Chapter 29
Twenty-Nine
Efraín is late.
I should’ve seen this coming from the moment Lola said he was driving solo. He’s lucky Anya isn’t at pre-shift, either, and
that Dan and Ford are running the show down here. Dan won’t care if Efraín saunters in a few minutes late, as long as he’s
here before the doors open.
I won’t be here an hour from now. I understand that is the inevitable price of my defiance. I wouldn’t say I’ve accepted it,
but I’ve scheduled a Lyft to pick me up. Now that top surgery is on layaway, I can afford that extravagance over the embarrassment
of waiting in the parking lot for my moms.
I try to savor these last moments in the barn. On all those other mornings I was so sure I was about to get fired, I fixated
on the physical space—the lights and posters and rarefied air—but today, I look at the people—these strange, funny, kind weirdos.
They’re why I need to officially refuse Dagny’s deal and accept my pink slip like a red badge of courage. I won’t betray the
people in this room who have done so much for me.
Dan wraps up and sends everyone on their way. I’m not remotely ready, but I ask Dan if I should just head up to the conference
room now.
“Um.” He scratches the back of his neck. “You might want to wait, dude.”
“Is Dagny already here?”
“Yeah, but—”
The phone behind the ticketing counter rings. Blake answers and hands the receiver to Dan. Just before he turns away from
me to create some semblance of privacy, something strange crosses his face, an expression I’ve never seen on him before.
Suddenly, the back-of-house doors swing open. I spot Divya first, but for someone who’s always quick with jokes, she’s subdued.
The security manager is with her, and between them is Efraín, in a plain shirt and jeans. His K?nken is slung over one shoulder,
a folder tucked under his arm. He’s looking straight ahead, heading toward the barn doors, on the clock.
He’s not wearing his employee badge.
This isn’t the prisoner’s dilemma; it’s Efraín’s Sydney Carton martyr moment.
I’m shaking, anger and fear muddling into something else entirely. I want to go to him. I want to yell at him. I want to follow him as security ushers him out of the barn.
But then I feel a hand on my shoulder. Stanley’s there beside me, saying, “Whatever your boyfriend did, Eli, you know he wouldn’t
want you putting yourself at risk, too.”
Stanley’s right. Because Efraín swore last night that he wouldn’t let me get fired. He bet the museum would accept any scapegoat
offered. So he sacrificed himself without asking anyone else’s opinion. Without looking anyone in the eye on his way out.
I have never hated him as much as I hate him right now.
Because this was my mess. He’s running headlong into the sword that was meant for me.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
But there’s still Stanley’s voice in my ear.
So I let Efraín leave, and I do the only thing I can do: my goddamn job.
After work, I go home. I do not pass go. I do not collect $200—unless we count my day’s wages, which aren’t even close.
Naomi opted to hang with Lola and our coworkers for an In-N-Out-and-kvetch session. Lola spent the entire commute trying to
convince me to join, but I was too checked out. When she dropped me off, Lola not-so-subtly hinted that I should invite Efraín
over. I didn’t; I can’t bring myself to message him at all.
I’m alone in this house but for Sputnik, who tails me like the spy I’m not. She chases me up the stairs and sprawls across my bed.
I strip off my uniform polo and remember Efraín in his civvies. It’s so ironic. Efraín planned ahead to turn in his uniform
after terminating his employment. If I’d been fired today, I wouldn’t have had a change of clothes.
After Efraín’s stunt, the rest of the staff interviews were canceled. Dagny pulled me aside, smiling, as if not a single artifact
were out of place—nothing stolen, no one burned—and said she had “good news.” I officially have permission to wear a personal
pronoun button, and I’m a shoo-in for the internship to boot. Provided I don’t find myself caught in any future workplace
disturbances, that is.
There are dozens of notifications on my phone, most to the union group chat, where everyone has chimed in, and Blake has been
added.
But there are plenty of messages just for me. Lola, even though I just saw her. Stanley, even though he spent half our shift
talking me down. Even TJ and Eden. Those I read out of sheer curiosity because I’ve never texted either of them solo. TJ has
sent me a barrage of hartie memes; I didn’t realize he was such a fan.
Eden has attached a photo of a letter—I recognize Kane’s handwriting at a cursory glance—that I’m definitely not supposed
to be seeing, clearly part of some secret collection, and she’s written three explanatory paragraphs.
Conspicuously absent from my notifications is Efraín, but I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t know what to say to me, either. Efraín knows me too well to expect me to thank him for his grand, saintly gesture.
I didn’t ask for any of this.
No, that’s not right. I asked for a button and a shot at the internship. I’m getting everything I wanted.
I just didn’t want it like this.
Eventually, I open my laptop and pull up the NS episode list. My cursor hovers over “Who’s Afraid of Wolf Spector? (Part 1)” despite the flash of the teleplay page at Kane’s
desk. In the finale, conspiracy theories about the Spectors come to a fever pitch as evidence of an old government contract
surfaces. There’s a shoot-out at the silo. Art almost dies; Harry saves him, calls him “Artie,” starts to tell him something
before Art passes out from blood loss.
I may be a glutton for punishment, but I’m not that much of a masochist. I pick an episode at random and hit play.
I’m ten minutes into my second random episode when Sputnik’s ears pivot toward the door. She hears it before I do. Keys clattering,
dead bolt clicking. Heavy footsteps, hearty laughter. Reluctantly, I tiptoe across the mezzanine.
“Eli—oh, hey!” Lola grins up at me as I peer over the railing. “We brought burgers.”
“And fries,” Naomi adds.
“C’mon down. Everyone’s on their way.”
Sputnik canters down the stairs toward the scent of dead cow.
“Everyone?” Dread wicks through me.
“It’s Friday night,” Naomi states.
“So? We don’t observe Shabbat.”
“No, we observe union meetings.”
“So you invited ‘everyone’ to our house? Did you even ask Moms? What did you tell them?”
“The truth?”
“But they don’t know about the union!”
“Of course they do,” Naomi informs me.
Lola frowns, looking between the two of us, before turning back to me. “Dude. Did you think your moms would really let us
keep ordering family appetizer platters for an ever-increasing number of people, no questions asked?”
I admit, “I didn’t think they’d notice—”
“That your total friend count has tripled?”
“Moms never said anything to me,” I say to Naomi.
“They thought you didn’t want to talk about anything work-related.”
“So they asked you?”
“As your sister and coworker, I’m uniquely qualified to offer insight about your mental state.”
I sincerely doubt that, considering what an admirable job she’s been doing of ignoring me all summer, but Naomi’s clutching multiple In-N-Out bags while Lola balances two drink cartons. “Who’s coming?”
“Everyone.” Lola shrugs. “Jaime’s bringing Blake. Stanley said he was going to pick up TJ. Eden already had plans with Divya
for later, so she invited her, too.”
“What about—”
“Ef?” Lola’s expression sours. “Only replied to my texts when I said I was on my way to pick him up. He says it’s ‘inappropriate’
for him to come to meetings if he doesn’t work there.”
“It’s not safe for any of you to be here,” I insist. “Did he tell you—”
“Dagny knows, yada yada.” Lola rolls her eyes. “We’re gonna figure it out.”
“This isn’t—not without—”
“This is happening, even without Efraín.”
“I was going to say ‘without plausible deniability,’ but—”
“But nothing. This is DEFCON Thelma and Louise. You in or you out?”
Downstairs, the union has transformed the living room into a war room. I don’t know what they’re planning, just that I’ve
heard laughter and yelling alike, and I’m trying to concentrate on this episode.
Then my door swings open, no knocking. Sputnik barrels in.
Naomi hovers near the threshold.
“What?” I stab my space bar with my thumb.
Naomi’s face is neutral, as usual. Decreased affect, per the DSM. “Sputnik wanted to see you. Didn’t you hear her scratching at the door?”
I scratch under her chin, and she purrs vociferously. “There’s a lot of noise pollution in the house. Did you just come up
here to play Good Samaritan for Sputnik, or did you want something?”
She drops a manila folder on my night table. “Read that.”
“What is it?”
“My meeting notes, with some additional research.”
“You want me to give you extra credit?”
Naomi doesn’t take the bait.
“Do you remember the first thing Efraín told us about organizing?”
“I remember that he didn’t tell us we were organizing until we’d already done it.”
“He said that bosses lie.”
“No shit.”
Unperturbed, she persists, “It’s illegal to intimidate or interrogate workers for organizing.”
“Efraín also pointed out bosses don’t give a fuck what’s legal. Why would they? There’s no point crying to the NLRB. We can’t
hold them accountable.”
“What if we could?” She pauses, waiting for me to put the pieces together, but my deductive reasoning skills are offline. “We can hold them accountable in the court of public opinion. Send the open letter to the press, just like we planned. Add something about intimidation and illegal termination—”
“It’s too late. Efraín’s gone. It’s all . . . FUBAR.”
This is what I get for watching too much ’80s TV.
“Fine. Do what you want. I don’t know why I thought—”
“What did you think?”
“I thought you’d care about your boyfriend, even if you didn’t care about me!” Naomi explodes like a dormant volcano, finally spewing vitriol that’s been churning in
her for millennia, leaving scorched earth in her wake. “I should’ve known better. You always do this—act like your problems
are so much bigger than everyone else’s. You play the victim and act like you’re so alone in everything, but you don’t even see the way other
people jump to help you.
“You never asked what happened with Gwen. You never liked her—good call there—but I tried to tell you, months ago, that everything
with her helped me realize I’m probably aro ace. But you don’t even remember because you started monologuing about how some
guy at Nine Lives gave you a ‘weird look’ when you went thrifting for work clothes.
“When you had issues in school, Moms paid for your autism diagnosis out of pocket, but I never got an official diagnosis, just self-diagnosis-by-genetic-proxy. Or when Moms offered to buy us a used car, but you said, no, you needed that money for top surgery, so now I’m on my own for the car, which would be fine, I understand that top surgery is important for you, but . . .
“Eli, you were going to let me get fired over my hair. You knew I needed money, too, and you just told me to dye my hair back to blond. It never occurred to you that I dyed my
hair for a reason—green highlights like the aro pride flag. That meant something to me, especially after the breakup, and
you would’ve known that if you’d paid attention or asked. But you couldn’t get over yourself for five minutes and just listen
to anyone other than your own ego. Because I’m the common mallard in the family, and you’re a—I don’t know—red-breasted sapsucker.”
Naomi is red-faced and winded. I’ve never heard her say that many words at once. My kid sister just as good as called herself
an ugly duckling while excoriating me.
But now she’s rubbing her arms, self-conscious. “I’ll give you time to process. All the legal information about what to do if you’re fired for organizing is in the folder. Read it, if you care.”
The door slams behind her. I know I’ve fucked up, just like I did with her hair.
But it’s too late. It doesn’t matter if I care about Naomi or anything else.
So what if management broke the law? What difference does it make?
I just want to go back to watching my favorite TV show and feel a little less alone. But the stories don’t feel the same in
this light. I’m still alone.
I look at my laptop screen, frozen on a neo-noir shot of Harry in the interrogation room, staring at his own reflection in
the one-way mirror. The screen dims; suddenly, I’m staring at my own reflection in a black mirror.
I don’t like what I see.
Not for the usual reasons. It’s nothing to do with my curved jawline or the missing Adam’s apple. It’s the image itself: me,
alone on my bed but for my cat. Phone face down so I don’t have to face my missed notifications. The rumble of life just below
my floorboards; knowing I have an invitation but never RSVP’d.
This morning, I thought I was going to get fired because I wasn’t willing to betray my friends. I was terrified to make that
sacrifice.
Efraín beat me to the punch. He sacrificed himself.
But the truth is? Efraín didn’t save anyone. My firing wouldn’t have saved anyone, either.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve made mistakes. My actions put others at risk. I could’ve set the record straight when I saw security
escorting Efraín out. My worst mistake, however, was that I never trusted the union, not unconditionally.
I always looked for escape hatches and back channels. I let the union tackle my grievances, but as soon as things went south, I took back the reins. I never truly trusted them to have my back; I never took the trust fall.
But the union isn’t dead. It’s alive and kicking in my living room. My fellow workers and friends took it upon themselves
to keep looking for solutions because, as Efraín reminded me last night, that’s the point of a union.
Because an injury to one is an injury to all.
Because they’re all for one and one for all.
Because ride-or-die doesn’t end at the parking lot, and solidarity is a two-way street.
The union can hold our bosses accountable—but a letter isn’t enough.
I jump out of bed so abruptly that Sputnik yowls in dismay.
The living room is as crowded as I’ve ever seen it. Lola’s sandwiched between Jaime and Blake on the love seat. Stanley has
claimed the La-Z-Boy. Naomi, Eden, and Divya are arranged on the couch. TJ’s camped on the floor. They have all manner of
laptops, tablets, phones, and notebooks. Everyone talks over each other. No one’s even noticed I’m here.
“I know what we need to do,” I holler. When they look up—expressions ranging from smug smiles to mild surprise to faint exasperation—I
take a deep breath. I trust these people, truly. “If everyone agrees, I mean. Rule by consensus and all—”
“Jesus, Eli.” Lola clucks her tongue. “Sure, you’re late to the party, but you’ve got an open invitation.”
“Just spit it out!” TJ calls.
Well, when they put it like that.
Sure as I’ve ever been, I say, “We’re going on strike.”