Copyright 2001 by Morris Rosenthal
Sergeant J.J. Wall was the Axle's post commander at Wilkins Valve. This exalted position earned him fifty cents an hour more than Eric, who was the next highest paid, at $6.35 an hour. Like any other management position, it came with its perks and its responsibilities. The main perk was that he could claim the day shift, 7:00 AM to 3:00 PM. The chief responsibility was changing and inspecting the tapes in the Detex clock, a difficult task for a seventy-eight year old man who'd had cataract operations on both eyes. Realizing years before that he couldn't make out the faint white on white impressions left by the raised numbers on the Detex keys, he'd given up on doing rounds himself. In order to fulfil his moral obligation to the company and keep an eye on the place, he visited the bathroom every hour. Ever mindful of morale, he neglected to fill in his underlings on the Detex situation.
Junior, as he preferred to be called, was one of the thousands of pensioners who had taken up an exciting second career as a security guard. It had been fourteen years ago last spring that he spotted the Axle ad in the Help Wanted, with 'Retirees Welcome' in bold print. He'd lied to his wife of forty years, telling her that they needed the money. In truth, after taxes and the social security take-back, his pay check had amounted to well under eighty dollars a week. Privately though, they both credited the job with saving their marriage.
Junior had spent the entire fourteen years working at the Wilkins site. He'd started on the graveyard shift, moving to second after a few months when the regular guard lost his license for drunk driving, and had to transfer to a post on a bus line. He'd worked the second shift for six years, trudging through the still active buildings and making small talk with the remaining welders and machinists. Junior had been a machinist for Hamilton Standard in his previous life, and got on well in the union shop.
They'd all seen the end coming, of course, but they all would have bet their last dollar that their jobs would outlast Junior's. They were wrong. He was present throughout the death throes of plant, and was as surprised as anyone to find himself still there when all of the workers were gone. At seventy-two, he'd been promoted to sergeant and post commander, when his predecessor had a heart attack shoveling snow. Junior had gone home that day and told his frugal Yankee wife, "I got a promotion. We're buying a snow blower."
The day had started like any other and he relieved Eric at 6:40 AM. Early relief at the Wilkins post was a long standing tradition. Eric made polite small talk about the rounds for a minute or two, then handed Junior the large ring of keys, and departed. Junior began to settle into the small office, it was his favorite part of the day.
He started by drawing a half a pot of water from the cold water tap in the bathroom sink. The bathroom off the main corridor near the post had the only running water left on the site, aside from the sprinklers, which were filled with an anti-freeze solution. Wilkins valve hadn't been shut down according to a master plan as much as it had been abandoned outright. When the power plant was shut down, the high pressure steam that had heated the sprawling buildings was lost, resulting in a parade of broken pipes that winter. Rather then repair the damage, the Wilkins damage crew from Georgia had simply shut off the water to all the affected sections.
The administration building had its own direct link to the main, and the bathroom pipes protected by wrapping them with electrical heating tape. Another feature of the building was that a reasonable, albeit steadily falling proportion of the overhead lights still worked. The small room that served as the main post boasted an electrical resistance heater and a live telephone, with '911' taped to the hand set. To Junior, the room was a home away from home.
Once he had the coffee brewing, he went back out to his Buick, and returned with the portable radio that he took home with him every day. Talk radio was Junior's great pleasure in life. He never called in to the shows, but he would sit like a statue between bathroom visits, listening to the outspoken hosts bait and demolish their critics. It wasn't only great entertainment, it gave him something to say when he got home and his wife asked him how work went that day.
In the left hand drawer, second from the top, Junior kept his collection of hard-core pornography, donated by departing workmen over the years. The most graphic magazines were from European countries, their prices shown in kroners or marks. That the text was in a foreign language didn't make any difference to the buyers, there were less words on most pages then in a children's picture book. No one would call Junior a dirty old man, it was just that he had gotten in the habit of reaching for the magazines and flipping through them whenever the pornography debate came up on one of the talk shows.
Junior poured himself a mug of coffee, and stirred in a spoonful of powdered creamer. He was just finishing the last drops at around quarter past seven, when a large blue Caddy pulled up in front of the window. Even with his coke-bottle glasses, he was able to recognize the 'Big Ed' Flannagan, the Mayor of Springfield, accompanied by an aide. He self-consciously drew himself up, and went out to stand in the entrance way.
"Good morning, Mr. Mayor. Stopping by to use the bathroom?"
Big Ed looked at Junior like he was nuts, and motioned to his aide without replying. The aide, a small fortyish man with a reptile skin briefcase stepped up alongside the Mayor and announced importantly, "We are here to inspect the premises in order to determine its suitability for purchase by the city."
He started forward, but was forced to halt in front of the door by Junior's unmoving stand.
"He looks like he might be deaf," Big Ed suggested, "Try shouting."
The aide stepped back, and began again loudly, with exaggerated lip movements. "The Mayor is here to inspect the premises. The city has been contacted by the Wilkins Corporation as a potential purchaser for the site."
"I heard you the first time," Junior responded, "But you can't come in here."
"We have a fax," the aide continued loudly, "From the Wilkins corporate counsel."
"Nobody told me anything about it," Junior said stubbornly, his temper up from the 'deaf' comment. "I'll need to get a confirmation on this."
"I don't have time for this shit, Frank," Big Ed said, "You straighten the relic out, I'll wait in the car." There was a small TV in the back seat.
"If I could just show you the letter," Frank said condescendingly, opening his briefcase on the Caddy's hood, "You will see that we have proper authorization."
Junior studied the flimsy sheet of fax paper for several minutes. Frank finally lost his temper and shouted, "Are you blind as well as deaf. That letter authorizes us to make a full inspection of the property. The Mayor is a busy man, and I'd appreciate if you'd get out of the way and let us attend to our business."
"You calm down now, Sonny," Junior conjured up his most irritating old man voice, and his words came slower and slower, "You can't expect me to let you city folk go gallivanting around an industrial plant without supervision. I'm going to have to get on the horn and get to the bottom of this."
Junior backed through the door and engaged the deadbolt in the face of the fuming lackey. He made a big show of sitting down at the desk, and picking up the phone. He dialed the main number for Georgia plant, and the phone was answered on the ninth ring. "Wilkins Valve," the operator drawled.
"I'd like to speak Mr. Kevin Weaver."
"He's one of them suits, huh? Drives a Mercedes, huh?"
"Could I speak with him please?"
"Well, I ain't no operator, y'know, She come in around 8:00."
"Who am I speaking to?"
"Well this hea's Captain Hick's, I am the head of security in these parts."
"Could I leave a message?"
"For the operator?"
"For Mr. Weaver."
"Oh, now he don't come in 'till 9:30, 10:00," Hicks drawled, "Why don't you all just try back then?"
"I'll do that," Junior answered, satisfied that he'd covered his ass, "Thank you for your time."
"Bye, now."
Junior slid open the side window that communicated with the entrance way. "I can't get confirmation until after 10:00, so you boys are just going to have to come back," he drawled. Speaking to Southerners always had that effect on him.
Frank was near epileptic in rage. "Now you listen here you stupid old fart..." was as far as he got before Junior slid the window closed again. He turned up the radio, and ignored the pounding on the door. The local talk host was assaulting the current city administration for the hiring of cronies as consultants at inflated salaries. Junior looked speculatively at the aide throwing the tantrum. He dialed the call-in number for the first time in his life.
About a half hour later an official fire department car showed up out front, and two uniformed men got out. They stopped to talk with the Mayor, who got out of his car on their arrival, and then proceeded to the door.
"Open up, Gramps," the older one said, pounding the door with his fist, "Official fire department business."
Junior, recognizing when he'd been outmaneuvered, opened the door and let them in.
"Look," the fireman said, "You've had your fun, and made the Mayor wait a half hour. We don't like that jerk or his wormy aide any more then you do. But we have to follow orders, and if you don't let them come in and snoop around by themselves, we'll have to waste our time escorting them."
Junior looked unconvinced.
"Look," the guy tried again, "How are you going to feel if someone gets burnt up in a fire while the Lieutenant and I are playing nursemaid to those bozos."
Junior relented. "All right," he said, "But they're on their own. I'm to old to go chasing around after politicians who want to play in the ruins. You tell them to be careful back there."
"Thanks for cooperating," the firemen chorused sincerely, and they went out to give the politicos the good news. Junior rummaged around the desk, and found an old sign in sheet with a waiver printed across the bottom. He also pulled a couple of numbered contractor badges from what he had thought would be their permanent resting place. The mayor and his aide signed in and took the badges without a word. Junior was sure that Frank wanted to hang around and gloat, but hearing their own names being batted around on the radio program clearly made them uncomfortable.
A second car pulled up behind the Caddy, and an efficient looking young woman got out with a man who could have been her grandfather.
"Hardwick!" the mayor spit out. "Don't you let him in here," the mayor addressed himself to Junior. Junior went out to greet the pair.
"I see his honor has proceeded us," the senator said jovially, "An early riser in politics is a sure sign of a man with a guilty conscience."
Junior chuckled, liking him.
"I'm State Senator Jason Hardwick, " he extended his hand, "And this lovely creature is my aide, Susan White. She'll be giving me CPR if all this exploration proves to much for my advanced years."
She smiled at Junior prettily, and shook his hand.
Junior waved them into the building in an expansive gesture. "Right this way, Senator, Miss White."
Inside the mayor turned pointedly on his heel, and stalked off, followed by his cup bearer. Junior signed his new guests in, skipping the silly business with the badges. "Lot of talk about you on the radio, Senator. Some of those boys really have it in for you."
"Jason, call me Jason. You're right about some of them setting their sights on me. I try to take it as a compliment."
"I'll bet you do, Jason. I'll bet you do." Junior was completely won over. "If there's anything special you want to see, you just ask old Junior. I've been walking these grounds for fourteen years," he added.
"Well that's mighty generous of you, Junior," the senator responded, "Perhaps if you could show us some of the buildings in the best condition, and maybe one of the worst, so we'll have an idea what we're dealing with here."
Junior beamed as he locked the front door. "Don't get many tourists around here you know, but Wilkins was quite a place in it's day. The building that we're in now, this was the main administration building, and it's in the best shape of any of them."
He led them up the hall, giving a running commentary on everything they passed. Susan took copious notes as she walked along, recording Junior's observations on everything from the water pipes to the holes in the floors. For the last stop on the tour, he took them to the doorway of the old iron foundry, but not inside.
"What a mess," Hardwick said, "I can't believe the fire department let them get away with piling all that wood in there." He started through the doorway.
"You don't want to go in their during the daylight," Junior stopped him, "Pigeons," he explained, making the universally recognized brushing at the top of the shoulder with the back of his hand.
At that moment, there was a crashing sound from within the foundry, followed by and explosion of beating wings and raucous cooing. They peered into the dusky entrance, and were treated to the sight of His Honor sprinting toward the door with his aide's briefcase held over his head like an umbrella. Frank followed close on his heels clutching his toupee to his chest. They both looked like someone had flicked a loaded white paintbrush at them.