Odd Jobs (10 page)

The meeting might be worthless but it should be interesting to learn what goes on. Also, the raw surprise when Jimmy Balducci sees me with the union guys should be worth the effort right there. I haven’t spoken to Mr. Balducci or his son Rich since he got me the job here. Every now and then I see Balducci from the distance, but I never approach him. Knowing one of the big shots might attract some resentment, and I’m all for limiting resentment.

The discussion comes to order in the break room around a large table. Balducci, sitting at one end, looks at me and says, “Now you’re bringing in the heavy guns. You guys are shameless. I can’t say ‘no’ to this kid. He’s practically family.”

Wally Strewgats says, “In that case, can we expect a 10 percent pay increase from management this year, Mr. Balducci?”

Balducci looks at Strewgats and says, “No.” He pauses for a second and adds, “Holy shit! That was easier than I thought.” Then Balducci lets out a huge, exaggerated belly laugh.

We all politely join in on the laugh.

The meeting is well choreographed and all the dancers follow their proper steps. First the pay raises are shot down. Health benefits get nixed next. Then Wally asks for COLA benefits. The fact that I was new to the scene added a little flavor for them. Wally says, “Now Kevin, it’s not that we are thirsty. COLA stands for cost of living adjustments.” Wally waits for some laughs. He smirks and looks around the table but his comments are met by the abyss.

Balducci basically speaks his well-rehearsed line in monotone. “Fellas, you know I want to help you out. Why wouldn’t I? The numbers are what they are and the cost to produce is outpacing production. Get me more efficient production. Bring that to the table and I can play ball with the benefits.”

Wally pleads, “C’mon! We need more than the usual one percent adjustment. We’re falling behind.”

“Wally, you know what’s happening all around this area. I can fire off the names of several unions that got crushed this year. Management just upped and moved the whole operation to where you can’t even smell a union. They closed the whole freakin’ factory and left everyone high and dry. It’s actually better to start from scratch than to be held hostage by the unions. I’m telling you something, cross my heart: we’ve been approached to move to Indianapolis. How ‘bout them apples? You don’t want to see 1,800 people without their jobs. Do you?”

“Mr. Balducci, don’t you think you’re playing a little harder here than usual? You may cause a panic,” Wally says.

“That’s not the intention. I’m telling you like I see it. Right now, I can offer a one-percent cost-of-living increase and maybe I can get an extra sick day added. Don’t kid yourself. Management had to deal with two strikes and one job action in the last 15 years, so don’t talk to me about hardball. You do what you got to do, but if you try to demand anything above that, I might be watching the Indianapolis 500 live and you may be drinking Mad Dog out of a paper bag while looking for a cardboard box to keep out the rain.”

“Okay, Mr. Balducci, we understand your position,” Wally mutters. “I’ll talk to the troops and circle back with you.”

“Good. I look forward to getting it wrapped up so we can look ahead.”

Everyone stands up and shakes hands. When I shake Mr. Balducci’s hand, he holds on and pulls me off to the side. Balducci looks at me squarely and says, “Good to see you. How you holding up?”

“Fine. It’s a great job. I can’t thank you enough for getting me in here,” I say.

“Are the guys treating you well?” Balducci asks.

“Yeah, perfect. It’s really been great.”

“Shut the fuck up. I heard all about it.”

“Everything?” I ask.

“Yeah, I really know everything. Including how you kicked ass in the Industrial Road bouts. Nice job. Look, I’ve been watching, and you’re not just a line worker. On your own you managed to get in with management and union leaders. You’re a smart kid, always were. You were great to my boy at Remington Academy, and I’m not sure how he would have done there if you didn’t look after him. Why not start toning down the macho crap and start relying more on your brain? Let your head start carrying the load.”

“You always make a lot of sense. I’m trying.”

“Try a little harder, except tomorrow. I know you’re fighting again tomorrow, and I’m putting a lot of cash on you. I can’t be there, because I can’t know about it. But I figure since I got you in here, I might as well make a few bucks.”

We shake hands again and say goodbye. When I get outside I notice Sal, Frank and Sev talking. Wally must be back in Wally-World. Sal and Frank are trying to talk Sev into stopping by H’s place for a quick lunch and a few “rinses” to make the day go a little better. Sev’s not really in the mood, though. A meeting like we just had must be hard for Sev to swallow. It’s like this place is draining and stealing souls. Balducci wants more production before he’ll fork over benefits. Yet there is more production than they’re seeing. Every single day so many boxes just up and disappear. That extra nut would add a lot to both company profits and ammo for union benefits. I imagine Sev can’t help caring. For Sev, professionally and personally, that lost potential must make him feel helpless. A meeting like we just had will magnify that feeling.

CHAPTER 8

The next match goes real well. My opponent telegraphs his punches. He’s shorter, lighter, slower and dumber than Butch. Maybe I have delusions of grandeur, but this guy is easy. I see his punches from a mile away. Whenever you start a match, there’s always a “feeling out” period, you know, a little testing. I’m flinging out some test jabs to get going, and they’re actually landing. Christ, has anyone ever taught this guy to block?

My trainer for the club fights in college, Tagasumi Wui, always preached “brocking.” “You must brock punch. Concentrate on the four B’s. No booze, no broad, no bongs and always brock. I get girl call me up: ‘my boyfriend so upset you no teach him to brock. He no make love to me anymore.’ I get mother call me up: ‘You bad trainer. My son so ugly now. Why you no teach him to brock?’ But that is what I teach you here, and you must listen to how to brock, so I get no bad phone call!”

It made sense to me then and would have made sense to this clown I’m fighting. I drop him in under four minutes. I spent all that time getting in shape and getting some wind back and it didn’t even matter. I hardly have a sweat going.

I’m surprised how short this lasted and I’m actually a little disappointed, which is strange. I always say I do this kinda stuff just for the money, but clearly I’ve got some other issues driving me.

At least I can enjoy my win tonight. The last time I fought I was too freakin’ exhausted. There’s a pretty good crowd at the Locomotive Breath. Plenty of guys are buying me drinks, even some guys from some of the other factories. I’m having a damn good time. I’m
even starting to like the classic rock blaring through the place.

A bunch of guys from Kosher World with their arms around each other’s shoulders are singing Van Morrison’s Brown-Eyed Girl. They are really lit. It’s all good, but something’s very weird about hard-ass factory workers belting out the chorus, going “Sha-na-na-na-na lah-tee-da.”

H calls to me from the bar and offers me a brew on the house. He hands me the beer and looks at the factory workers, still singing. He says, “You want to know why this song is so righteous, Kevin?”

“Lay it on me, H. Give me something from the rock ‘n’ roll pulpit.”

“Listen up, son.” H has obviously been having a few himself tonight. “Everyone has that brown-eyed girl in his past. Everyone’s got one. She don’t have to have brown eyes, mind you. It
could be blue eyes or bloodshot eyes, but you know, she’s the girl that got away, the one you miss. She makes you think of another place, and for some reason, you like that place better.”

With that profound thought, H lets out a huge belch. The man might look like a wet dog, and that burp certainly smells worse than any wet dog, but I have to admit the guy makes sense. Hell, I’m only 21 and I got one of those girls already. I guess C.W. Wellington is my brown-eyed girl. It’s a good thing the song is ending; I kinda feel like joining the fellas in singing now.

I leave the bar at around 10 p.m. I might be on the gravy shift but I still have to get some sleep. I left my important crap like my keys and wallet in the Kosher World locker room. I grab my stuff from the locker and head toward the back exit to the car. I didn’t want to deal with the bus after the fight tonight, so I borrowed my mother’s car today. Then I see some guys moving something. It’s a strange time of night to see things being loaded on a truck. That is, unless it’s the merchandise that’s always being separated. In
that case, it makes perfect sense.

As I watch, a ton of stuff is loaded onto independent trucks. It’s taking a while and these guys are moving like it’s broad daylight, nothing sinister, just business as usual. I even recognize some of them as guys from Kosher World. Nobody I know personally, but guys I’ve seen around.

When they finish, the supervisor takes out a wad of cash and begins dispensing it among the workers. I go out to my car unnoticed, pull out of the lot and wait. After waiting for 15 minutes, I notice the independent trucks pull out and head for the Long Island Expressway. I’m following them.

The trucks are on the L.I.E. for just a few minutes. I’m behind a few cars. The trucks get off at the Springfield exit and so do I. We start making some quick turns. I don’t really know the streets; I just know I am somewhere in Bayside, Queens, or maybe Flushing. We pull into a neighborhood strip mall that is empty at this time of night.

I don’t want to follow them into the parking lot; it would be obvious, as the place is deserted. I park on the street by a meter. I slowly walk around the back to get a view but I’m careful not to be spotted.

They don’t waste any time. When I get back there, the stuff’s already being unloaded. There are two guys, one wearing a hooded sweatshirt and the other a pullover sweatshirt and a wool hat. The meat is going into a freezer here. This isn’t that big a store; it looks like a normal-size local meat market. They’ve been at this awhile. Are there more stops for this truck? The independent truck is packed with enough food for 20 of these stores. I need to get closer to see what’s going on. I am amazed that they are cleaning this truck out, all for this store.

“Yo,” a voice from behind says.

I turn around and take a punch square in my nose. Blood spurts and my eyes start tearing. Before I have any chance to react, two more punches hit my face. Christ, I go a whole fight at the Industrial Road bouts without a scratch tonight and this guy starts pounding me. Actually, there is more than one. As I lie on the ground I feel some kicks in my ribs and I know it’s got to be more than two feet hitting me. They are barking something at me but I’m not all here right now; I can’t make out what they’re saying.

They drag me toward the meat market. When I struggle and try to break free, I get punched in the head and kneed in my stomach. This is bad.

They bring me inside. Two guys are holding me down while the guy in the hooded sweatshirt starts taping my hands together with packaging tape. Then he begins taping my ankles together. I am lying here helpless. I got to get my shit together. I feel myself start blacking out. I got to hold on.

I am so uncomfortable from the cold. I can taste my blood. I see the Kosher World logo all around me. This is the freezer inside the meat market. Shit, can I feel any worse than this? I’m blacking out again.

I’m not in the freezer anymore. This is the back of the meat market. I hear someone talking to me; but what’s he saying? I recognize him. It’s the same guy who was staring at me outside Kosher World a couple of weeks back. He’s wearing the same light blue baggy warm-up suit and big gold chains. He still has a scraggly, blondish beard. I can’t understand this guy because his English sucks. He’s got some sort of Russian accent. But he’s trying to sound like a hip-hop guy.

“What up, Dawg? You not happy with your cut from the bout tonight? Looking to get in on some of my action?”

I look at him and try to shrug like I don’t understand. I’m not even sure
I
can shrug. I’m starting to wake up a bit, though I can’t fuckin’ move.