Chapter 3
Blue Collar
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    There was a time, all those years ago, when the Majestic Assembly Plant was the largest employer in Atlanta.  The employees were an unpolished sort of lot consisting of Negroes and Caucasians.  They had their own identity and even language to some extent.  Those who worked the transmission lifts were called "transtotes," those who assembled the electrical systems were "edisons," and still others who installed the engines were "locos," - short for locomotives.  Most of them lived in a group of small, open-foundation, shotgun houses on a few streets around the plant.  Those who lived on Avenue A were called "axels" and Avenue B "brakebums."  Even though they all worked in an automobile plant, very few owned one, which is just as well, because there were no driveways and the streets were too narrow to park a car. The neighborhood came to be known as "The Blue Line," because all the houses were occupied by blue collar workers and were built very close together and side-by-side.  There were a few grocery and drug stores on the corners, and hardly anyone ever left the community.
    Now, all that has changed along with everything else in Atlanta.  Some of the houses are very run down while others are maintained to some degree and, like so many people, are still trying to hold on to the way Atlanta once was.  The Mexican and Oriental employees live in their own neighborhoods and stand as living testimonials to the erroneous belief that people who don't even speak the same language were somehow supposed to blend together and thus continue the kinship that was once so much a part of The Blue Line.
    About the only thing that hasn't changed is the Blue Line Tavern, standing there where it has for decades with its long bar and brass foot rail, the large wooden booths, ceiling fans and a number of beer neon signs on the walls.  Unlike so many other such places, there is no happy hour on Friday night.  On a workday, most of the employees are too tired and dirty and go straight home.  What self-respecting woman wants to be picked up by a sweaty stud with grease on his shirt and the scent of gasoline on his hands.  On Saturdays, the number of clients in The Blue Line Tavern always far exceeds the maximum number on its business license.  The police no longer have the inclination to look after such matters and are usually too busy answering any number of calls ranging from burglary, domestic violence and the almost daily clashes between the Chytinos, a racial mix between Oriental and Mexican, and the Indicos, a racial mix between other forms of Spanish speaking persons and Indians.
    Perhaps what draws so many to The Blue Line Tavern is nostalgia, a momentary escape from all the worries of a failing economy, racial strife and the threat of being laid-off.  This Saturday night is the same as all the rest.  There are all types of people.  Those on their way up in their lives and careers and those on the way down.  Still other lives are at an inert condition, unlikely to move up or down.  In any event, if only for awhile, they all symbolize the same "social status."  There is loud music, boisterous laughter and muffled conversations of transitory sexual encounters, which for some can offer a misapprehension of self-confidence and hardly be expected to result in any form of lasting relationship.  Then too, some are not even sure where they stand in their own lives.  It isn't a question of up, down or stationary.  They just know they want something but are not sure what.
    Franklin is seated at the bar with Bubba Hughes and Tilden Morris, quite a contrast to say the least.  Bubba is overweight, has dirty blond hair, a beard and mustache and is wearing a work shirt that has had so much grease on it for so long, it won't come clean - at least not in the equipment at The Blue Line Coin Laundry.  Tilden is quite different from Bubba and everyone else in The Blue Line for that matter.  He is the only one wearing a tie, is clean-shaven, has moderate length, well-groomed hair and color-coordinated pants and shirt.  
    Bubba takes a long swig of beer, looks at Tilden and asks, "What are they saying up in the front office where you work?  Is the plant gonna be closed?"
    Tilden has none of the mannerism of an assembly line worker and hasn't lived in Atlanta long enough to develop some of the unpleasant traits ultimately produced by worry, an uncertain future and above all, an unwillingness to be swept away from what little remains of what at one time was known as "southern charm."  Now, there is no charm.  Only the racial barriers within the city.  He tries to avoid getting Bubba started on any number of tangents and says, "I think it's going to be closed or at least substantially changed.  The old Local 61 Labor Union made so many demands, that Spanish labor union that was formed a year or so ago has many of the jobs.  Now, Quality Control says so many errors are being made on the line, they're having to run the vehicles through 2 and 3 times.  We haven't met our production schedule for the last 3 months, which is just as well.  Hardly any of the dealers can move the vehicles they already have."
    Bubba already has his mouth open but not wanting to hear him, Franklin says, "I've got to admit, it's mostly our own fault.  I was on the council in the union for a long time and even I could see where the wage demands were going to lead.  That goddamn strike is what did it.  That's when all the wetbacks showed up.  Detroit broke the union and got labor at less than half what they were paying before.  It all had something to do with progressive statistics."
    Bubba hurriedly swallows his beer and blates, "What in the hell is progressive statistics."
    Tilden seems anxious to employ his economics major and expand on present business theory.  "Let's face it.  The manufacturing industry in the United States is ruined.  It's not only poor production quality.  Due to the turn in the stock market for the past few years, everyone's  operating with as few employees as possible and cutting as many time-consuming practices that do not necessarily contribute to the bottom line."
    "The bottom line?" Bubba asks, as if he has never heard the term.
    Franklin feels it necessary to say, "That's what's left after all the material, labor and tax costs are paid, Bubba."
    Tilden resumes his explanation.  "Many of the trade magazines and business schools have got this idea that procedures should be driven exclusively by profit margin.  Once a reasonable profit margin is established, lay-offs start and 'unnecessary procedures' are cut or even eliminated.  How many times have you called about something you bought somewhere, only to receive a recording that didn't give you an option that would answer your question?  The theory of progressive statistics is that if service levels and expenses are reduced to the absolute minimum, the profit margin will increase and exceed the loss of income due to loss of customers because of  poor service.  I saw a study one company did.  All these electronic things they have now allows them to do jobs once done by people.  Somehow they figured out that 75% of the people who were unsatisfied with a product and called about it never would call again, even though no one answered their question.  Try it sometime.  Call the phone company or gas company.  See if you can get to anyone to answer anything not on the automated menu.  As long as the profit margin continues, the theory is service levels are of little concern."
    Untypical of his usual self, Bubba asks a sensible question.  "Eventually, won't all the customers all go away."
    "No, not as long as all the competitors are operating under the same theory.  Especially in such fields as insurance, if someone can afford it, he's scared to change to another company and lose his longevity."
   Bubba starts to take another swallow of beer but sits down the glass, looks at Franklin and asks, "What longevity?"
   "That's the length of time someone has remained with one company," Franklin responds.
   For a moment, Bubba looks very thoughtful before finally saying, "Oh."
    Tilden really hadn't expected to quite fit in with the rugged, dirty hands workers, especially since he's an accountant and subject to the normal verbal abuse from the line workers about being a "candy ass that puts a condom on his finger."  He's eager to blend in and continues, "I don't know if that's all there is to it in our case in the plant."  He likes the tone of "our."  It adds to the blend he hadn't expected.  "Remember a few months ago when those agitators from - where did they say?  Oh yes, the National American Association To Recover Rights (N Double A RR).  They tried to get everyone worked up and go on some kind of march from Atlanta to Selma, Alabama to protest the loss of so many jobs to immigrants - like walking a hundred miles in the rain would accomplish something.  They got a bunch of people signed up, and it was no coincidence most of them were  laid off the next week.  The same thing happened over there at the parts warehouse."
    Bubba is immediately angry.  "Damn it!  I signed up.  This fucking discrimination has gone far enough.  I mean just because I'm white and a labor union member don't mean I shouldn't have equal rights to a job."
    Tilden is fascinated that he is in such a strange environment and doing surprisingly well in the uncouth exchange.  "Try to explain that to those in payroll.  I'd be careful who you tell you signed up with the NAARR, or you might find yourself out there with the pickets everyday carrying a sign about unfair labor practice and racial profiling in job assignments - or I suppose I should say layoffs."
    Franklin doesn't want be reminded of, from all practical appearances, his dim career outlook.  His brothers always laughed at him when he spoke of his career.  They maintained he didn't have a career - just a job.  In an effort to change the direction of the depressing conversation, he asks, "What ever happened to the plans for that prototype vehicle engineering was developing a while back?  I never heard anything else about that."
    Everyone is somewhat surprised when Bubba seems to know the full story and speaks up as he drags his hand across his mouth and wipes the beer on his pants.  "Hell, they had a line all set up down there in the 3300 building.  All the machinery was re-tooled and ready to start putting out a few models for advertising to use a few months before the model year change."
    Bubba's dissertation stops as quickly as it began, and it takes a few moments for everyone to realize he has spoken all he knows.  It usually takes a very short period of time for him to offer all the information he knows about anything.
    Again, Tilden is delighted at the part he is taking.  "I heard all about that.  Detroit didn't go for it.  They said the public would never buy a vehicle that didn't have an aerodynamic design and rounded edges.  They thought the body style was far too outdated to embark on an 'ill-advised experiment,' as they put it."
   Franklin is surprised.  "You mean all that set-up work is just sitting there."
   "That's right."  Tilden says nothing else and is enjoying the unsettling effect he is having on the line workers when he fully expected it would be he receiving abuse from them.
   Finally, Bubba makes what is a very astute and articulate observation.  "Ain't that some shit."
    There is the sound of a group of motorcycles in the parking lot.  In a few moments, a group of very rough and mean-looking individuals enters the building.  All eyes focus on the menacing figure at the front of them.  He must stand 6' 3", has a Mohawk haircut, blue jeans with motorcycle boots, a sleeveless black t-shirt that reveals a  black tattoo of some kind of animal that seems to be crawling up his arm with claws extended, leaving red tattooed blood trickling down.
    Almost in a whisper, Tilden asks, "Who is that?"
    "Mickey Somebody," Bubba responds.
    "Mickey who?"
    "Mickey Somebody."
    Tilden head turns to one side and then back towards Mickey.  "Is that his real name?"
    "Yes."
    Bubba shows an uncommon perception that Tilden doesn't understand how someone has such an unusual name and says, "Oh, yeah.  His mother lived in one of those houses just outside the Blue Line.  She was screwing every swinging mother's son and didn't know who the father was when he was born, so she just named him Somebody."
    Tilden's confusion seems to grow, and he asks, "Didn't she know about DNA testing?"
    "Oh, yeah.  She knew about that.  According to Mickey, she didn't care who the father was.  None of the son of a bitches was worth a damn, and she knew all of them were too goddamn sorry to help her with him anyway."
    "What did she do?"
    "She got a job in public relations."
    Tilden's confusion continues to grow.  "How could...."
    Franklin reaches out and touches Tilden's arm before saying, "She became a whore.  She must have been a good lay.  She just kept on doing what she had been except she started making good money.  You've heard people speak of lost opportunities and stuff like that.  Sometimes people have a talent and never realize it."
    Tilden stares at Mickey but after having received what seems a plausible explanation, says nothing else.
    Mickey looks around the room and his eyes come to a sudden halt.  There is a man standing at the side of a very attractive woman at the end of the bar.  He walks over to his side, knocks the man aside with his hip and starts talking to the woman.  It isn't clear from her reaction if she knows him, is afraid of him or curious enough to just stand there and see what happens next.  Curiosity adds much to sex drive but can only take the man so far.  After that, his skill as a lover must take over and either soar or crash in some passionate embrace.
    Tilden, Bubba and Franklin look at them for a moment before Franklin says, "I think they ought to issue tags at the door to clarify what someone expects from coming in here.  Something like, 'I want to be left alone,' I want to discuss the theory of relativity,' or 'I need to dip my wick.'  Of course, for the women, it would need to say, 'I've got a wet pussy.'"
    Tilden observes, "That would take the romance out of it."
    Bubba exhales and says, "Shiiiit."
    Very few in the bar are alone.  Most are in small groups, drinking, laughing and looking at the several VCRs playing tapes of some of those hip hop and soul groups in freakish clothes, odd facial ornamentation and hair so long it dances up and down with their gyrations as they emit a sound generally accepted by the modern world as music.
  Quite a few minutes ago,  Franklin noticed a woman sitting by herself and offering a slight smile each time he made eye contact with her.  She has a beer in front of her but isn't drinking it.  A man with shoulder-length hair and shirt hanging out of his pants sits down beside her, leans over and whispers something in her ear.  She immediately becomes nervous and takes a sip of the beer before flinching at the bitter taste and shaking her head without looking at him.  As he gets up and walks away, she immediately looks back at Franklin.
    Bubba says, "Hey, Franklin.  I think that woman wants to know how long your prick is.  She's been staring at you."
    Somehow, she seems out of place and the apparent efforts she has made to blend in with the surroundings appear to confirm that.  She's about 30, has no makeup, is wearing a white sweater that is unbuttoned to the top of her brassier, revealing some cleavage.  The sweater stops about 4 inches above her pants, obviously intended to display a flat stomach.  She is wearing white jogging shoes, white socks and peddle-pushers extending just below the knees of her athletic legs.  Her brown hair is short with bangs over her forehead. 
    Franklin makes direct eye contact with her.  Nervously, she turns her head to one side but immediately looks back at him.  Franklin says, "I know that look.  I'll bet she's just lost a boyfriend of went through a divorce."
    "What are you?  A fucking mind-reader or something?"  is Bubba's unpolished response.
    Franklin shakes his head and asks Tilden, "Why did you come in here?  You've never been here before."
    Bubba snickers as he gulps his beer and blows a stream of suds onto the bar.  "Why Franklin, don't you recognize that look.  He just lost a girlfriend."  He takes another gulp and resumes the snicker, "Psssshst."
    Tilden is looking at a woman across the room dressed in an exercise suit, with halter and oozing breasts at its top.  She has shoulder-length, bleached hair drawn back in a pony-tail, and her tight pants perfectly outline shapely legs and the curvature of her vulva.
    Franklin says, "Don't even think about it, Tilden.  That's Elizabeth.  Everyone on the assembly line can tell you  she's too wild for the front office type and  prefers something really crude, like that number over there."  He points to a man attentively looking at the video who has unwashed hair, is slender and has a full beard and mustache. He observes an increase in Tilden's interest and goes on.  "See that pony-tail.  She always takes that down before intercourse and wraps her legs around you so tight you can't breathe.  She stays ready all the time and can get her gun as many times as you can hold on to her.  She's a nymphomaniac and never screws the same man twice."
    Tilden's head swings towards Franklin, and he says, "Gets her gun?"
    Bubba blows some more beer on the bar, wipes his mouth with his shirt sleeve and says, "Damn, don't you know anything.  Gets her organism, dumbass."
    About then, another man sits down beside the woman who has been staring at Franklin.  He stays with her a little longer than the previous one but finally gets up and leaves.  Her attention immediately turns back to Franklin who turns back to say something to Tilden but he isn't there.  He's sitting beside Elizabeth, and both of them are in an engrossing conversation.
    Franklin mumbles to himself, "What the hell," gets up and starts walking towards the woman.  He tries to think what he should say when he sits down beside her but his attention turns away from that when a smile comes to her face, and she moves the barstool closer to her for him to sit down.  Before he says anything, he notices 2 things.  The pulse in her neck is rapid, suggesting she is nervous or excited about meeting him, and the slight discoloration on her ring finger that seems to verify what he thought the moment he saw her staring at him.  She's a divorcee, has gone without sex for awhile and is looking for an experience.
    "I've been hoping you would come over," she says.  "Jo Ann Starnes.  This is my first time here."
    "Franklin Earnshaw.  I thought it might be your first time.  Somehow, you...you look a little out of place." 
    She thinks a moment before saying, "I felt a need for a change."
    Women in places such as the Blue Line Tavern say all sorts of things when a man approaches them. With the exception of a few such as Elizabeth, it isn't immediately obvious what they want.  They seem to enjoy not being the aggressor and like to have men chase after them, often making all sorts of tantalizing gestures, sometimes only to test how strong a man is attracted to them.
    Franklin asks, "Are you from the Blue Line?"
    "No, I live a few miles away.  I haven't been in Atlanta very long."
    "What sort of work do you do?"
    "Well, I'm a little late in starting a career.  I'm a sales clerk over at Ramsey's Department Store.  I stayed at home until I got divor....."
    Franklin immediately sees she doesn't want to go into the details of what must have been a very bad experience and quickly changes the subject.  "I don't know if you would call it a career or not but I've worked on the assembly line over at the plant for a long time.  It's the only job I've ever had."
    Just then, loud and booming music breaks out and some of the men start hooting and doing what appears an improvised dance number between the tables.
    "I know somewhere a little quieter where we could talk," Franklin says, delighted he won't have to engineer some contrived innovation to get her away from the bar.
    "That would be nice," she says, gets up and starts for the door, leaving him momentarily sitting on the bar stool by himself.
    She didn't question him on where they were going, and it isn't until they are in his car he realizes he doesn't know himself.
    "This is such a quaint little neighborhood," she says, looking at some of the better maintained houses as they drive along.  "Oh....do you live on the Blue Line?"
    "Yes, only a block or so away."
    "In one of these little houses?"
    "Yes.
    "Can I see it?"
    Franklin is surprised.  Getting a woman he has just met to his house is usually a multi-step process, often requiring skillful imagination, but now the procedure is going on its own. Sometimes, when he and a pickup know exactly what the other wants, they begin ripping off each others clothes before the door is closed. By the time they reach his house, however, he decides he will let her lead him into wherever she hopes the evening will go. He is careful to be especially polite, asks her if she wants a beer and isn't surprised when she says no.  As he sits down, some 3 feet away form her, he says, "I didn't think you drank.  You took only took a sip or 2 of your drink in the bar."
    She seems delighted.  "Then you were watching me."  She pauses and appears searching for something to say.  "You were the only one I saw in the bar I felt as though I would like to meet.  I hope you don't think I'm too forward.  I mean...."
    Franklin sees she has created an awkward moment in the conversation and doesn't know what to say next, so he says, "I don't see anything wrong with a woman who wants to meet a man.  In fact, you could say there would be something wrong with her if she didn't"
    She laughs but Franklin still is undecided as to what she really wants and what he should do next.  He turns on the television news for a few minutes, and she continues to nudge closer to him on the sofa until at last, she is sitting with her shoulders touching his.  He looks at her directly in the eyes and rubs his cheek across hers.  She exhales, puts her head on his shoulder and says, "I'm glad we met."
    Gently, he kisses her cheek, and she slips her arm around his neck, drawing even closer to him.  He caresses her cheek, and she kisses him, moving her head from side to side before again placing her head on his shoulder and sighing, "uummm."
    He says, "Don't go away," and walks into the powder room, an amenity few of the other houses in the Blue Line have.  He never saw the need for the original closet and had it converted into a power room to serve well in situations of the sort he now finds himself.  As he slips off his clothes and puts on a silky, black pair of shorts, he hears the water running in the bathroom but is still uncertain what to expect when he walks through what has suddenly become a dark house, save the small night light now on in the bedroom.
    Franklin has always had his way with women who find him very appealing.  Such availability has never yielded to a need to fall in love or even date the same woman for any length of time.  Many times, finding a way to end a relationship has required an even greater need for innovation than getting the woman in bed to begin with.  Even so, before now,  he has never felt it was the woman that was trying to get him in bed at the outset.
    He finds her sitting on his bed, only dressed in a black brassier and black panties.  When she sees him, she immediately stands and walks towards him with her arms extended, then literally falling into his arms and placing her arms tightly around his neck.  He alternates rubbing both his cheeks against hers and holds her tightly for a moment.  He can feel her rapid heartbeats in her neck.  She locks one of her ankles around his, slips her hands down to his hips and begins gently moving her abdomen across his.  When she feels his erection firmly pressed against her body, her breathing changes into short gasps and she begins passionately kissing him.  Abruptly, she stop and pulls down his shorts, exposing a large organ, now fully extended and barely touching her stomach.  He bends his knees and drags the organ between her legs and up her stomach.
    She steps back, glances down and says, "Gosh," before beginning to drag her palms across his pectoral muscles and down to his abdomen.  As he slips off her brassier, she pulls his head down between her breasts and exhales heavily as he drags his tongue across her nipples.
    Franklin is experienced enough with women to know exactly what she expects but he doesn't take on such a  rough and clawing type technique.  Gently, she pushes her on to the bed where she immediately lays down and again extends her arms out to him.  He lays down at her side and says, "The first thing you said to me was that you were glad I came over.  It took me awhile to realize how lucky I am that we met." Being careful to remain very gentle, he draws her closer to him, brushes her bangs to the side and barely touches her lips as he kisses her.  He rubs his fingertips across her cheek, down between her breasts and to the top of her vulva where he makes several gentle caresses. 
    As she slips over on her back, he continues the same gentle caresses on the inside of her thighs.  She seems surprised at his technique but her eyes convey her total captivation.  Her aggression stops, and she allows Franklin to continue his tender foreplay as her passion slowly builds to the point her nipples are fully erect and her vagina well-lubricated.  Saying nothing, she reaches for his organ and spreads her legs.  Franklin makes several short strokes across the clitoris, also fully erect, before slowly sliding his organ down into the vagina.
    Her eyes sparkle in the nightlight as she gasps, "Oooohhh."
    Being ever so cautious to remain gentle and not take on the rough-neck manner she expected, he makes several slow, full strokes into the vagina before slowing rotating his body from side to side, propping up on his elbows and looking straight into her eyes.  He smiles, again gently kissing her with his lips barely touching hers.  She smiles, drags her tongue across his neck and begins the same side to side motion with her hips.  He reaches to her side, grasps her hand, brings it to his lips and kisses it.  She brings her head off the pillow and draws her neck close to his with her other hand, wraps both legs around his lower legs and says, "Oh, this is wonderful."
    Carefully, he places her head back on the pillow, props up on his hands and never removing his eyes from hers, begins slow, rotating full strokes into the vagina.  She places her legs back on the bed and spreads her legs slightly wider, all the while with each sighing breath gasping, "Unngghh, ungghh, uuuuugggghhhh."
    He coaxes her building passion with soft, gentle strokes until she pulls him back down on top of her.  She sighs, "Oh, oohh, ooohhh," and claws at his back before both arms fall flat on the bed and her body begins to pulsate in a full vaginal organism.  Quickly she embraces him, drawing every inch of her body as close as she can to his and begins rapid up and down movements until Franklin reaches a gushing climax.  She almost screams and goes into another organism.
    Slowly, Franklin makes a few more strokes, knowing a woman's excitement does not immediately cease with an organism.  He remains on top of her for a few moments, still gently kissing her and brushing back her bangs.  As he lays back down beside her, she places her head on his shoulder and one leg across him.  They both fall into a sound sleep.

________________

    Tilden's warm sperm erupts down the sides of Elizabeth's vagina as she wildly pushes her body up and down with her ankles in her second organism and clutches his arms, drawing him higher onto her body.  She says nothing as he releases his embrace, removes his organ and sits back on his ankles while still between her legs.  She continues to say nothing and only stares at him - much the same as someone who has heard something for the first time and is having trouble believing it.  She expected some bang, bang performance that didn't nearly satisfy her "never being able to get enough" drive but this was so different.  Tilden made no distasteful comments when he picked her up and didn't have the scent of alcohol or tobacco on his breath.  He had no offensive beard and his trim physique brought her excitement to a new level.  She doesn't quite understand how she feels.  She is completely satisfied but at the same time, knows she will want to make love to him over and over again.  A revealing thought comes over her.  She's always told the girls at the plant something like, "I wasn't laid very good last night," or "His prick didn't stay hard long enough for me to get what I needed."  Then, she realizes that before, she has always referred to such encounters as "screwing" or "fucking that little whimp from the parts department." This is the first time "making love" seems fitting for what she has just done.
    Tilden lays back down beside her, turns her over on her side and pats the side of her face.  Finally, she says, "You're....you're different."

________________

    Jo Ann Starnes sits on her living room sofa, glaring at her reflection in the blank TV screen.  Her first trip to the Blue Line Tavern didn't turn out nearly as though she had planned.  She was hurt by her divorce - so much so she simply wanted a way to strike back at what she felt was an undeserved dejection.  All she thought she needed was a brief encounter that would fill her need to be with a man but at the same time, leave her ashamed enough not to want to repeat the experience with any regularity.  Now, she can't get Franklin out of her mind.  During the many times she thinks of him during the day, she wonders what he is doing at that moment.  She can't keep recreating that time she spent in his bed; and worst of all, she is tormented by the imagined images of him making love to some other woman, just as he had to her.  She holds her hands in front of her face.  They are trembling, and she has an unsettled feeling in her stomach.  There is a quiver in her throat when she reaches for her telephone to call him, but she draws it back as though it had burned her fingers.
    The telephone rings and sharp sensations sprint the length of her body when she hears his voice.  "Jo Ann.  Franklin - I've got this new recipe I need to try out on someone.  Can you come over Friday night and let me try it out on you?  If you don't like the way it looks, we can go somewhere else and eat."
    Her body relaxes, as though air escaping a tire.  She can barely maintain a steady voice when she says, "That would be nice."

________________

    Elizabeth isn't paying much attention to the material requests as she fills the boxes for delivery to the assembly line.  Several of the other women come up to her, as they always do after she has allowed herself to be taken off from the Blue Line Tavern to who knows where - sometimes a setting as primitive as the back seat of a car.  That one time she got screwed wrapped up in a quilt at the bottom of Stone Mountain showed originality if nothing else.
    One of them says, "How did it go with sissy pants?" 
    They all seem surprised when she does not offer her usual critique and only says, "Some things are best done and not talked about."
    Another one of the women says, "Oh, I think I get it," places a screw driver between her legs and starts moving it up and down like an erection.

________________

    There are 2 short and 1 long blast from the bullhorn indicating a floor meeting at the plant.  The workers throw down their gear, making various rattling sounds and some curse under their breath at the imminent requirement they listen to something with which they are sure to disagree.
    Bubba's gut hangs down over his belt, he keeps pulling up his pants on the way to the meeting area and says, "They're probably going to announce I've been made president of the company."
    The mumbling takes on a much different tone when everyone sees Robert Michelson, the regional mananger, standing at the side of some front office type and George Banks, the floor manager.  Bubba looks at Michelson and mumbles, "I wonder what that fucker's doing here.  He can shake your hand and pick your pocket at the same time."
    In a much more thoughtful tone, Franklin says, "I think I know what he's doing here, and I'm afraid it's worse than picking your pocket."
    All the line workers are apprehensive, and the undertones immediately die down.  The floor manager steps slightly forward and says, "There's been a lot of rumors for months and months about the future of the company and more specifically how it will effect this plant.  The only way I know to put it is that the truth is worse than the rumors.  I'm sorry to have to tell you that our plant will be closed in 6 weeks."
    Blue collar workers have a unique way of expressing themselves.  Many times, the terminology lacks delicacy but is usually directly to the point, thus requiring little interpretation as to the meaning.  The overriding mood is quite clear in the muffled profanity and hissing sounds that persist for some few moments.  Finally, someone says, "Why are none of the Spanish labor union employees attending this meeting?"
    Banks starts to respond but looks at Michelson who steps forward and says, "During the 6 week period that Mr. Banks mentioned, all employees of your Local 61 Labor Union will be retained and disassemble the machinery in the plant.  Some of it will be salvaged and what portions can be used with the new computerized assembly system that has been under development for several years will be shipped to Mexico where future manufacturing for the Southeastern Region will be done.
    Someone else asks the same question, "Why are the Spanish labor union employees not attending this meeting?"
    Michelson is outwardly annoyed, although he must have anticipated such a question would be near the first one asked.  There is a lecture-like, antagonistic quality to his voice, one that clearly implies he is looking down his nose at the lower class as he replies, "If you listen to the news at all, you must know the economic system in the country has undergone major changes in recent years.  The manufacturing industries have suffered overpowering competition from foreign countries but labor unions continue to make unreasonable wage and benefit demands.  This company is now at the point we must make a clear and simple decision - yield to what the market demands or face bankruptcy.  The future of the company didn't require any sort of conventional decision.  These conditions clearly illustrated in no uncertain terms what we must do.  There can be no denying the obvious, regardless of whether you agree with it or not."  He hesitates a moment.  "While the obvious was taking its course, and again I remind you this extended over a considerable period, we have been in negotiations with the Descendents of the World Labor Union and have reached an agreement to offer a transfer, at their own expense, to all Spanish employees to Mexico where they will continue to do their present work.  The new computerized system will eliminate many of the present job descriptions, and this is yet another reason these conditions dictated such a change."
    After another extended outburst, someone else asks, "What about company benefits?"
    "Everyone will be given 2 weeks pay for each year he has spent with the company but the insurance plans are not vested and will be lost."
    Again, mumbling and profanity consume a good 2 minutes before everyone looks back at Michelson who has said everything he intends in the manner of an explanation.  Hurriedly, he reaches behind him and pulls forward a man he introduces as Mat Fraizer who is to oversee the closure.  With that introduction and without further explanation, the meeting is terminated.

________________

    Michelson had been right in several respects.  The balance of trade deficit in recent years within the automobile industry has caused the 3 remaining manufacturers to show only slight profits and even losses in some regions.  Labor union management, in continuing to make unreasonable demands, seemed bent on an  effort to get as much as possible as soon as possible and at face value, even an endeavor to bankrupt the industry.  Even the blue collars realized this but again, a characteristic of labor union members is pronounced shortsightedness.
    There is a certain relief, after months of uncertainty, in at least knowing what is about to happen.  Franklin, Bubba, and Mickey, however, show anything but relief as they sit eating their lunch at the end of the line..  For decades, all the line workers have dressed alike, used the same slang language and have always brought their lunches in identical little black boxes.  Unlike many present-day localities, through the years, those in the Blue Line seemed to all want to look and act alike.
    Franklin says, "You'll have to admit, Mickelson was right about the labor union.  The last time we threatened that strike right at the change of the model year probably was the last straw."  He looks at Bubba and asks, "What are you going to do?"
    Bubba brushes the mustard and bread crumbs off his lips and says, "I don't know.  Maybe we all ought to come in at midnight and get all that stuff in 3300 running," and with a dumb laugh, adds, "hu....hu....hu....hu."
    There is a momentary silence.  They all look at one another.  Mickey asks, "Is everything really just sitting there waiting for the prototype?"
    "I think so.  What's that guy's name in engineering that put the whole thing together?"
    "Fred....Fred Townsend," Bubba replies.
    Franklin thinks a moment, turns his head in the direction of building 3300 that can be seen through the open receiving area doors.  "I wonder....what if....what if we really did that?"
    "You mean turn out one car?" Mickey asks.  What would we do with one car?"
    "Well, one thing - we could rent a booth at the auto show in a few months and display it," Franklin says.  "Townsend always claimed the market research department did substantial study and had little reservation that it would sell very well."
    Mickey laughs.  "Hell, what good would selling one car do?"
    "I don't mean one car, Mickey.  All kinds of dealers will be there.  I know hardly any of them are selling very much and they'll all be looking for something that will move fast.  Regardless of the way things look in the Blue Line, some people out there still have money."
    Bubba laughs and spits on the floor.  "All we could fill would be one order.  Then what would we do?"
    Franklin's animosity towards the company takes on a new energy.  "We could show those bastards in Detroit all the order slips and if they didn't go for it, we could go to the local news and tell everyone how they turned down an opportunity to add jobs and improve the local economy.  Majestic used to be the largest employer in Atlanta."  He walks over to the shop phone and calls someone; and in a few minutes sits back down and says, "I asked Townsend to met us in 3300 after work."

________________

    Fred Townsend wanted to be an auto engineer from the first moment he entered college.  He never put his text books down; and since he drew up the plans for the American Classic, he's never taken them out of his briefcase which he carries with him everywhere he goes.
    He's always very punctual and precisely at 5:30, he walks into the 3300 building.  Bubba, Franklin and Mickey are not surprised he has the customary black lunch box in one hand and his briefcase in the other.  He sits the lunch box down at the door but even though he has no idea why the others called the meeting, he keeps his briefcase with him and sits it down on the table where they are seated.  He puts both elbows on the table and says, "I really didn't expect to be called into any meetings since the announcement they made the other day.  What is this - an assassination plot?"
    Knowing Townsend is very detail-oriented, Franklin gets to the point.  He looks at the equipment on the miniature assembly line behind them and asks, "How long would it take to get that thing running and come up with the prototype for the American Classic?"
    Townsend snickers.  "The last time someone asked me that question was the day those idiots in Detroit threw the whole idea out."
    "How long?" Franklin persists.
    "Oh, I don't know....We were ready to go into production a few years ago.  With all these computer changes in the plant, we couldn't do it there but if most of the work were done by hand, we could make 1 or 2 in 2 months or so?"  He begins to shake his head.  "God, what difference does it make?"
    Franklin looks at Bubba.  "Well, Bubba came up with a brilliant idea.  I think we'd better consider it, because this is the first time anything like that ever happened, and it's unlikely it will ever happen again.  He thinks we ought to make one.  If we could have one ready when you say, we could put it in the auto show."
    "And then what?"  Townsend leans back, puts his hands behind his head and breaks into a robust laugh.
    "Well," Franklin continues, "for one thing, see if we could get enough orders to make those son of a bitches keep this plant open.  Wasn't the marketing department certain it would be a big seller?"
    "Yeah, but that was right after all the layoffs started.  The front office said we couldn't maintain present production levels and come out with a whole new line at the same time.  It all had something to do with this progressive statistics idea - you know, if a certain profit level is being maintained, you need to cut back on production costs as far as the market will allow - not add.  Production costs for any new model is labor intensive and unless there's a tremendous demand, it could be unprofitable for 2 or 3 years."  He thinks a moment, looks at the mini production line, gets up and walks to the drafting table.  There is a certain glitter to his eyes, and a smile comes to his face as he spreads out the design plans, specifications and marketing analysis.  "Those bastards never considered how important is was the damn thing would run on solar energy with only a back-up gasoline tank."  He walks towards the line but he doesn't see the empty work stations or the empty material bins.  He sees a lifelong ambition - something he truly believed it.  Worst of all, he knew he was right.  He walks back, puts the plans back in his briefcase and says, "Let me know when you're ready to start.  We'll need 5 or 6 men and 6 weeks"

________________

    Franklin, Bubba and Mickey at first had thought "the project" should be kept secret but later decided it was sure to be discovered sometime during the 6 weeks Townsend had mentioned.  They decided to go straight to Frazier, tell him as little as possible and hope they can pull it off. 
    The 3 of them and the 6 line workers that will work on the new vehicle sit in the regional conference room, waiting for Frazier.  Those who take themselves more important that they really are have a need to keep people waiting.  When he finally enters the room, his nose seems to raise another 20 degrees or so when he sees the appearance of those with whom he will meet.  At his level, people keep their coats on all day, no matter what the temperature. 
    He sits down and gives the others a smirk-like nod before saying, "The company is in no position to consider any type proposal from the union.  You had many chances for that months ago."  He folds his hands on the table, tilts his head and glares at Franklin.  "You ought to know all about that.  You were the ring leader."
    To Franklin's knowledge, Frazier has never before been in the plant, and is surprised he is apparently well- known, but apparently not well-regarded, in the home office.  He decides on a pacifying lead-in and says, "The take-down is about 2 days ahead of schedule.  All the unit leaders feel we'll finish well ahead of schedule."
    The lead-in doesn't achieve the intended effect when Frazier snaps, "Did you call this meeting to tell me something I already know?"
    "No, we needed to tell you there is a special project underway in 3300.  We'll need to leave that building last in the take-down."
    Momentarily, Frazier is amused but this immediately yields to discontent.  "Damn, a special project.  That's about the last thing one would expect when a plant is about to be closed.  What the hell is it?"
    "It's something that won't effect any of the work and cost nothing.  We're using existing materials that would have been scraped and only small quantities."
    Frazier gets up and starts for the door.  "There isn't time for any of this.  I don't know what you're doing but I'm coming over there the first thing in the morning and find out."
    Franklin steps in front of him, raises his voice and says, "No, your not!  You're gonna  keep doing just what you are now and keep your fucking mouth shut.  Sit back down."
    He sits down, stares at them and asks, "And how do you propose to keep me from reporting this as soon as I walk out of here?"
    All the workers turn their eyes to Mickey Somebody who isn't dressed the same as the others.  He is in a neat, brown business suit, white shirt and brown tie.  On the table in front of him is one of those little square brief cases - the type accountants and lawyers carrying when calling on clients to figure out better ways to beat the income tax system.
    Mickey quietly opens the briefcase, as though he were about to deliver some type of quarterly report, but produces a long switch-blade knife.  A grin comes to his face as he opens it, producing a loud clicking noise that echoes against the walls.  He breaks into a crackling laugh and says, "Say anything about this to anybody and I'll cut your balls off - and don't think putting me behind bars somewhere will do you any good.  There's enough pissed-off fuckers between here and Detroit to do whatever the union asks."  His eyes squint and again, there is the crackling laugh.