“It’s been two, no three, days now. How are you feeling?”
“As well as can be expected, Doctor Phillips. The nurses have me up and walking.”
“Yes, we want you to walk, to keep walking. Over the next few weeks, you’ll have healing pains, but don’t let that stop you – walk, walk, walk. Later, when you’re all healed up, you can get back to running and playing tennis. Any complaints?”
“Well, my leg hurts more than my chest.”
“We stripped out a vein to do a couple of extra grafts. We gave you five, you know, five grafts. You got the deluxe treatment, but it’s those mammary arteries that will carry you. Just a little serendipity here, but I expect you to go thirty years on those.”
“You expect me to live to be seventy-four?”
“Yes. Of course now, you’re going to die of cancer. If not, when you are seventy-four, come see me. I’ll give you a repeat-customer discount on an overhaul. Any other pains?”
“I have a lot of discomfort in my upper back and shoulder. Is that common?”
“Young fellow, we sawed through your chest and opened you up like a pocketbook.” Dr. Phillips seized my paperback book and bent it backwards to demonstrate. “You are entitled to have pain just about anywhere above the waist. It will take some time to get through that.”
“Thanks, Doctor Phillips. I want to thank you for saving my life.”
“You’re very welcome. We realize that you had a choice and we appreciate your business. My best to your wife and family. When you’re released, work with Doctor Krieger so that you don’t need me again. But, come round to see me in a couple of months – I want to know how you’re doing.”
*****
“You’re up. Aren’t you usually asleep at this time?”
It had been seven weeks to the day since I had had quintuple coronary-artery bypass surgery. My motto had become, “everything to live for.” Every morning, I had walked two miles, usually with Joseph. I still had not figured out how, at two and a half, he was able to identify the make of virtually every car we passed. Then, following lunch at one o’clock, I laid down on the couch to awake exactly three hours later. But, that day, I did not feel tired at one o’clock. “It’s been seven weeks.”
“Seven weeks,” said Yumi. “That probably means that you’ve finished your knitting, that your chest has healed.”
I returned to work the next week.
*****
"All incisions look good. How are you feeling?"
"Almost normal."
"You may feel 'normal,' but you'll never be 'normal' – we completely re-wired you."
"Along those lines, are you going to remove this metal wire from my chest?"
"I recommend that we leave it right where it is – one less procedure, one less risk of infection. How is your activity level?"
"I walk every day and I've been driving for four weeks now."
"Driving is dangerous – walking is healthy."
"I brought you this. I take it you know this guy."
"Yes, of course, Liberty Weekly. I didn't see this issue. Dr. Lewin was my mentor at the Ohio Clinic. We sawed through a few ribs together. Thanks."
"I thought he might have been. You guys are real life savers."
"I appreciate that. It means a lot."
*****
How appropriate that it should rain, but the rain had stopped and the skies were beginning to clear. The crowd was impressive, cars lined up for almost half a mile. The men wore dark suits and the women black or gray dresses, some with hats and veils. There were not nearly enough chairs, so Yumi and I stood at the back.
“Mr. and Mrs. Daniels, right? How are you doing?” It took a moment to put a name with the face and the thinning hair – he had gained weight.
“Oh, Dr. Martin, hi. Yes, very well thank you.”
“It’s been a couple of years since your surgery, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir, just over three years. I’m doing fine thanks to all of you. You remember my wife, Yumi.”
“Yes, of course, hi.”
“Hello, Dr. Martin. I suppose you knew him pretty well,” said Yumi, nodding towards the gravesite.
“Yes, of course; this was rather a shock for all of us.”
“Was Dr. Phillips very ill? I mean how could this happen? The paper said he was just fifty-nine years old. For such a fine doctor to die of colon cancer… Quite a loss.”
“Yes, a major loss, but look around. There are so many others like your husband. You could say that he will live on in many hearts.”
Union Man
by Maniel
"You're a liberal, so I'm not surprised," I said.
"And that's what you see when you look at Al, a liberal?" she asked.
"He's a union man, Laura. What else am I to think?"
"He's a whole person, not just some political label. He's loves kids, plays sports, and he loves me for goodness sake."
"I'm glad that he's a whole person, because I don't exactly favor his politics."
"Well, like it or not, Wes, he's about to become your brother-in-law. I don't want to lose you, but it's clear that you're the one who will have to make the effort."
" I've never agreed with you on anything but we're still brother and sister."
*****
That little discussion occurred not long before Al and my older sister Laura were married. My mother was firmly against the marriage because Al was not Jewish, which ironically put me squarely on the side of Al and Laura, their political persuasion notwithstanding. Mother finally caved in at the last possible moment and agreed to attend the wedding, a fine little service held at the home of friends, presided by a local judge.
Over time, I came to know Al better. He had come by his white hair honestly, as a Marine-Corps radioman shot out of a tree on an island in the South Pacific during World War II. Born too late, I had missed that little dust-up, but I knew enough to respect his service and courage. And, not only was he an athlete – industrial league basketball in fall and winter and men's softball in spring and summer – but as my niece and two nephews were growing up, Al was swimming teacher, little league coach, and chauffeur. When her kids were all in school, Laura went back to teaching elementary school. Al was a cable splicer for the phone company. As a union rep, he was respected by workers and managers alike, for entirely different reasons of course.
With a degree in mechanical engineering, I saw opportunities everywhere as new jobs in Aerospace were appearing daily. After reviewing several offers, I chose to hire on with Erickson Systems. On the night before I was to begin work at Erickson, I went to Al and Laura's home for dinner. My discussion with them after dinner set the stage for our relationship for the next thirty years.
*****
"Laura says you just got a new job," said Al, a fried chicken leg in one hand and a bottle of Mexican beer in the other. "Whom did you sign on with?"
"Erickson Systems."
"Hmm," he said, taking a swig of beer and nodding gravely.
"That's great, Wes," said Laura.
"I'm not sure that Al approves," I said, looking at my brother-in-law.
"They're non-union," he said. "I know guys that worked for Erickson who have come over to work for us."
"To each his own," I said, "but I want to work for a non-union company."
"Oh yeah," said Al, his mouth now full of chicken, "why is that?"
"To me, unions are like a fever, a reaction to an infection inside a company."
"It's good that you're Laura's little brother so I don't have to punch you in the nose."
"You obviously don't agree."
"You think I've supported the union over the last ten years because it's some kind of disease."
"You missed my point."
"Then say it so that I get it."
"A union happens when workers are upset. They want more than they're getting, higher pay, more vacation, better health insurance …"
"A pension."
&nb
sp; "Right."
"You see something wrong with that?"
"The infection, or the disease as you said, comes from the source of the discontent."
"From management."
"Yes…"
"Managers are like officers. They tell us what to do and we go out and do or die. In the Marine Corps, a lot of us died."
"There may be a separation between managers and workers, but consider this: that line can be crossed; in good companies, workers can become managers."
"That's a lot of happy talk, Wes. Where I work, it's us workers and them. I'll never be one of them, just like I was never an officer in the Marine Corps."
"Don't you see, you're divided as a company? You'd be a great manager because you understand the job, but you've drawn a line on the shop floor that can't be crossed."
"It wasn't me who drew that line and you still haven't explained the disease part."
"Bad companies have low employee morale – that's the disease. Low morale leads to unions."
"No company is going to give us more than they absolutely have to. As a union, we fight for our benefits on equal terms. We win more often than we lose."
"At Erickson, I hope to earn my benefits while I'm helping the company. I'd like to be a manager there one day."
"Good luck, but don't come crying to me if they lay you off."
"That could happen – who knows? But I think that a company where everyone pulls in the same direction has a good chance of success."
Our conversation that night was repeated or referred to in the weeks following, but it boiled over about ten years later. By then, Yumi and I were married and our two kids were in elementary school.
*****
"Thanks for coming," said Laura greeting us at the front door of their home. "Come in, come in."
"Thanks for inviting us," said Yumi. "It's nice to see family from time to time."
"That's it exactly," said Laura. "We don't see each other often enough."
"Hi guys," said Al, "once we were inside."
"Where are your kids?"
"In the backyard. You can send these two little ones back there too. They'll be fine."
"How've you been?" asked Laura, once our children were shown to the backyard.
"It's been hectic," said Yumi.
"At the hospital?"
"Yes, and" – I tried to signal Yumi, but too late – "trying to keep their school open."
"Are you saying that you've been volunteering at their school?"
"Exactly."
"Sort of like a strike breaker, right?"
"That's one way to look at it."
"What other way is there to look at it, Yumi? You must have to cross a picket line."
"Time to change the subject?" I asked.
"I don't think so," said Laura. "There's a point to be made here, so I'd like to make it."
"Sure," said Yumi, "I'm listening."
"We teachers are on strike because the school district refuses to even consider our requests for better pay. We work long hours and we're simply taken for granted, except when parents are upset about the grades we give their little princes and princesses. Then they can find the time to come in and read us the riot act."
"I respect you and your fellow teachers," said Yumi, "but I'm a parent."
"So am I," said Laura, in a tone that sounded condescending to me, "so I think I can see both sides."
"Then, I'm sure that you would rather your kids were in school," said Yumi.
"Of course, but they understand that I'm fighting for better conditions for teachers."
"Your kids might, but what about the rest of your students? What are they learning?"
"Perhaps a less controversial…" I began to say.
"Unions fight to make workers' lives better," said Al. "It isn't always pretty, but if we don't fight for respect and better pay, managers just take us for granted."
I don't remember exactly how the four of us managed to get outside where our children were without any blood being shed, but somehow, there we all were, busy setting up folding chairs, ferrying food from the kitchen and the barbeque to the table, pouring lemonade from a very large cooler into paper cups, and getting comfortable in front of hamburgers, chicken, potato salad, and numerous other delicacies.
"How's that tennis game?" asked Al.
"It was going fine," I said, "until I played three ladder matches in a week. I picked up some tendonitis and haven't played for a while."
Al stood up and walked around the "adults' table" to where I was sitting. "Hold out your arm," he said. After I responded to his command, he began to massage my arm, just below the elbow, inflicting some serious pain. "That was it, right?"
"Yes. Was that supposed to make it better?"
"It will. I broke up a few adhesions – you should feel better almost immediately."
I clenched my fist, flexed my wrist, and rotated my forearm. "I'm in shock," I said. "It actually does feel better."
"I don't think it's all better yet," he said, "but you should massage it yourself when you get that inflamed feeling."
"Where'd you learn that?"
"Marine Corps. I shared a tent with a medic for a while."
"Thanks, brother. I'll try it."
*****
Yumi and I never conceded anything to Al and Laura: private unions are divisive and teachers' unions take children as hostages. And they never gave an inch either: union members are brothers and sisters, defending each other against exploitation by arrogant, uncaring management.
One afternoon, I was summoned to Robert Braden's office. Robert was the Vice President for West-Coast Operations at Erickson Systems. "This has been one heart-breaking week," he said, to himself as much as to me. "Losing that Federated contract just annihilated our cash flow and we've had to let so many good people go."
"I see," I said.
"Wes, that contract is over and your branch will be dissolved, but I can offer you a job in strategic development. We've worked it out so that you would be there for six months, or until you find another contract. Are you okay with that?"
"Definitely," I said, "more than okay. Thanks for looking out for me."
"We don't want to lose our best people just because we lost this contract."
"So, will we be keeping most of the team?"
"No, unfortunately, only five."
"Five people out of sixty?"
"Right. A heavy blow, no doubt."
*****
"We heard the news about Erickson," said Laura. "That was your contract, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"Are you okay? I mean…"
"They laid off most of the Federated contract team, around fifty-five people. Fortunately, they found another job for me."
"Well, I'm glad for you, Wes, that you didn't lose your job."
"Thanks. I was lucky."
"You must feel vindicated…"
"Why do you say that?"
"The paper said that Erickson went after the union workers."
"That may be true. I haven't looked into it."
"You never joined the union, right?"
"Right, but even though I survived, the war's not over for Erickson."
"Still, they will have fewer union workers to worry about."
"Look, I may not be in the union, but I have close friends are out of work."
*****
One night, not so long ago, I got a call from my niece that Al had died suddenly of a heart attack; he was 60. Faithful to her ancestors, Yumi suddenly became very Japanese, preparing and packaging entire meals for Laura and our niece and nephew still living at home. Laura was grateful, but although Yumi and I had been fearful of complete devastation, Laura was cheering us up by telling us what a wonderful marriage she and Al had had and how he died doing what he loved, hiking with his son.
*****
"Are you okay," asked Yumi. She always seemed to know when I wasn't.
"I feel a little guilty."
"Does it have to do with unions?"
"We were always discussing politics. I never made time to tell him…"
"He knew."
"You think so?"
"Yes. He was a tough guy, but you never backed down. He respected you because you were true to your beliefs."
"I know that I was right about the unions, but it seems so irrelevant now."
*****
We arrived at the cemetery a little late. Parking places were scarce and far from the chapel. As we began the long trek, Yumi and I found ourselves walking alongside a tall, well-dressed gentleman with white hair and a stylish chrome-tipped cane. He looked at me and asked, "Are you here for Al Verrano?"
I nodded. "I'm Wes and this is Yumi. He was our brother-in-law, my sister's husband."
"My condolences. I'm Michael Winston, manager of Al's unit."
"You must have known him for some time."
Michael Winston nodded. "Yes, a long time, but I'd be surprised if he ever mentioned my name."
"If he did, I don't recall."
"There's a reason. We came to the phone company at the same time, but we lived in different worlds. He was the tough marine sergeant, I was the naval officer. He became a union rep, I became his manager. I defended the company, he defended his troops. We were never really friends – we had more than one dispute – but I did respect him."
"According to my sister, a lot of people respected him."
As we came to the top of a rise and the chapel came into view, the three of us stopped at the sight before us: lined up on both sides of the road from the chapel to as far as the eye could see were telephone trucks.
I know what to do
By Maniel
I was head of a branch of twenty engineers and scientists who worked on various projects at Erickson Systems. System designers came to us when they needed cost estimates, performance projections, and effectiveness predictions. They came to us because we knew how to write simulations which saved them time and money. One day, about two years ago, I got a call from Delphi, secretary to our Department Head Terrence Howard. “Wes,” she said, “Terrence would like to see you.” It isn’t often that a branch head gets called in by the department head, because branch heads normally report to division heads who report to Terrence, so I was a little nervous.
“Wes,” he said, “we’re a big department, over five-hundred people. All our people are busy on important projects, but I’m getting complaints that we lack vision, that we’re not thinking strategically. I’ve decided that we need a strategic plan.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve done some nice work with your branch – I’m getting good reports.”
“Thank you, sir.”