Fire Work

Michael Leslie Fire Work "Right there, behind that wall is where you could hear 'em screamin' ... screamin' 'n' bangin' on the door as they burned inside the building. They never stood a chance." 1 Dave Miles is dark, soft spoken and solemn. When approached he smiles, nods his head and answers "yes sir, no ma'am." Beyond that he's simply blank. He blinks, stares at nothing. This 20 year-old has seen too much. As a grade scanner at the Carolina Food Products Dave inspects and packages processed chickens for the first third of his shift. The last two hours are spent on clean-up. Dave's a big kid. At 5' 11", 190 lbs. he has solid, well-rounded shoulders and long, strapping arms that come with years of weightlifting and football. Most days he proudly wears his 'Fred's Gym' T-shirt. The front of the shirt bears the caricature of a beefy Fred Flintstone dead-lifting a loaded barbell. Last Tuesday Dave's weightlifting skills were put to the ultimate test. Carolina Food Products supplies whole chickens and chicken parts to local restaurants, colleges, high schools and supermarkets. Joe Ford, the owner, uses the bygone practice of hiring the poor and unnoticed who live in the surrounding community. Black women make up the majority of his work force, women who live in the low-income housing project behind the plant. The rest are Hispanics and whites from around town. Most of Carolina's employees work the processing room, a dark airless chamber packed with generators, washers, power cables, tables, hanging conveyer lines, scalding tanks, belts, flame tanks and pinning, drawing and cutter jobs. Managers at Carolina Food Products are an odd lot, in an old southerly kind of way. Recently they've taken to sealing off the loading docks, padlocking exits and barring all windows. Management thought that black employees would steal chickens for their families. "The place is a garbage dump," said Willa Mae Johnson, a Carolina employee and survivor. "It was a death trap waitin' ta happen . . . slimy dead chickens, thousands of 'em. Blood 'n' chicken parts all over 'da place. I stayed sick. Eye and skin infections. Sick, I'm sick all da time." 24 the minnesota review 2 Earl, the maintenance man, has been pressured by management to keep production running. A oil hose to the No. 1 carrier line would periodically crack, lose pressure and slow the line. Two women on the line, Ann and Patricia, would howl "Shit Earl, fix dat fuckin' hose, I'm tired of workin' overtime." At age 61, Earl's arthritic knees and joints allowed him to shuffle an inch or two at a time. He could never move fast enough for the boss, the line women or the flames. "Bunch 'cha clackin' old hens is what he'd," mumbled Earl as he wrapped the gray masking tape around the cracked hose. When he finished , he pulled off a long strip of tape, shuffled over to one of the women and raised the tape to her mouth. "Gon! Go on away from here Earl," she screamed. Earl drew back, with a rehearsed hurt and confused look. Then he'd shuffle over to the next woman, raising the tape to her face. "I'ma slap the shit outta you if you don't get away from me Earl...," snapped Ann. "Foreman say I gotta tape up everythin' thas hissin 'n' makin' noise." "Do I look like a busted hose?" said Ann. "Foreman said I gotta do ma job," said Earl, grinning. "Gotta do ma job 'n' stop da noise. Man gotta do his job." 3 One morning, as the foreman turned on the carrier line he heard a loud hiss. The carrier line jumped then eased to a stop. "Earl!" he screamed, flapping his arms like chicken, "Earl, Goddamnit the line stopped." As he turned Earl shuffled toward him with his tool belt. "Fix it man. Please." "Ain't got the right hose for this line, this is oil," pleaded Earl. "Rubba hose'll heat up 'n' melt...." "It ain't gonna melt. We ain't even runnin' this line all day. Look, I don't give...