Rosalyn McMillan - Blue Collar Blues

This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, incidents, and dialogue, except for incidental references to public figures, products, or services, are imaginary and are not intended to refer to any living persons or to disparage any companys products or services.

Copyright 1998 by Rosalyn McMillan

All rights reserved.
Warner Books, Inc.,
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017

Vist our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

First eBook Edition: July 1999

ISBN: 978-0-446-93033-8

Knowing

One Better

This book is dedicated to my husband, John D. Smith, who began his career at Ford Motor Company as a blue collar worker, then worked his way up through the ranks as a white collar worker while going to school and receiving a B.A. in business management at the University of Northwood. My Old Man, as I lovingly call him, is now, after thirty years of service at Ford, happily enjoying his retirement.

___________

The spring mornings were warming gradually. In mid-April, the sun rose earlier, and the deep cold of the Michigan winter was losing its grip. The warming rain was making mournful music for the mind. A careful ear could almost hear the song of a romantic sonnet by Byron in the steady downpour.

Khan Davis didnt have such an ear. Her mind concentrated on more mundane thoughts: money and sex.

Parking the car in her usual spot at Champion Motors Troy Trim plant, she turned off her headlights and stole a final glance in the lighted mirror. Dabbing her pinkie in her mouth, she smoothed the high arch of her eyebrow, then fingered the right side of her short blond curls so that a few strands would just brush the tips of her half-hooded eyes.

Four feet eleven, with shiny blond hair and caffe latte skin, Khan imagined herself as a miniature Dorothy Dandridge with an attitude readying herself for a rendezvous with Harry Belafonte. But in real life, her appointment this morning was with a more dependable date, a power sewing machine that didnt give a damn how she looked.

Damn, Khan snorted under her breath after grabbing her purse and umbrella. This stupid weather is going to frizz up my new hairdo before R.C. gets a chance to see it. Pressing the button to pop open her umbrella, she slammed the car door and sprinted off. Halfway to the employee entrance, she could feel her hair rising like fresh yeast.

Most of the women who worked at Champion waited until they arrived at work before painting their faces in the womens bathroom, although they knew that makeup didnt make them more attractive to the males in the plant: Only the digits on their paychecks could do that.

But Khan Davis never went anywhere without looking absolutely perfect. Quite frankly, she loved to show off her petite figure. As she entered the plant each morning, Khan looked fine and dangerous. Dangerous because she already had a man.

Wearing a heavily starched pair of beige Calvin Klein jeans and a matching blouse, her gold chain belt with large loops echoing the eighteen-karat hooped earrings she wore in her ears, Khan naturally swished her hips as she walked to a rhythm from the old South that no one could hear or understand unless theyd been raised there.

The fresh scent of Cool Stream perfume oil mixed with Egyptian Musk brought attention from her male colleagues, whom she could see watching her out of the corner of her eye. Looking good and smelling outrageously different from other women was Khans trademark.

Once inside the building, Khan was greeted by the familiar chug-a-lug noise from dozens of forklift drivers on their hi-los hauling stock in and out of the sewing units. The sharp smell of new vinyl mixed with gas fumes from the hi-lo followed, filling every molecule of air. Worse yet, she knew she was inhaling the toxic smell of burning glue coming from the laminator machines.

Reaching inside her purse, Khan removed the safety glasses that everyone was required to wear inside the plant. The titanium lights thirty feet above gave the impression of daylight, but Khan squinted as she waited in line in the break area to purchase the early edition of The Detroit News.

It was four thirty-five in the morning. The second shift of Champion Motors Troy Trim Division hourly automobile workers would begin in twenty-five minutes.

The cold, high-glossed cement floor was painted stone gray. Set against the white walls, the lack of color created a stark tone that permeated every aspect of the plant. So no matter how much seniority Khan managed to tuck under her belt, she still felt imprisoned working at Championeven if Champion was a prison that allowed her to make tons of money and then go home each day. The problem was, she made so much money that she didnt want to go home. The plant felt like a brick shrine luring its brainwashed devotees; the call of money was irresistible.

Hot tacos. Hot tacos, Mexican Jos shouted as he pimp-walked into the break area. At sixty-two, Jos had forty-two years seniority. Hed been selling tacos before he began his shift for the past thirty years at Champion. Rumor was that his sales totaled over a thousand dollars a week. Jos was living big. He drove an Incognito, Champions most expensive sport luxury car, bought the best clothes, and had the best pussy money could buy. A few employees were jealous of the tax-free money Jos accumulated each week. But they werent envious enough to stop buying his Mexican delights. Nobody made tacos like Joss wife, Marisela.

Khan knew that Marisela rose at two every morning to prepare and wrap over two hundred tacos for her husband. Hours later in the plant, the spicy scent of cumin made even those who werent hungry indulge in the hot temptations. Dozens of vending machines filled with hot coffee, cold milk, fruit juices, potato chips, candy, and other snacks were no competition for Joss taco cart.

How about you, seorita? Jos asked in his sexy Mexican drawl. You want two today?

This morning Khan was tempted, but she shook her head no as she dropped two quarters into the coffee machine.

She took a seat in the break area across from the Rembrandt Imperial sewing unit she worked in. Located next to the Imperial were the Givenchy and Base Rembrandt units that took up half of the south end of the plant. Rembrandt, the top moneymaking luxury car for Champion for two decades running, was reserved for only the highly skilled sewing machine operators. Khan had begun working the unit after only one year at Champion.

In the five years shed worked at Champions Troy Trim plant, her routine rarely varied. In ten minutes her sewing partner, Luella, would arrive and they would head into the unit together to begin their days production.

Several of Khans co-workers were watching the early morning news on television sets perched high on pedestals in the break area. Khan wasnt interested. As she waited for Luella, Khan flipped open Section A of her paper, skimming more than reading. Anything was more interesting than talking to some of the other hourly workers in the plant. Usually their main topic of conversation began and ended with overtimewho got it, who needed it, and who wasnt getting any.

Sipping on a cup of black coffee, Khan turned to the business section. She began to read an article about how the Japanese were gaining market shares in the automobile industry at a faster rate than the Big Four. Because of the increased sales of utility trucks, the Japanese were implementing an aggressive campaign to capitalize on the high profit margin from these vehicles.