Sammy

A cascade of sparks rained down on the workers below, earning Sammy a reciprocal stream of swearing and variety of crude comments concerning the dubious virtues of his mother. They oughta know better than to be standing underneath a guy while he's welding. Still, he knew all too well what it was like to have one of those white hot sparks drop down an open collar or into the pocket of your pants. You started dancing and swatting at yourself like a man possessed.

Less than forty feet away, the inferno of the basic oxygen furnace roared, throwing off its own shower of sparks. It was kind of like standing right next to a live fireworks display given on the surface of the sun. The heat rolled out of the furnace hitting Sammy like a hammer, threatening to suck the very breath from his lungs. At times, if the air moved just right, it became nearly impossible to breath; it was just too hot. One of the first things he had learned when he had started in the mill as a teenager was to leave the coins and keys out of his pockets. More than once, they had absorbed enough heat to sear the skin on his leg. The heat was often so intense, the very scaffold plank on which he had been standing had ignited, leaving him wondering why and how he had volunteered for this particular hell.

"Sammy!" A voice called and he realized it was his Charlie Stewart, his foreman. "Get your butt to the shop as soon as you finish up that bracket."

Sammy nodded his acknowledgement, not wanting to waste precious air speaking when he didn't have to. Nearly three decades of working in and around a dozen things that could kill a man within seconds had forged Sammy into the kind of guy who wasted very little. The main thing was to do his job and stay alive and safe. It took focus and concentration, not sucking up to anybody with polite words.

He continued welding, making sure there were no pits or imperfections, knowing that someone's life may one day depend on the quality of his work. A flaw would leave a weak weld and a weak weld could eventually break free, leaving the load this bracket would hold to come crashing to the floor. This was one reason he was meticulous in his work, but there was another, perhaps even more revealing about his character. It was his nature. It had to be done right and up to his exacting standards or it wasn't good enough. For Sammy, the choice was always clear: there was perfection or there was failure. No compromise, nothing halfway.

And it was that very attitude that had chased away his wife fifteen years earlier.

Sammy no longer thought about his failed marriage; the pain and guilt became too much to bear, but he knew deep down it was his fault Debra had left him. It was the one area in his life he could point to as failure and that too was part of the reason he chose to bury it in his memories. She was a good woman and the love of his life but she had left when he stubbornly refused to meet her halfway on even the most trivial and insignificant of things. She left him and he turned bitter toward the world. Forty five years old, and I got nothing to show for it. I'm dying on my feet, he thought, and no one will care.

It was his recognition of this lack of purpose that had made him apply for the supervisory position at the mill. Something, anything, to add meaning and purpose to a life in real danger of fading into the shadows and passing away with no more impact than a puff of wind. He had convinced himself this was the real reason for applying, but it sure didn't hurt there would be an increase in pay accompanying a supervisor's position. Admitting it would mean admitting he was failing, but the truth was that he needed the money.

He completed the weld and brushed the scale away to reveal the gleaming metal beneath. After a quick scrutiny, he nodded. Perfect, he thought. If only these young kids would pay attention, I could teach them a thing or two. Well, everybody but the blacks. They can't be taught anything. Too interested in their jungle music and knocking up another welfare mother to care about a career.

Packing up his equipment and dragging it back to the maintenance shed, the sweat finally was able to collect as he moved away from the blazing heat of the furnace. When he worked that close to intense heat, the sweat evaporated before it even had time to form. Now, in the relatively cooler environment of the shed, sweat saturated his shirt and a powerful thirst set in.

A water fountain had been piped into the maintenance shed, courtesy of some long dead union official, but the water remained lukewarm no matter how long you let it run. Still, even lukewarm water tasted sweet to a thirsty man. He let the water run a moment to wash away the fine coating of graphite that covered the basin. Graphite covered everything, whether it was in sight or not, managing to work its way into closed lockers, lunch pails, even sealed envelopes. Whatever it coated turned into a slick, frictionless surface, making footing hazardous at times. This byproduct of steelmaking was just one more hazard of working in the mill and it floated everywhere, covering everything. On those rare days when the sun managed to break through the noxious cloud cover outside and stream in through the skylights far above, the graphite floating in the air glistened and sparkled like some strange magic dust. Kind of like a weird, toxic Tinkerbell had run amok. He hated to think how much he had breathed in and ingested over the years.

Remembering the words of Charlie, he headed to the shop, the room furthest away from the furnace, yet close enough to still be considered a part of this unit. It was here the foreman, the quality control inspector, and the occasional supervisor would congregate. And the reason was simple: the shop was air conditioned. The windows and walls were covered in decades of grime and soot, the office furniture looked to be cast offs from sometime around World War II, but nevertheless, it was the most desirable location in the unit because of that air conditioning.

As he pushed open the door and wiped the sweat from his forehead, the thought finally occurred to him. What on earth are they calling me down here for? A swarm of butterflies swirled in his stomach when he realized it must be regarding the results from his management test. Charlie could have given me a heads up, he thought.

He stood in the entry, unsure of what to do until spying Charlie across the room talking to another man, one Sammy did not recognize. Sammy nodded and Charlie waved, indicating for him to have a seat and wait.

A pair of chairs lined either side of the entry vestibule and each pair contained an occupant. On his left sat Eddie Smith, universally referred to as "Texaco." He was generally the last guy you wanted to be around due to the prodigious amount of gas he produced, hence his nickname. He had more gas than Texaco. On his right sat a black man Sammy recognized but did not know by name.

Sammy sat by Texaco.

Within minutes, an horrific stench wafted over the two of them . Texaco leaned over and muttered, "Sorry 'bout that. The wife fed me burritos last night."

As if that explained how every day, with any food, and without fail, he managed to foul the atmosphere wherever he roamed. "Don't worry about it, I just been down by furnace number three and I can't smell a thing." said Sammy, lying through his teeth. The odor was strong enough to peel the paint off a battleship.

Minutes passed, allowing Sammy's blood pressure to drop back to normal. As much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, this promotion was crucial. His invalid mother had reached the point where she needed care; care Sammy was unable to provide with his present pay. A supervisor's salary would provide enough of an increase, though just barely enough, that he could afford to have someone come in and help when he was at work. Even the thought of meeting to discuss the results of his testing had him on edge, something he hated.

Sammy liked to be in control.

He eyed the black guy sitting across the aisle reading a newspaper and tried to remember where he had seen him before. As if realizing he was under scrutiny, the man lowered the paper and nodded to Sammy who quickly averted his eyes and pretended he hadn't noticed anything.

"What," said Texaco under his breath. Not that there was much chance of being overheard with the thunderous noise of the mill churning on in the background. "You know him?"

Sammy shook his head.

"Yeah, I didn't think you'd know him."

Sammy sat for a moment, trying to understand what Texaco had meant. On one hand, it could have been because the guy didn't work in this unit, or perhaps because he was new. On the other hand, could it possibly mean because the guy was black? Was Texaco insinuating he wouldn't bother getting to know a black man?

It made him stop and think. Did he have a reputation as a bigot? He thought not. He would have assumed his feelings were in line with everyone else's. While it was true he felt more comfortable around his own kind, there was certainly nothing wrong with that. And who didn't anyway? It wasn't like he sat down one day and decided to avoid and dislike anything other than white skin, it just seemed natural. He would have never intentionally offended any minority, nor would he have ever considered using out loud the terminology that occasionally rattled around in his thoughts. It was ironic really. In a city where the vast majority of whites were fleeing to the outlying suburbs leaving him stranded as the only white man in the neighborhood and one of only a few remaining in the entire city, he was now the minority. If it weren't for his job, he would rarely see another white face.

It was only his stubbornness that kept him in his house. The surrounding homes slowly became more and more dilapidated, the crime rate rose with each passing year, the streets became crowded with hookers, dealers, and gangs, yet nothing was going to force Samuel Morris from his house: not now, not ever. He had grown up in that house, and for him to leave would be an admission of failure and a blow to his pride; something he could never do.

"Sammy!" called Charlie. "Get in here, they're ready for you."

The butterflies came fluttering back as he rose to his feet.

Charlie directed him back to the partitioned area that served as a conference room. The man Charlie had been talking to at the coffee machine sat at the table along with another unknown face.

Both wore suits. Sammy always became wary around suits.

"Sammy Morris," began Charlie by way of introduction, "this is Bob Jacobs from our human resources department and Jack Archer from Archer Consulting. I'm leaving you in their hands and I'll talk to you later." He nodded at the suits and backed out of the room.

Thanks for throwing me to the wolves there Charlie, old boy.

Bob Jacobs folded his hands on the table and waited for Archer to speak. Acid began to fill Sammy's stomach while he watched Archer shuffle some papers and leaf through a thick file. Interestingly, Sammy noticed his own photo clipped to the front cover of the file. Even more interesting was the photo clipped next to his: that of a black man. In fact, the very one sitting out in the lobby.

Finally Archer spoke. "So, Mr. Morris, here we are." Get to the point, pal. I'm starting to get a little uptight here. "I see you have applied for the company's supervisory program." He shuffled though the file yet again. "I also see you did quite well on the personality and aptitude testing."

He paused for a moment leaving Sammy wondering if he should respond. Seconds ticked by and just as he opened his mouth to fill the silence, Archer continued. "Having said that, however, we must inform you that the position will be given to someone else."

Again, a pause. This time, Sammy didn't wait. "I guess I don't understand. Am I not qualified?"

Archer cleared his throat. "Um, yes. I would have to say you are qualified."

"And you yourself said I did well on the tests... so help me out here. What's this other guy got that I don't? Did he do better than me?"

"Look, Mr. Morris," began Archer. "The thing is, well... let me start at the beginning. And keep in mind, this is a decision made by Archer Consulting and not in any way, shape, or form, made by the mill."

Sammy furrowed his brow at that comment. Sound like someone is doing some serious covering of their tracks.

Bob Jacobs rose to his feet. "I cannot officially be a part of this discussion, so if you will excuse me, gentlemen." He left the room without offering to shake anyone's hand, leaving Sammy more confused than ever.

Only when he was gone did Archer proceed. Clearing his throat again, he said, "You see, Mr. Morris, the mill has just been awarded a major contract, something they have been working on for months. And as you probably know, with the economy being what it is..." His voice drifted off.

"Yeah, it sucks," confirmed Sammy. "So what."

"Well, the mill cannot afford to lose this contract." He paused and stacked all the papers and files in front of him. "And see, there was a last minute condition thrown into the contract by which the mill must abide."

"Fine. What's that got to do with me?"

"Quite a lot, actually," said Archer, suddenly unable to look Sammy in the eye. "One of the requirements in the contract is adherence to President Johnson's affirmative action program. Simply put, the mill must have minority employees involved in a supervisory capacity or other management role for this contract to remain valid."

The reality abruptly dawned on Sammy, followed by a burst of fury. "So what you're telling me is that I been bumped from my promotion by that stupid spearchucker sitting out there?" He stood and leaned across the table, veins bulging on his forehead. "Is that what you're telling me Archer?"

A look of horror crossed over Archer's face. "Please, Mr. Morris! His name is Ray Jackson and I cannot allow that kind of talk. The mill will not stand for it. You know the law, we can't..."

"No, I don't know the law, no one does. You put ten lawyers in a crate and you'll get ten different opinions on how to get out. What I do know is that I'm getting screwed out of a position that should be mine so that this Ray Jackson can get something he didn't earn and something he certainly don't deserve!" He slumped back into his chair and buried his head in his hands. Bitter disappointment coursed through him leaving him weak and feeling old. This can't be happening! Not in this day and age.

As the ramifications of Archer's pronouncement became apparent, Sammy began to feel ill. His stomach roiled with acid and a throbbing headache started beating in rhythm with the ceiling fan above. His thoughts turned to his invalid mother, confined to a wheelchair back at home. How am I gonna tell her about this? How am I gonna tell her I can't pay for someone to help care for her? I've failed her.

"Mr. Morris!" called out Archer. "Are you alright? Say something!" Concern was painted across his face until he saw Sammy begin to focus and respond. "I thought you were having some kind of an attack. I didn't know what to do, are you alright?"

Sammy stood and started walking to the door, answering Archer without even looking back. "What do you care? I bet you still feel personally guilty for slavery in this country too, don't you?" At this point the didn't care what he said or who he was talking to, he just wanted to lash out.

Archer started after Sammy. "Why yes, as a matter of fact, I... wait. This isn't about me, Mr. Morris. This is about doing what's right."

His voice faded as Sammy stormed through the desks on his way out. As he came to the entry, Ray Jackson and Texaco were still seated.

"Hey Sammy! How'd it go in there?" asked Texaco.

Sammy shot him a dark look that could've etched glass. He then turned to Ray Jackson. "I hope you choke on it, boy," he said, stressing the last word.

Jackson calmly folded the newspaper he had been leafing through then looked up at Sammy. "I don't know you and I've never done a thing to you, so why are you trying to get in my face here?"

Barely able to contain his rage, Sammy barged ahead. "Well let me tell you, boy. Here's another case of an innocent white man paying the price so some no-account, shiftless nig..."

"You hold it right there pal," said Jackson rising to his feet. "You're about to be sayin' something that's gonna bring a whole lotta hurt down on you."

Sammy glared at the man, his rage and disgust rendering him incapable of speech. He opened his mouth several times trying to speak but words wouldn't come out, leaving him gaping like a fish on ice. The war drum in his head pounded without mercy sending currents of pain shooting through his temples and causing the veins on his forehead to stand out like thick ropes. This wasn't supposed to happen! That job should've been mine. He turned from Jackson and rubbed his face and forehead trying to make the pain go away. And now, I've not only lost the promotion, I lost control. I let Jackson get the best of me.

Blindly, he staggered through the door leaving the shop and Ray Jackson behind. I gotta get away. A grim vision of a world controlled by blacks filled his thoughts, sending him reeling back toward the maintenance shed, a place where he could be alone and get a grip on things. Holding his head, and vaguely aware of Texaco and Ray Jackson calling after him, Sammy worked his way back to the confines of the shed. Slamming the door behind him, he rushed straight to the water fountain and splashed his face with the lukewarm liquid.

"How did this happened?" he yelled to the world.

"It sucks, don't it?" said a voice from behind. It was Charlie, his foreman.

Startled, Sammy spun on his heels and slipped on the slick graphite coating the floor. He heard a loud pop reverberate through his knee, a noise he would forever remember as he fell to the floor and cracked his skull on the stainless steel bowl of the water fountain.

His last thought prior to blacking out was one of excruciating pain.