Of course there was a company pecking order and the dock-workers were on the heavily pecked end of that spectrum. Shit rolls down hill.
It started somewhere up in corporate, rolled down to management, who passed it off to the foreman, (Jim, an American Indian, who loved acid back in the day), who delivered fair but firm expectations to the amphetamine driven truck drivers, who gave no respect whatsoever to the dock-workers, who did the heavy lifting and pranked Al, the janitor/ hostler-in-training, to recover some self-worth. Al had dreams of becoming a driver, but for now he served as low man.
Ben was broke, fresh out of the military, new to the crew and glad to be employed. The other dock workers went easy on him, feeling him out, occasionally sending him off to the foreman's office for a can of skid mark remover. He mostly played along, kept quiet, had a sense of humor, worked hard, seemed at least half crazy - so he got along pretty well.
Months passed breaking freight - loading and unloading trailers with an occasional tipped load, forklift accident, bad lift and strained back or blown stack. It paid pretty well for unskilled, non-union labor, and the company paid for your CDL if you stuck around long enough. Ben felt stuck, but he was paying bills. He drove a six hundred dollar van which he often slept in. He never really planned to make it past twenty-two, and now he really didn't know what the hell he was going to do. So much for live fast , die young.
It was the routine that made him feel stuck - drudgery. It was the same thing day in and day out -crude, predictable jokes; sports talk; theories on who's banging the secretary - the only female in the building; baseless claims of banging the secretary; and non-stop sporting humiliation of each other. He'd race with Salvatore now and again, to see who could break their respective trailer out faster or try to find a reason to get into the office to catch a glimpse of Brianna. That was it. Life on the dock.
"Keep scribbling, Hemingway", that's what his squad leader said to him the day he got out. He wanted to be a writer. He was in a required basic writing class at the community college, worked two jobs, slept in the van for an hour or two between shifts, and sold plasma for gas money. He frequently thought Sgt, Evans was right, and there really was no place for him out here in the civilian world. He wasn't writing anything now. There was nothing to write about. Southern California - a soft, hazy grind; a pleasant nothingness; apartment complex court yards; huevos rancheros at I-Hop if there's enough left after bills. He was just trying to keep everything floating, and it was doing its best to pull him down.
One night in the break room, Alvin and Sal were taking verbal shots at each other back and forth, back and forth. It was escalating. The other dock workers fanned the flames. The two men wore smiles, but their faces were reddening, Soon they were on their feet, anger was rising. Ben had had one too many cups of coffee. He stood up on a bench.
"This is exactly what they want us to do!" Ben yelled, "You're doing their dirty work for them".
The men looked toward him in surprise.
"It's not enough for you to get shit on every day by management and drivers? You have to come in here every goddamn night and tear each other down during the few minutes of rest and peace we get? In fact, we're worse to each other than they are to us! This, my friends is bullshit!"
There was laughter.
Salvatore said, "Right on!"
George, out of curiosity and with sarcasm asked, "What then should we do, Ben"?
"Say something positive!"
They all laughed.
"I'm serious. The kind of shit you say causes damage. We've got enough damage to deal with. Say something good to each other instead of something bad, build each other up not tear each other down. We've got to organize. If we don't, THEY win".
"YEAH!" someone yelled.
"That's gay"
"You're a crazy Jarhead", said another
"He's on to something", Wendell- the quiet one - said.
"Show us what you mean, Ben" George said, still curious and mildly sarcastic.
Break was almost over, they were getting up up from the tables, Wendell was putting on his back brace.
"Well... alright, it's like this", Ben looked George in the eye and said, "George, You're a hell of a freight-breaker, and I'm proud to know you".
They all laughed and started moving out to the dock.
"Damn, that felt pretty good", said George, " I see what you're saying. Then I say something back like - Ben, you're one HELL of a man, right?"
"That's all I'm trying to say", Ben answered.
It started somewhere up in corporate, rolled down to management, who passed it off to the foreman, (Jim, an American Indian, who loved acid back in the day), who delivered fair but firm expectations to the amphetamine driven truck drivers, who gave no respect whatsoever to the dock-workers, who did the heavy lifting and pranked Al, the janitor/ hostler-in-training, to recover some self-worth. Al had dreams of becoming a driver, but for now he served as low man.
Ben was broke, fresh out of the military, new to the crew and glad to be employed. The other dock workers went easy on him, feeling him out, occasionally sending him off to the foreman's office for a can of skid mark remover. He mostly played along, kept quiet, had a sense of humor, worked hard, seemed at least half crazy - so he got along pretty well.
Months passed breaking freight - loading and unloading trailers with an occasional tipped load, forklift accident, bad lift and strained back or blown stack. It paid pretty well for unskilled, non-union labor, and the company paid for your CDL if you stuck around long enough. Ben felt stuck, but he was paying bills. He drove a six hundred dollar van which he often slept in. He never really planned to make it past twenty-two, and now he really didn't know what the hell he was going to do. So much for live fast , die young.
It was the routine that made him feel stuck - drudgery. It was the same thing day in and day out -crude, predictable jokes; sports talk; theories on who's banging the secretary - the only female in the building; baseless claims of banging the secretary; and non-stop sporting humiliation of each other. He'd race with Salvatore now and again, to see who could break their respective trailer out faster or try to find a reason to get into the office to catch a glimpse of Brianna. That was it. Life on the dock.
"Keep scribbling, Hemingway", that's what his squad leader said to him the day he got out. He wanted to be a writer. He was in a required basic writing class at the community college, worked two jobs, slept in the van for an hour or two between shifts, and sold plasma for gas money. He frequently thought Sgt, Evans was right, and there really was no place for him out here in the civilian world. He wasn't writing anything now. There was nothing to write about. Southern California - a soft, hazy grind; a pleasant nothingness; apartment complex court yards; huevos rancheros at I-Hop if there's enough left after bills. He was just trying to keep everything floating, and it was doing its best to pull him down.
One night in the break room, Alvin and Sal were taking verbal shots at each other back and forth, back and forth. It was escalating. The other dock workers fanned the flames. The two men wore smiles, but their faces were reddening, Soon they were on their feet, anger was rising. Ben had had one too many cups of coffee. He stood up on a bench.
"This is exactly what they want us to do!" Ben yelled, "You're doing their dirty work for them".
The men looked toward him in surprise.
"It's not enough for you to get shit on every day by management and drivers? You have to come in here every goddamn night and tear each other down during the few minutes of rest and peace we get? In fact, we're worse to each other than they are to us! This, my friends is bullshit!"
There was laughter.
Salvatore said, "Right on!"
George, out of curiosity and with sarcasm asked, "What then should we do, Ben"?
"Say something positive!"
They all laughed.
"I'm serious. The kind of shit you say causes damage. We've got enough damage to deal with. Say something good to each other instead of something bad, build each other up not tear each other down. We've got to organize. If we don't, THEY win".
"YEAH!" someone yelled.
"That's gay"
"You're a crazy Jarhead", said another
"He's on to something", Wendell- the quiet one - said.
"Show us what you mean, Ben" George said, still curious and mildly sarcastic.
Break was almost over, they were getting up up from the tables, Wendell was putting on his back brace.
"Well... alright, it's like this", Ben looked George in the eye and said, "George, You're a hell of a freight-breaker, and I'm proud to know you".
They all laughed and started moving out to the dock.
"Damn, that felt pretty good", said George, " I see what you're saying. Then I say something back like - Ben, you're one HELL of a man, right?"
"That's all I'm trying to say", Ben answered.
Great scene.
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