Read Online The Next Time You See Me by Holly Goddard Jones - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Holly Goddard Jones
Ads: Link
the sections of the plant with the better pay grades.
Wyatt held on, took whatever the higher-ups were willing to give him. He’d gone from the winding room to the die cast to the repair shop, and now they had him out in packaging, one of the lowest pay grades a man of his seniority could get, working alongside Bosnians with dark circles under their eyes and knobs of muscle under their T-shirts, guys who could load and seal a crate of motors before Wyatt could get the packing materials printed. And that was part of the problem right there: all these computers you had to use now,computers controlling the machines and computers to replace what had always been done with triplicate forms and an ink pen just years before, a system that had seemed fast and fine to Wyatt. Lord’s sake, who couldn’t operate a damn ink pen? Who in the hell had decided that wasn’t good enough anymore?
He was ten minutes early at the plant and decided to go in, get on with it. The usual bunch of guys was stationed beside the Coke machines, smoking and sipping sodas. The cafeteria had been shut down two years ago, after the corporate office started making cutbacks. No coffee these days unless you brought your own. You got a frozen turkey at Thanksgiving, a ham loaf for Christmas, and there was a company picnic once a year with a free meal, rides for the kids, and a prize drawing. That was the extent of the freebies. Wyatt had won, in various years, an eighteen-inch color television—that had been the best luck of his life, and he still marveled at it—an off-brand clock radio, and something called a Whopper Chopper that he’d immediately traded in at Wal-Mart for store credit.
“Hey,” Sam Austen said, tipping his Mr. Pibb can toward Wyatt. He was a good-looking kid, tall and blue-eyed with longish sandy-colored hair and a brand-new Dodge Ram that his pop had gotten him as a graduation present. He’d started at Price in May, right after school let out, telling everybody who’d listen that he was just earning gas-and-girl money through the summer until he went to WKU in the fall. Here he was, though, still at Price, working as a temp but hoping to get on full-time as soon as there was an opening. He grinned, swigged from his soda, and put the can high in the air as if he were making a toast. “Tubs! There you are, you silly bastard. So you heard from that woman you hooked up with yet? Man, she was a dog.”
He was talking about the woman from the dance hall. Wyatt had been getting grief about her—about the shots he’d drunk in front of the guys, the fact that three alone had been all it had taken to get him to sing along with “Wichita Lineman” on the jukebox—all last week.
“I didn’t do anything with that woman,” Wyatt said, knowing it wasstupid to get drawn into this but feeling trembly and flushed, mouth running on before his better instincts could check him.
“There’s no shame in it,” Gene Lawson said. “She wasn’t that fat. She had a decent face.”
Wyatt was red now, he knew, scarlet probably, and everybody was going to start laughing soon, egging him on, saying Way to go, Tubs and No shame in Tubs’s game and More cushion for the pushin’ . He hadn’t taken the fat woman from the dance hall home. He hadn’t.
“Leave him alone,” Morris Houchens said. Wyatt hadn’t seen him. He’d been in the back of the room, sitting and reading a section from a Courier-Journal, and the other men had blocked him from view. “Don’t know why y’all care so much about another man’s love life anyhow.”
“Love life,” Sam snorted. “We’re just having him on a little, man. It’s all in fun.”
“I know your brand of fun,” Morris said. They stared at each other for a moment, silent, and then the shift bell sounded. The men lined up at the time clock.
Wyatt hung back intentionally, waiting to go through after Morris. “Thank you,” he said, embarrassed. He was too old to be bullied. Too old to need a
Wyatt held on, took whatever the higher-ups were willing to give him. He’d gone from the winding room to the die cast to the repair shop, and now they had him out in packaging, one of the lowest pay grades a man of his seniority could get, working alongside Bosnians with dark circles under their eyes and knobs of muscle under their T-shirts, guys who could load and seal a crate of motors before Wyatt could get the packing materials printed. And that was part of the problem right there: all these computers you had to use now,computers controlling the machines and computers to replace what had always been done with triplicate forms and an ink pen just years before, a system that had seemed fast and fine to Wyatt. Lord’s sake, who couldn’t operate a damn ink pen? Who in the hell had decided that wasn’t good enough anymore?
He was ten minutes early at the plant and decided to go in, get on with it. The usual bunch of guys was stationed beside the Coke machines, smoking and sipping sodas. The cafeteria had been shut down two years ago, after the corporate office started making cutbacks. No coffee these days unless you brought your own. You got a frozen turkey at Thanksgiving, a ham loaf for Christmas, and there was a company picnic once a year with a free meal, rides for the kids, and a prize drawing. That was the extent of the freebies. Wyatt had won, in various years, an eighteen-inch color television—that had been the best luck of his life, and he still marveled at it—an off-brand clock radio, and something called a Whopper Chopper that he’d immediately traded in at Wal-Mart for store credit.
“Hey,” Sam Austen said, tipping his Mr. Pibb can toward Wyatt. He was a good-looking kid, tall and blue-eyed with longish sandy-colored hair and a brand-new Dodge Ram that his pop had gotten him as a graduation present. He’d started at Price in May, right after school let out, telling everybody who’d listen that he was just earning gas-and-girl money through the summer until he went to WKU in the fall. Here he was, though, still at Price, working as a temp but hoping to get on full-time as soon as there was an opening. He grinned, swigged from his soda, and put the can high in the air as if he were making a toast. “Tubs! There you are, you silly bastard. So you heard from that woman you hooked up with yet? Man, she was a dog.”
He was talking about the woman from the dance hall. Wyatt had been getting grief about her—about the shots he’d drunk in front of the guys, the fact that three alone had been all it had taken to get him to sing along with “Wichita Lineman” on the jukebox—all last week.
“I didn’t do anything with that woman,” Wyatt said, knowing it wasstupid to get drawn into this but feeling trembly and flushed, mouth running on before his better instincts could check him.
“There’s no shame in it,” Gene Lawson said. “She wasn’t that fat. She had a decent face.”
Wyatt was red now, he knew, scarlet probably, and everybody was going to start laughing soon, egging him on, saying Way to go, Tubs and No shame in Tubs’s game and More cushion for the pushin’ . He hadn’t taken the fat woman from the dance hall home. He hadn’t.
“Leave him alone,” Morris Houchens said. Wyatt hadn’t seen him. He’d been in the back of the room, sitting and reading a section from a Courier-Journal, and the other men had blocked him from view. “Don’t know why y’all care so much about another man’s love life anyhow.”
“Love life,” Sam snorted. “We’re just having him on a little, man. It’s all in fun.”
“I know your brand of fun,” Morris said. They stared at each other for a moment, silent, and then the shift bell sounded. The men lined up at the time clock.
Wyatt hung back intentionally, waiting to go through after Morris. “Thank you,” he said, embarrassed. He was too old to be bullied. Too old to need a
Similar Books
