Chapter 13: Labor—an Interlude

Worth His Salt

Randy Peters liked his job running a shoe lasting machine at Covington Shoe Factory. He had to stay alert so the leather was properly aligned on the last before it was vacuum formed. He paid attention to what he was doing but sometimes daydreamed about going to Hawaii.

At one time, being a cobbler was considered one of the trades and there were still a few around. But in a factory that produced nearly two million pairs of shoes a month, it was one-man, one-job. Randy was responsible for inserting the form in the rough cut upper and using a machine that combined pressure and steam to mold the shoe to the last. The final item done on his machine was to trim the excess away. Then the shoe, complete with the last, was sent down the line where the sole was stitched in place and trimmed. The joke that ran down the line was that the lasters created heathen shoes. Because they had no soles.

The work wasn’t particularly stressful, but Randy was proud of the fact that he had fewer rejects than any of the other lasters. He’d held most of the jobs on the assembly line but as soon as he found the last, it was where he wanted to stay. He worked on the high-end products—formal men’s shoes. Everyone on his line was proud of what they produced.

As much as he liked his job, he also liked his breaks. When the noon whistle blew and the machinery shut down for fifty minutes, he hustled to one of the lunchrooms with his bag lunch and joined several buddies to play cards. It was forbidden to gamble on the company grounds, but the guys enjoyed playing pinochle. The lunchroom was a place where all matter of subjects were broached—mostly sports and job gripes, but occasionally spousal relationships.

“What gets me is that we got a nickel an hour wage increase last year. It was an insult. What on earth am I going to do with an extra two bucks a week?”

“It didn’t even cover my baby’s birth. Why are doctors so expensive, anyway?”

“And that machine on line seven is clearly unsafe. The guard on it was broken and no one has replaced it. I told them flat, I won’t work that one until it’s fixed.”

“Anybody else feeling pressured to work overtime? They’re not even offering a bonus for working weekends.”

“Bet Mr. Bigshot got a bonus. On our backs.”

“We should write a letter and send it to the big boss upstairs. Tell him we’re not going to put up with this anymore.”

“Hey, Randy. You got a typewriter at home. Why don’t you type it up? I’d volunteer but we sold the typewriter to pay for the baby. We’re selling everything else we can.”

“Why me?” Randy had done a little griping, too, but writing a letter, that was serious business.

“You’re smart. You read books. Type up a letter like it was in one of them fancy books you read.”

“Well ... I suppose I could. We better write down what it is we want, though. If we can agree on what we should ask for. Let’s make a list.”

That started the lunchtime brainstorm sessions about what should be done and Randy dutifully took notes, the cards forgotten. After a week, he asked his wife to type them up for him. She relished the idea of putting it to the establishment. She should have been classed as intelligentsia but she’d been held back by the school she went to and came out classed as labor. It was like they didn’t believe anyone from that school could be anything but labor. At least she’d found Randy who had more brains than most bosses.

“So here it is. Everybody should read it and make sure I wrote what we really want. Pass it around to the other departments. I don’t want to suggest something that doesn’t agree with what you said and everyone wants.” Randy read the letter aloud and waited for responses. The free pair of shoes each year was something his wife had added but it sounded good. No one who worked in the factory could afford the shoes they made.

After another week the letter came back to him, smudged and tattered but still intact.

“That’s real good. Now you should sign it on behalf of the employees of Covington Shoe Company. And send it in the mail. If it comes from the post office, it always looks more official.”

Sally typed a fresh copy that night with a carbon copy. Randy signed the letter and addressed the envelope to the CEO of the company. He wasn’t a bad guy. He always came around at the holiday to wish everyone a Merry Christmas. If anyone could answer the employees, he could.