Do you?”

“Well I don’t . . .” began Richard.

“Glad you agree, my boy! You got to be loyal to our business. Besides, the average homeowner gets the temperature too high or too low.” Mr. Jangle spoke these words as fact.

“I suppose that’s possible,” said Richard in an agreeable tone.

“More than possible. More than possible,” answered Mr. Jangle. “Nothing worse than overcooked vegetables! Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Oh yes!” Richard hated mushy vegetables.

Visibly pleased that he had elicited such a positive response from the young applicant, Mr. Jangle waved Richard’s resume and said, “I can see by this that you’re neat, orderly, careful about detail. I believe we can use you. Yes, you’re hired! See J. S. Packer just down the hall. I’ll give Packer a call before you get there.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jangle. I’ll do my best.”

Mr. Jangle, already on the phone, smiled and waved Richard out of the office.

“Hmmm, ‘Packer.’ Good name for someone working in a cannery,” Richard mused as he stopped at the door that held the nameplate: J. S. Packer, Foreman. He knocked on the door.

“Come in, Mr. Hawkins!”

Richard obeyed, surprised to be called by name. The surprise apparently registered on his face.

“You probably didn’t expect the foreman to be a woman. That right? Please sit down,” J. S. Packer requested in a soft voice.

“Oh well,” replied Richard, sitting down across from the foreman seated at a table with a stack of time cards in front of her. “I . . . uh was surprised that you knew my name.”

“Mr. Jangle just called and gave me your name. He said you would be here in a couple of minutes. Actually, he put it more colorfully: He said you would be here in ‘two shakes of a lamb’s tail’.”

Feeling a little dumb, Richard asked, “When do you want me to start?”

“I would like you to start tonight. However, when can you start? I have an opening on the graveyard shift.”

“Excuse me, but what’s the ‘graveyard shift’?” Richard’s tone betrayed some uneasiness at hearing the word ‘graveyard’.

“That’s the shift that begins at midnight and goes to 8:00 AM. You’ll have a half hour to eat and, of course, the usual breaks.”

“Okay,” said Richard. He provided social security information and signed three papers, including one that listed rules. “I’ll be here tomorrow night at midnight.”

“Good. Let me give you a note to give to our shift leader, Ben.”

While Packer wrote the note, Richard leaned back and looked at her more closely. She had short, dark hair, big brown eyes, a nice complexion, and gold-rimmed glasses on a slender nose. When she stood up to give him the note, Richard could see that she was tall, slim and somewhere in her 30s.

Richard stood up and took the note. “Thank you, Ms. Packer. I’ll give this to Ben tomorrow night.”

“Good luck, Richard.” With these words J. S. Packer shook his hand.

She has a strong grip, he thought as he left the office and headed for the parking lot.

When Richard got home, he left the car in the driveway and slumped down on the steps of the porch, wondering if his decision to work at the cannery was the right one. Soon the front door opened and Mac came out.

“Well laddie, what do ye have to report? Di’ ye get the job?”

“Yes I did, Uncle Mac. I hope I made the right decision. I’m supposed to go to work tomorrow at midnight, on the graveyard shift.”

“Then ye get off at 8:00 AM. I’ll have some breakfast ready for ye when ye get home, and see that the hoose is quiet so ye can sleep.”

“Thanks, Uncle. Since this is my last night of freedom, let’s see a movie after supper. What do you say?”

“I think that’s a gude idea, Richard. Whatever ye choose it will be fine with me.”

“There’s a John Wayne move on TV tonight that I don’t believe you’ve seen, or at least, not in a long time. The Alamo.”

“I do hope John Wayne stuck to the facts in tellin’ how the brave men at the Alamo fought and died. The truth o’ their heroic defense doesn’t need any Hollywood embroidery to be interesting.”

“They held out for weeks against thousands of Mexican soldiers, didn’t they?”

“Not weeks, Richard. Aboot 180 men held back General Santa Anna’s well-equipped army for 11 days. Now aboot supper this evenin’. Aroond 5:00 o’clock I’ll call and have pizza delivered.”

“Sounds good. Right now I’d better go downtown and buy some cannery clothes and sturdy work shoes. I’ll be home before supper.”

After shopping and a short walk, Richard took a quick shower and sat down with Mac for pizza. Then they relaxed in the living room, Mac reading Robert Burns and Richard reading a biography of Abraham Lincoln while waiting for the movie to start.

About an hour into the film, Mac said, “Uh-huh, it does look like the Alamo. They’ve built a very gude replica for their movie set.”

“Have you been to the Alamo, Uncle Mac?”

“Aye, I visited the Alamo a number o’ years ago durin’ a conference o’ librarians in San Antonio.”

At the end of the film, Mac sat in silence, shaking his head.

“What did you think of the movie, Uncle Mac?”

“It was a gude film, but it left out an important fact. There were four Scots among the defenders, and one o’ them, I believe, was an ancestor o’ ours, John MacGregor. He played the bagpipe while the men were fightin’. Davy Crocket was quoted as sayin’ that his playin’ inspired the men and lifted their spirits.”

“I bet if John Wayne had known about John MacGregor, he would have put him in the movie. Having one of the defenders playing the bagpipe would have given the movie . . . a human touch.”

“As far as puttin’ a Scottish bagpiper into the script, Bob’s your Uncle,” responded Mac.

“I agree that it could be quite easily done,” said Richard, interpreting his uncle’s Scottish expression. I remember you used to tell me about John MacGregor, but I guess it didn’t register that he played the bagpipe at the Alamo. Imagine having a combat piper in the family.”

“There was also Bruce MacGregor who served in World War I; he was a soldier in the Royal Scots Fusiliers. When his regiment charged the enemy in France, he was in the front line playin’ his bagpipe. The Germans, seein’ the pipers in their kilts, called them the ‘ladies from Hell’, because the fierce Scots would use the soond o’ their bagpipes to signal an attack.”

“Did Bruce MacGregor live through the war, Uncle?”

“No, I’m afraid not. He was shot doon in 1918. He was one o’ 1,000 pipers who died durin’ that great war.”

On the day he was scheduled to report for work at the cannery, Richard tried to take a nap to prepare for his all-night shift, but sleep could not loosen the tense muscles of his body. I might as well give up and get up. I just can’t stop thinking about tonight. I hope I can stay awake on the job.

He proceeded to busy himself with a series of chores around the house—he washed the Chevy hatchback he shared with his uncle, did a load of laundry, and made dinner for his uncle and himself. Three hours before midnight, at his uncle’s suggestion, he sat down in the living room to relax a while.

“Wake up, Richard! It’s time to go.”

Richard sat up abruptly. “What time is it?”

“It’s 11:15. I have a lunch packed for ye.”

Twenty minutes later, Richard was in the car, heading for the cannery. On his arrival, he parked, and walked swiftly toward the main building. Inside he encountered several people talking together.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for Ben, the shift leader,” Richard said, interrupting the conversation of four men and a woman.

The woman smiled at Richard and pointed toward a middle-aged man in bib overalls standing nearby.

“Ms. Packer told me to give you this.”

“Oh she did, huh. Well, let’s see what the foreman has to say.”

Ben stared at the note so long that Richard began to wonder if he knew how to read.

Nodding his head in satisfaction, Ben pocketed the note and gave Richard a welcoming smile. “Well, we can sure use another man on the shift, Richard. With you on the job, I can have an eye on our operation, without having to pitch in myself. Let me show you around the plant and have you meet some of our people.”

Ben gave Richard a quick tour of that part of the plant where he would work, including the location of the lunch room, restroom, and first-aid kit. Occasionally, he would stop to introduce Richard to someone. Then he led Richard to a woman seated on some sealed cases of vegetables. A small paperback held her attention so well she didn’t notice their approach until Ben spoke.

“Connie, this here is Richard Hawkins. Keep an eye on him so he don’t get hurt, will ya?”

Richard accepted this introduction with a look of gratitude.

“I’d be glad to.”

“Thank you, Connie, that makes me feel better. I’d be happy if you would give me any pointers about the job. I’ve never worked in a cannery before.” In making the last comment, Richard knew he was probably stating the obvious.

“I’m sure you’ll do just fine. Did you think to bring any ear plugs?” Connie asked.

“Well no. Do I need them?”

“You’ll want to protect your hearing, Richard. Here,” Connie said, digging into a pocket of her sweatshirt, “take these ear plugs. They’re new. I’ll wear my old ones.”

At Connie’s insistence, Richard took the ear plugs, a decision he was glad of when the machines started up and the graveyard shift went to work. The din was deafening, as Connie had warned him.

“Come with me, Richard,” Ben yelled above the noise. “I’ll show you your station for the time being. Do you have gloves?”

Richard nodded and pointed at his pocket.

“Here’s a hat. You wear it,” Ben yelled close to Richard’s left ear, “to protect the product and keep it sanitary!” Ben handed Richard a round, white paper hat.

Ben next grabbed Richard’s left arm and towed him toward a machine where a man pushed silver cans of peas without lids onto a large revolving circular plate from metal trays that contained a dozen cans.

“Jack, Richard will take over. You go back to your usual station.”

“Glad to!” Jack gave Richard a look of pity and sauntered away.

“Now Richard, keep feeding the cans in these trays onto the turntable,” Ben said loudly. “Make sure they move smoothly onto the conveyor. When the stack of trays gets low, someone will bring more. And make sure every can is full.”

“What do I do if the can isn’t full?” yelled Richard at the retreating shift leader. But Ben continued to walk, apparently not hearing Richard’s question.