“The paper industry is in the toilet. People are using less and less of the stuff. Everything is goin’ paperless. China is killing us with exports and lower prices. Health care and retirement costs are through the roof. It’s a struggle, and life’s a bitch.”
Over Brent’s shoulder, past the dinner crowd, he noticed a van wheel into the parking lot,CHANNEL 8 ACTION NEWS, SAVANNAHstenciled to the side beside a colorful NBC logo. Two men emerged and pushed through the restaurant’s front door. One shouldered a small video camera, the other carried a spiral notebook. They looked around and Hank motioned for them.
They headed straight toward the table.
Brent noticed his interest and turned. “I should have known when you picked here to eat supper. These guys friends of yours?”
He smiled.
“Not yet. But they’re going to be.”
7:20P.M.
BRENT STOOD IN THE BACK OF THE UNION HALL AND WATCHEDHANKtake to the raised platform at the far end, like an actor entering a stage, perfectly at home in front of a crowd. On the way over from the restaurant Hank had complained bitterly about the imbecile reporter from the Savannah television station. When he’d arranged for the news story last week, Hank assumed the same womanwho’d come last time would be dispatched. Older and aggressive, she knew what it took to get her name noticed. But apparently she’d left the station, moving on to bigger markets. Consequently, instead of Lois Lane, the station sent Jimmy Olsen.
Brent knew the game.
Hank was softening the company’s underbelly, feeding stories to the press, starting a PR battle to place them on the defensive before the real war over a new collective bargaining agreement began. For a guy who barely made it out of high school Hank had a talent with the press, knowing exactly how to deliver the perfect ten-second sound bite.Make it short, sweet, and backbreaking.Tonight’s story, gathered from listening to the interview, which happened right in the middle of the restaurant, dealt with the upcoming contract negotiations and the continuing downward plight of the blue-collar worker.
“How about everyone take a seat,” someone called out.
Hank was dressed in a short-sleeved checkerboard shirt, starched khaki pants, cordovan leather belt, and penny loafers shined to perfection. The usual garb he’d seen his old friend wear a million times. He was impressed, though, with the union hall, a handsome masonry building that reflected the 1920s-style architecture of Concord’s downtown. Years ago, monthly business meetings had been held in the aged community center. But he knew that, a few years back, during the last collective bargaining negotiations with Southern Republic, Hank had negotiated for half an acre of company property and enough financial assistance to erect the building.
Three unions dominated Southern Republic Pulp and Paper’s workforce. United Paperworkers International, UPIU Local 567, was the largest. The International Association of Machinists, IAM Local 893, stood next. Hank’s International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers had always been the smallest. But by any measure that mattered, IBEW was the most influential of the three.
“I call the June 6 meeting of Local 1341 to order,” Hank said.
The room quieted down.
Attendance wasn’t mandatory but at least fifty men were there,including Clarence Silva, who threw him an icy stare that seemed to renew the earlier offer of a rumble.
How surreal it was to be back.
When he’d closed his law office, packed his clothes, and driven north to Atlanta, he doubted he’d ever return to Concord, Georgia. That was the whole idea about running away. You never went back. But a lot had happened during the past decade. His father died. His mother had grown lonely, her health deteriorating. And he missed home. Concord was where he’d been born and raised. He knew every nook and cranny. He’d practiced law there for five exciting years. People knew him, and he knew them. Only thirteen thousand populated the county, many living there all their lives. A quiet spot in rural middle Georgia, its sole claims to fame were Eagle Lake and a prosperous paper mill.
“As you’re all aware,” Hank said, “on July 1, this local’s collective bargaining agreement with Southern Republic Pulp and Paper will expire. Its five years are up.”
“Remember that,” came a shout from the rear of the hall. “No five years this time.”
“He’s right. That was bullshit,” another voiced said. “Five years is too damn long to restrict things.”
Thankfully, during his exile Brent had never allowed his subscription to theConcord Recordto expire, so he knew what had happened. Three years was the usual length of union agreements. But last time Southern Republic had lobbied hard for five and, to get it, conceded to Hank’s demands for an extra percentage increase on wages—and financial help with the union hall. But that move turned out to be unpopular. A rare miscalculation of union sentiment on his old friend’s part.
“I get it,” Hank said, “no five years. But if the company knows we’re not, under any circumstances, going to approve another five-year deal, what concessions do you think I’ll be able to get? How will I bargain if they know, up front, our no-deal points?”
Brent noticed it was neverwe, orus, orthe local. AlwaysI. Thiswas Hank’s union. Plain and simple. Some shook their heads in opposition, but others nodded in agreement. Something Hank taught him long ago came to mind.Logic is your friend. Use it.
“Look,” Hank said. “I’m a few days away from entering contract negotiations. I agree, five years in duration is long, but I have to have some bargaining room to make things happen. Cut me some slack here, and have a little trust. Have I ever let you down?”
Hank was perhaps the most interesting person Brent had ever known. He’d seen him be absolutely ruthless, showing no compassion at all to a perceived enemy. Yet he taught a Sunday school class at the First Baptist Church that was so popular, a waiting list had always existed to get into it. Hank had worked at the mill since he was nineteen. For the past twenty-five years he’d headed Local 1341 and for sixteen of those years he served as mayor of Concord. But when voters decided they’d rather have a full-time city manager than a part-time mayor, he obliged them by not seeking a fifth term. Inside the mill he carried the designation of senior day electrician. As best as Brent could recall, only five people had ever accumulated the requisite thirty years necessary to reach that level, Hank currently at the top of the seniority. Company management respected Hank. He had a talent for stirring up trouble when things didn’t go his way. Some might call that terrorism. Hank liked to think of it asactive persuasion. He was quick to file a grievance, and even faster at supporting what he filed with indisputable evidence. Where the other two union presidents could be bullied or charmed, Hank was susceptible to neither. He was a dealer. Pure and simple.
“You goin’ to look out for us this time?” one of the men asked.
He stared across the hall at Hank, who smiled back like a father would to a wayward child. The usual response would be some feel-good platitude said for the benefit of a friendly crowd. A shallow reassurance of the obvious.
But Hank knew his audience.
“Do fat babies fart?”
