1995

Chapter 5. Book V ~ Edition II Part 1

The first six months of 1995 passed in a montage of one-night stands between moments with Reins. Meeting most girls by accident, the way I met Patea, confounded endlessly with a strange lack of effort as though not giving a shit somehow enticed women. For nothing about me changed beyond this resolution except new clothes and a Jeep. Still, fucking lots of women provided no safeguard against the fantasy of relationships.

Reins finished college in the spring and needed to return home at the end of May after acceptance to law school in Boston. She stayed at my apartment her last week, and taking time from work, we went to different events around town, but mostly, the days passed in a togetherness made strange by her pending departure. Boxes piled beside her in the living room as we worked to ship belongings in those final days. She knelt, topping off a carton with books. “Can you tape this up for me? That’s the last one we need to take to the post office.”

Kneeling beside her, I taped the box shut. “Are you excited to go home?”

“I guess, but Baltimore has been fun.”

“Well, at least you’ll be back with your people who understand that shitty accent.”

“Fuck you.” She punched my arm and threw her body against me in her playful, tough way. “Dammit, woman, you play like you’re facing off for a hockey puck.”

“Wussie.” She pushed into my arms and kissing her rose a sadness in her voice. “You know I’m going to miss you.”

“I’m going to miss you too.”

“You know, Boston isn’t far away.”

A kiss to her neck flashed a narrative of dating from afar with flights to Boston and her returning to Baltimore whenever spare time arose. The dream faded in awareness of the commitment and complete dishonesty of the relationship, but for a moment, honesty almost took control. “I want that, but I don’t want to distract you. You’re just starting law school.”

She hugged me. “Isn’t that my choice? Everyone keeps telling me how much time law school takes and how difficult it will be. I feel like I’m sacrificing everything for this career.”

Cradling her head, the scent of her hair challenged the lies. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but that’s why I can’t be there. You’re not sacrificing your whole life; you’re starting it. In some ways, I am in the same place. I’m not sure either of us knows where we’ll be tomorrow. You know I’d do anything to be with you, and it’s killing me saying this stuff.”

She leaned harder against me. “Are you bullshitting you or me?”

“I don’t know. Hopefully neither.”

Her hand lightly punched my back. “Dumbass.”

At the end of the week, I took Reins to the airport, and kissing caused her to cry, twisting my guts. She boarded the plane and a long time passed, watching the plane taxi to the runway, take off, and disappear in the clouds. I never saw Reins again.

In the summer of 1995, Taco left the company after joining the military, and following his departure, several competent veteran drivers and helpers departed Atlas to work in different industries. Earmarked for a warehouse position, I received the bosses’ offer for Taco’s job.

The job guaranteed about fifty hours a week and health benefits but required changing from subcontractor to hourly employee. Paying more taxes and not working on the hundred-weight meant considerably less take-home pay and the need to sacrifice some dating and expensive clothing. Still, job security and benefits held appeal despite the compromise to lifestyle.

A call to Sherēm revealed his support despite feeling disappointed. “I hate losing you, but I like to think I led you to a better position. Working for Atlas can be a pain in the ass. You’ll lose the freedom you have on the trucks. Hopefully, I led you to the promised land and not to hell.”

Hanging up the phone at the end of the conversation left an uneasy feeling of the large change that promised benefit but required sacrifice. Working with Sherēm held enjoyment and educated: two things no job prior allowed simultaneously. Companies made many hollow promises, but after two and a half years, pay increases could only occur by becoming a driver or an employee. Taking the position felt like a huge loss, and after Reins, feelings of being unfocused on personal goals returned. Leaving the trucks to become an employee marked the end of an era but perhaps a new beginning.

The first day as an employee started with the warehouse manager and Diek giving a tour of the facility and overview of the warehouse responsibilities, but most importantly, they taught the value of side-work. Any job performed off the books but used company resources such as trucks and equipment constituted side-work. If the company did not take its cut, movers could offer significantly reduced labor rates to customers. This practice was probably as old as the moving business.

Warehousing side-work took many different forms, such as recycling, which entailed loading a semi with as much plastic or metal as possible and delivering the load to the recycling center to get paid. At the end of the first day, Diek approached and offered a wad of cash. “Hey man, here is your split for the furniture we sold today.” Earlier in the day, a visitor picked up some furniture which didn’t seem unusual until learning Diek sold her a storage account scheduled for disposal. This surprise brought some relief to the worry of the warehouse position’s loss of pay.

Becoming a warehouseman also meant learning many valuable skills such as driving forklifts, organizing racks, and driving trucks. The warehouse manager, Sadim, oversaw education, and under his tutelage, an extreme dislike for him arose. Sadim modeled the bosses, but efforts to stand on the superior rung of the company ladder failed since the warehouse manager title afforded only slight respect from office workers and bosses who viewed the position as subservient. They thought the same of Diek and me, but we didn't care, whereas Sadim did, and his aspiration produced a gruff, insulting, greedy, and petty disposition. “Now look, dummy. You need to learn to drive a tractor-trailer. Go to the dispatch and get the keys to truck number thirty-five.”

Doing as commanded, then following him through the yard, Sadim stopped in front of an old flat-nose truck and pointed to the rig. “Now get up in the truck and start driving it around the yard. Once you feel comfortable bobtailing, I’ll show you how to hook up the trailer.”

Unbelievably, Sadim scurried back to the warehouse, leaving me to learn to drive a semi on my own. Climbing and sitting in the monstrous machine, the dashboard stared back, offering no hint to the truck’s operation. She was old, strong, and reliable, holding close the secrets of her operation, but I eventually learned and discovered her history.

Born in Detroit, before the fall of Motor City, she rolled off the line in the late sixties or early seventies. She possessed a thunderous Detroit Diesel engine easily recognized by ear alone after hearing.

She shook like a jackhammer when idling, and when given gas, the engine howled like a wild beast ready to lunge. Using her clutch felt like riding a bronco out of a rodeo stall and letting off too fast with too much fuel made her leap from the parking space, bucking wildly around the yard.

She was a chariot for a titan. With no power steering, driving required sheer strength, but treating her without respect made her fight like a tiger fights a fool trying to ride her. But if handled with care, she plowed through all weather conditions, climbed any hill, and protected any load required of her.

Although still a force of nature, the bosses retired her to the yard to jockey trailers and teach people how to drive, having passed her prime for running the road. She came from an era and place where trucks lived forever, and although old and no longer capable of serving the needs of men, her heart, that Detroit Diesel roared and shook, longing for the road beneath her.

After truck thirty-five, driving other trucks seemed simple, but that first day, thirty-five made me earn her secrets. Clueless about her operation, the turn of the key started nothing but the dashboard lights, causing my forehead to rest on the wheel, knowing the day would be long.

Fifteen years working in the warehouse turned Sadim into a lazy piece of shit, and too much comfort in the manager position made him think dumping work on Diek and me acceptable. Along with dumping tasks on us, Sadim made us work every Saturday, and though used to working weekends, the expectation to work six days a week without some downtime felt like punishment, so I confronted Sadim, “Why do you make Diek and me work every Saturday when it only takes one person to run the Saturday crew? We both don’t need to be here.”

Sadim stared as if I went insane. “Vinnie, you ain’t a manager. You don’t have the authority to run a crew by yourself.”

This bullshit excuse hid his desire to ensure the completion of work while he took days off, and exhaustion and burnout began after only four months working in the warehouse. The need to solve the problem or quit motivated a request for a meeting with the owner, Diek, and Sadim to present a solution.

Unaware of my fluency in the language of bosses, Sadim stared in shock while I presented ideas as either good for the company or good for the boss. “I realize Saturdays are necessary workdays, but we can save money if Diek, Sadim, and I take turns managing the Saturday shift instead of both Diek and I working. As hourly employees, the company pays us overtime. That is two people earning overtime rather than one. If we need an extra worker, adding another subcontractor is still cheaper since you don’t pay them overtime.

“I feel confident in my ability to lead a Saturday crew. In the past four months, I learned to drive trucks, forklifts, and handle inbound and outbound freight.”

The owner appeared interested, but Sadim, not wishing to work any weekends, leaned forward. “But Vinnie isn’t a manager. He can’t be running the crews without being a manager.”

Sadim’s counterpoint accidentally argued me into a warehouse supervisor position and a small raise. With the work schedule reduced to about two Saturdays per month, the meeting adjourned with Diek patting me on the back. “Man, working in the warehouse is going to be great now.”

By December of 1995, working in the warehouse smoothed into a regular pace that still required working more hours than on the trucks and making less money, but at least most weekends and nights belonged to me.

Shortly after I started the warehouse position, Sissy informed Sherēm of his intention to obtain a Class A CDL to become a driver. Soon after Sissy’s announcement, Stan also left, which forced Sherēm to undertake the costly and time-consuming process of training a new crew. Sherēm and I shared an equal frustration and disappointment because Stan began working in the warehouse.

Prior to being scheduled in the warehouse, Stan began talking to Sadim and Diek, trying to worm his way into the warehouse, but thinking Stan would lose interest kept me uninvolved. This assumption’s error became apparent when Diek asked if Stan was a reliable worker, and knowing Stan to be one crack pipe away from complete unreliability, I tried to dissuade Diek. “Man, I don’t know about Stan. When he works, he’s good, but he still has trouble with drugs. He started calling in sick weekly the last six months we worked together on the trucks. Honestly, I can’t vouch for him.”

Diek nodded. “I’ll let Sadim know because he is thinking of using him as a subcontractor in the warehouse. I thought working him might be a bad idea, but I wanted to check. Thanks.”

Like most businesses, supervisors scheduled labor based on the number of people needed to complete the job, not what’s ideal. If the tasks required eight people, eight people appeared on the schedule, causing a problem when someone didn't show. On the trucks, we often muddled our way through Stan’s absence and hangovers, but in the warehouse, absent workers added hours to the workday. Believing the problem solved proved untrue when Sadim scheduled Stan for work, which prompted another discussion with Diek. “Diek, why did Sadim hire him? He’s going to break something or steal.”

“I know it seems like a dumb move, but in all fairness, we are constantly shorthanded. Sadim is just trying to cover the work.”

“I get it, Diek.”

Understanding the labor issue didn’t discourage a pointed discussion with Stan the morning of his first day. “Stan, I want to talk to you about the warehouse.”

“Wassup, man?” He smoked outside the warehouse, waiting to clock in.

I pointed to the warehouse. “This job isn’t like working on the truck. We don’t have downtime in the morning and afternoon driving to and from jobs. Warehouse work makes the day seem long. I also can’t play favorites with you because there are sometimes fifteen guys working here. If you start making a lot of mistakes or start calling in, we’re going to stop working you.”

Stan babbled like a crackhead, “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Don’t sweat it, man. I can do anything in here.”

Of course, Stan turned out to be one of the worst warehousemen making many careless mistakes and arriving late most days, but being shorthanded, we tolerated his BS. Stan remained fixed on my radar because of his potential to be a thief, and knowing this risk, he buddied with Sadim like a punk seeking protection in jail. Luckily for Stan, Sadim kept him safe from me: the hair-trigger packing the unemployment bullet.

Three years of working with Stan and other crackheads proved tiresome, and his lying evolved from simple story exaggeration to constant reporting of insignificant problems. Intended to reflect a concerned worker, these reports of minor wrongdoings formed smokescreens, shifting attention from him. Thieves used this tactic to camouflage thievery, and drug addicts use the strategy to hide using dope on the job.

Stan and Sadim plotted thick as thieves as they constantly held private conversations, which worried both Diek and me since major issues could easily blowback on us. Drug addicts and other thieves stole with amazing ingenuity, and three years of witnessing them hide electronics in dumpsters or place expensive goods against the door inside trailers to steal after work proved these people a danger. Often their inventiveness led to false accusations, which ended with the wrong people terminated as bosses opted for the scorch the earth method when unable to assign blame.

Not knowing the exact nature of Stan and Sadim's relationship led to frequent spying that wasted a lot of time. Sadim ascending to the warehouse manager position by thieving seemed unlikely, making drug and alcohol use the likeliest motive for secrecy. Their secret meetings often convened behind the warehouse racks, causing Diek or me to observe them for fear of losing our jobs due to their actions.

The first time witnessing their clandestine meetings, Raimo appeared beside me, mumbling while making rounds sweeping the floor. “Everyone endures the fate they make. Suffers the yoke of sinful mistake. The lies they tell will happiness take. Fate demands their soul’s eternal stake. Of those who steal, misery will take. Their endless sorrow will burn and wake. Sin will bite its master like a snake.”

Turning to Raimo, I shook my head. “I really hope not, Raimo.”