Wheels (5 page)

They went out of the office-Zaleski first, followed by the union
committeeman, with Frank Pa
rkland, dour and glowering, in the rear. As
theyclattered down the metal stairway from the office mezzanine to the factory
floor, the noise of the plant hit them solidly, like a barrage of bedlam.
The stairway at factory floor level was close to a section of assembly
line where early subassemblies were welded onto frames, becoming the
foundations on which finished cars would rest. The din at this point was
so intense that men working within a few feet of one another had to
shout, heads close together, to communicate. Around them, showers of
sparks flew upward and sideways in a pyrotechnic curtain of intense
white
blue. Volleys from welding machines and rivet guns were punctuated
by the constant hiss of the power tools' lifeblood-compressed air. And
central to everything, focus of activity like an ambling godhead
exacting tribute, the moving assembly line inched inexorably on.
The union committeeman fell in beside Zaleski as the trio moved forward
down the line. They were walking considerably faster than the assembly
line itself, so that cars they passed were progressively nearer
completion. There was a power plant in each chassis now, and immediately
ahead, a body shell was about to merge with a chassis sliding under it
in what auto assembly men called the "marriage act
.”

Matt Zaleski's eyes
swung over the scene, checking key points of operation, as he always
did, instinctively.
Heads went up, or turned, as the assistant plant manager, with Illas and
Parkland, continued down the line. There were a few greetings, though
not many, and Zaleski was aware of sour looks from most workers whom
they passed, white as well as black. He sensed a mood of resentment and
unrest. It happened occasionally in plants, sometimes without reason,
at other times through a minor cause, a
s if an eruption would have hap
pened anyway and was merely seeking the nearest
outlet. Sociologists, he knew, called it a reaction to unnatural monotony.
The union committeeman had his face set in a stern expression, perhaps to
indicate that he hobnobbed with management only through duty, but did not
enjoy it.
"How's it feel," Matt Zaleski asked him, "now you don't work on the line
anymore
.”

Illas said curtly, "Good
.”

Zaleski believed him. Outsiders who toured auto plants often assumed that
workers there became reconciled, in time, to the noise, smell, heat,
unrelenting pressure, and endless repetition of their jobs. Matt Zaleski
had heard touring visitors tell their children, as if speaking of inmates
of a zoo: 'They all get used to it. Most of them are happy at that kind
of work. They wouldn't want to do anything else
.”

When he h
eard it, he always wanted to cry out: "Kids, don't believe it!
It's a lie
.”

Zaleski knew, as did most others who were close to auto plants, that few
people who worked on factory production lines for long periods had ever
intended to make that work a lifetime's occupation. Usually, when hired,
they looked on the job as temporary until something better came along. But
to many-especially those with little education-the better job was always
out of reach, forever a delusive dream. Eventually a trap was sprung. It
was a two-pronged trap, with a worker's own commitments on one
side-marriage, children, rent,
instalment
payments-and on the other, the
fact that pay in the auto industry was high compared with jobs elsewhere.
But neither pay nor good fringe benefits could change the, grim,
dispiriting nature of the work. Much of it was physically hard, but the
greatest toll was mental-hour after hour, day after day of deadening
monotony. And the nature of their
jobs robbed individuals of pride. A man on a production line lacked a
sense of achievement; he never made a
car; he merely made, or put to
gether, pieces-addin
g a washer to a bolt, fa
stening a metal strip,
inserting screws. And always it was the identical washer or strip or
screws, over and over and over and over and over and over and over again,
while working conditions-including an overlay of noise-made communication
difficult, friendly association between individuals impossible. As years
went by, many, while hating, endured. Some had mental breakdowns. Almost
no one liked his work.
Thus, a production line worker's ambition, like that of a prisoner, was
centered on escape. Absenteeism was a way of partial escape; so was a
strike. Both brought excitement, a break in monotony-for the time being
the dominating drive.
Even now, the assistant plant manager realized, that drive might be
impossible to turn back.
He told Illas, "Remember, we made an agreement. Now, I want this thing
cleaned up fast
.”

The union man didn't answer, and Zaleski added, 'Today
should do you some good. You got what you wanted
.”

"Not all of it
.”

"All that mattered
.”

Behind their words was a f act of life which both men knew: An escape
route from the production line which some workers chose was through
election to a full-time union post, with a chance of moving upward in
UAW ranks. Illas, recently, had gone that way himself. But once elected,
a union man became a political creature; to survive he must be
re-elected, and between elections he maneuvered like a politician
courting f
avor with constituents. The workers around a union
committeeman were his voters, and he
strove to please them. Illas had that problem now. Zaleski asked him, "Where's
this character Newkirk
.”

They had come to the point on the assembly line where this morning's
blow-up had occurred.
Illas nodded toward an open area with several plastic-topped tables and
chairs, where line workers took their meal breaks. There was a bank of
vending machines for coffee, soft drinks, candy. A painted line on the
floor served in lieu of a surrounding wall. At the moment the only
occupant of the area was a husky, big-featured black man; smoke drifted
from a cigarette in his hand as he watched the trio which had just
arrived.
The assistant plant manager said, "All right, tell him he goes back to
work, and make sure you fill in all the rest. When you're through talking,
send him over to me. "

"Okay," Illas said. He stepped over the painted line and was smiling as
he sat down at the table with the big man.
Frank Parkland had already gone directly to a younger black man, still
working on the line. Parkland was talking earnestly. At first the other
looked uncomfortable, but soon after grinned sheepishly and nodded. The
foreman touched the younger man's shoulder and motioned in the direction
of Illas and Newkirk, still at the lunch area table, their heads close
together. The young assembly worker grinned again. The foreman put out his
hand; after hesitating briefly, the young man took it. Matt Zaleski found
himself wondering if he could have handled Parkland's part as gracefully
or as well.
"Hi, boss man !
"

The voice came from the far side of the assembly line.
Zaleski turned toward it.
It was an interior trim inspector, an old
timer on the line, a runtish man
with a face extraordinarily like that of Hitler. Inevitably, fellow
workers called him Adolf and, as if enjoying the joke, the employee-whose
real name Zaleski could never remember-even combed his short hair forward
over one eye.
"Hi, Adolf
.”

The assistant plant manager crossed to the other side of
the line, stepping carefully between a yellow convertible and a mist
green sedan. "How's body quality today
.”

"I've seen worse days, boss man. Remember the World Series
.”

"Don't remind me.~
World Series time and the opening days of the Michigan hunting season
were periods which auto production men dreaded. Absenteeism was at a
peak.; even foremen and supervisors were guilty of it. Quality
plummeted, and at World Series time the situation was worsened by
employees paying more attention to portable radios than to their jobs.
Matt Zaleski remembered that at the height of the 1968 Series, which the
Detroit Tigers won, he confided grimly to his wife, Freda-it was the
year before she died, I
wouldn't wish a car built today on my worst
enemy
.”

"This special's okay, anyway
.”

Adolf (or whatever his name was) had
hopped nimbly in and out of the mist-green sedan. Now, he turned his
attention to the car behind-a bright orange sports compact with white
bucket seats. 'Tet this one's for a blonde," Adolf shouted from inside
the car. "An' I'd like to be the one to screw her in it
.”

Matt Zaleski shouted back, "You've got a soft job already
.”

"I'd be softer after her
.”

The inspector emerged, rubbing his crotch and
leering; factory humor was seldom sophisticated.
The assistant plant manager returned the grin, knowing it was one of the
few human exchanges the worker would have during his eight
hour shift.
Adolf ducked into another car, checking its interior. It was true what
Zaleski had said a moment earlier: an inspector did have a softer job
than most others on the line, and usually got it through seniority. But
the job, which carried no extra pay and gave a man no real authority,
had disadvantages. If an inspector was conscientious and drew attention
to all bad work, he aroused the ire of fellow workers who could make
life miserable for him in othe
r ways. Foremen, too, took a dim
view of
what they conceived to be an overzealous inspector, resenting anything
which hold up their particular area of production. All foremen were
under pressure from superiors
including Matt Zaleski-to meet production
quotas, and foremen could, and often did, overrule inspectors. Around
an auto plant a classic phrase was a foreman's grunted, "Let it go," as
a substandard piece of equipment or work moved onward down the
line-sometimes to be caught by Quality Control, more often not.
In the meal break area, the union committeeman and Newkirk were getting
up from their table.
Matt Zaleski looked forward down the line; something about the
mist-green sedan, now several cars ahead, caused his interest to
sharpen. He decided to inspect that car more closely before it left the
plant.
Also down the line he could see Frank Parkland near his regular
foreman's station; presumably Parkland had gone back to his job,
assuming his own part in the now-settled dispute to be over. Well,
Zaleski supposed it was, though he suspected the foreman would find it
harder, from now on, to maintain discipline when he had to. But,
hell!
-everybody had their problems. Parkland would have to cope with
his.
As Matt Zaleski re
-
crossed the assembly line, Newkirk and the union
committeeman walked to
meet him. The black man moved casually; standing up, he seemed even bigger
than he had at the table. His facial features were large and prominent,
matching his build, and he was grinning.
Illas announced, "I've told Brother Newkirk about the decision I won for
him. He's agreed to go back to work and understands he'll be paid for
time lost
.”

The assistant plant manager nodded; he had no wish to rob the union man
of kudos, and if Illas wanted to make a small skirmish sound like the
Battle of the Overpass, Zaleski would not object. But be told Newkirk
sharply, "You can take the grin off. There's nothing funny
.”