Chapter 12 #2
But Efraín runs on anger; it fuels him. Hell, if scientists figured out how to siphon Efraín’s anger, they could probably power a small country and dramatically reduce global dependence on fossil fuels.
“When I get specific,” Efraín says, because, well, he never actually stopped, “when I talk about people you know, the problems they’re facing, and what we could do to help them—you don’t care.
That’s when you go off about how it doesn’t make sense that corporations, politicians, or bosses don’t want to help people. ”
“Now who’s resorting to ad hominem attacks?” Then I remember this is my workplace, not a playground. “Sorry,” I say, which
is a word I use even less often than Efraín does. “I’m not trying to treat this like some APUSH debate.”
“You just can’t help it,” Efraín replies, wry as day-old rye.
“Just pass me those shirts so I can actually help.”
It must be a minor miracle that Efraín pushes his stack across the counter without any grumbling.
I assume that’s it—that we’ve successfully dropped the matter without breaking any eggs. I sort price tags and double-check
shirt sizes, and he folds. It’s a brittle silence, delicate as Mom’s Vanillekipferl cookies.
I’m not expecting me to be the one to crumble until I’m halfway through the first sentence. “What I don’t understand is why
we need to have a union meeting. I still don’t understand why we need a union. You talked about little hits, but what does
that even mean, practically speaking?”
He surveys the still-empty lobby and says, “It’s about fixing broken things.”
“Like the anemic coffee machine in the break room?”
“No—I don’t know, maybe, but didn’t you hear what Stanley said about his hidden hip flask? That it’s the least obvious way
to carry water when he’s giving tours—because water bottles are banned?”
“Yes,” I say, remembering how Stanley mentioned that HR has the power to make medical exceptions, “but—”
“It shouldn’t have to be that way,” Efraín interjects, as if how things should be has anything to do with this. He slams the folding board down on the counter, as if casual force will best punctuate his
point. “An injury to one is an injury to all.”
“Is that Marx or Dumas?”
“The Industrial Workers of the World.” Efraín frowns. “Why would you—”
“Just sounds a hell of a lot like ‘all for one and—’ ”
“C’mon, Elisha. Don’t you see? We can do good here.”
A one-man work stoppage in our assembly line, Efraín’s staring at me, and there’s nothing to distract me from the shimmer
in his eyes.
He believes his own swill, while I’ve never cared about being the hero when I’m just trying to get by in a world that is hostile
to my very existence, where my government keeps trying to legally erase me, where I’m desperately trying to access health
care that might become illegal before I can afford it. I can justify the chip on my shoulder until the cows come home.
However, I’m not oblivious. Just because I don’t want to play the hero doesn’t mean the rest of the world’s on pause. We’re all trapped in this horror movie together, and I can admit, in the privacy of my mind, that my conscience can’t always process all these multitudes and contradictions.
I have a vintage Star Wars “bad feeling” about what I’m about to do, and then—my phone vibrates in my pocket.
The jolt skewers my coordination, almost piercing the tagging gun needle through my finger. Thankfully, Efraín doesn’t notice.
With a shuddery breath, I sneak a glance at my phone. My lock screen lights up with the new email notification.
Billy Lo
Re: Meeting
Hello Eli,
Sure, I’d be happy to meet with you. Let me just check my calendar and cross-reference with Anya re: the GSA schedule so we
can find a good time to pull you off the fl . . .
I stuff my phone back in my pocket and pick up the tag gun. I keep my eyes on the label because I’d really rather not waste
that HR meeting on a workers’ comp claim.
“Friday,” I say, despite the pit of anxiety still threatening to swallow my stomach whole.
“What?” Efraín asks, flat and flummoxed.
“I have something Thursday afternoon. So it has to be Friday. We could all go somewhere after work. Maybe the diner? That might be too public, but—”
“Too public for what?”
I look at him, still folded over his workstation, face half-hidden behind his perpetually, perfectly windswept hair that I
didn’t think anyone could achieve outside of a professional film studio. “For a union meeting, of course.”
“So we can count on you to be there?” He’s asking so fervently, like it means something, and the last time he looked at me
with this set-it-all-on-fire intensity, he was hurling hair dye at me in the gazebo.
“Yes,” I answer, hoping I’m not making a promise I can’t afford to keep. “I’ll be there. Unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno.
All for one—”
“And one for all.”
“Got it in one, d’Artagnan.”
He wrinkles his nose. “How am I—”
“You’re the hotheaded, idealistic one, right?” I smile, though I doubt it reaches my eyes.
If Efraín hasn’t figured it out yet, far be it from me to tell him that no matter what the rest of us do or say, he’s always
going to steal the story.