Day on the Job

the first day of work at a new job is a little like a child’s anticipation of Christmas the night before it happens. One goes to sleep – or lies awake – thinking that things will certainly be magical that following morning. It’s a chance to start over with a clean slate. This time I won’t drink too much at the annual picnic. This time I’ll remember to proof-read all my emails before I send them. Nervousness is tempered by the air of excitement associated with putting on one’s clothes that next morning; wanting to be perfect for what will surely turn out to be the perfect job.

On this particular morning, Bill’s heart was racing and he was certainly nervous, but it was a cold sweat, laced with fear. The kind that knows whatever you are about to face will not be good. Rather than a start to a new life, Bill knew this was a steep slide down a dark tunnel for which there might not be stairs out. He dressed slowly. What does one wear to an illegal job? White shirt? Tie? In the end, he decided that his regular work clothes – if not appropriate – would at least make his wife comfortable when he came downstairs.

Bill contemplated not telling her that he had a job at all, but then he wasn’t sure how he would explain his reluctance to take something that came along later, so he finally owned up. She had been excited, even when he told her the pay wasn’t much. “A job’s a job, honey,” she had said reassuringly. “A good honest day’s work, that’s what it is, and it’s good for you to keep your mind busy.”

She gave him a big smile and set down a plate of eggs and Canadian bacon – his favorite – when he came into the kitchen. He smiled back. He loved his wife. It hurt him to withhold information from her. To lie to her.

“I know it’s a bit extravagant, but, well, I’m just so proud of you, and I know how you love Canadian bacon. And I had a coupon!” she added, clearly pleased with herself for saving money even while splurging. He stuffed the food into his mouth, not tasting it. His mind was on other things: how he could get the debt paid off quickly, including the vig, so he could get out of this mess; whether they were going to force him to do something sinful, like kill a man (and whether he would do it to save his family). What could they possibly want him to do? He was 52. He was old and weak and had no special skills that would be of value to criminals. He wondered what would happen if he dropped dead of a heart attack. Would they come after his wife? His daughters?

Bill wasn’t an educated man, at least not by today’s standards. He had completed a 2 year trade school degree in the seventies and had signed on at Grund Optical. A lifer. It was old fashioned hard work and his Lutheran work ethic that had made him successful at Grund. He had started as a packager and moved his way up. Slowly. Methodically.

He thought now about Al Capone’s bookkeeper. Perhaps that was what would have to do; just keep the books. Sasha said he would be set up as an accountant. And if he got caught, he could cut a deal with the prosecutor. He wasn’t an accountant, but an efficiency expert was a lot like an accountant, he reasoned. And Sasha had said they would use his special skills. Maybe bad guys were lousy at math so he looked good to them for keeping their books. He hoped, prayed they were going to ask him to be a bookkeeper. That would be OK, he thought, even a little cool. He wasn’t sure he was cut out for the underworld, but a bookkeeper for the mob, that wasn’t so bad. As long as he didn’t have to see any dead bodies.

He grabbed the lunch that his wife had made for him and headed out the door. He was to show up at the Subway on North Towne Street. Sasha would be there to meet him, to drive him to his real destination.

It was a typical hot Northern Michigan Summer morning as he slid into his car to make the 20 minute drive. Normally, Bill would have cranked up the AC and cursed the fact that it took so long to cool down. Today, he felt cold. After two blocks, he felt nauseated and pulled the car over to vomit. He wiped his mouth with the napkin his wife had tucked into his lunch bag and then grabbed a breath mint from his glove box. He wanted to cry, but couldn’t, so he pulled out into traffic again and made his way toward the Subway restaurant.

Sasha was waiting for him when he arrived, standing calmly outside the restaurant. He had the same easy smile and body language he had sported when he first sat down with Bill at the Two Sisters. Bill pulled in, took a deep breath, and got out of the car.

“Good Morning, Bill,” said Sasha, pushing the Subway door open for Bill to precede him. “Why don’t we start by meeting the folks who run this place for me. From time to time, you’ll want to stop by here and say hello, even grab a sandwich.”

They met a married couple who seemed friendly and open. Bill tried hard to smile and act normal. Were they in on it, he wondered. Did everyone know what was going on? It was tough to tell. Sasha instructed the couple that Bill was an efficiency expert and he would be working with a number of Sasha’s companies to streamline expenses. They should expect him to stop by from time to time, Sasha explained, and they should extend to him every courtesy. Then Sasha led Bill out to the car and the two of them rode to the next stop.

“They’re nice people, the Singhs,” said Sasha. “You will like them.”

“Am I… that is, do they know that I . . .” Bill wasn’t quite sure how to bring up his predicament.

“They know that you are an efficiency expert. That’s what they know and that’s all they know and that’s what you are, Bill,” said Sasha, still smiling. They rode for awhile, Bill looking out the window, afraid to ask anything; Sasha talking about baseball. This was all too surreal for Bill. He didn’t know exactly what bad guys were supposed to look and sound like, but they didn’t look like Sasha, and they didn’t talk about baseball. Sasha pulled into an office park and turned off the motor.

“This is my office and you’ll have a cubicle here, too,” he said, getting out of the car. “I suspect that after awhile, you’ll spend a lot more time in here, but for awhile, well, you’ll be on location quite a bit. We’ve got a nice little set-up for you. C’mon in.”

The office was standard office-like space, with a reception desk, some cubicles behind it, and some offices flanking the edges. There were about 12 people in various stages of their morning rituals, getting coffee, chatting about mundane topics. The scene was relatively innocuous. Were they in on it? It looked like an office to Bill.

The whole scene reminded Bill of an article he had read about sex phone lines. The article said that to look at the women working the phones, you would think it was a normal office setting. Each woman had a cubicle and a headset, and some papers in front of her. In fact, the papers were scripts and on the other end of the line, was some dirty old man getting off on what the nice lady on the other end was saying to him. He wondered, could all of these people being engaged in illegal activity? Was this what people meant by white collar criminal? Sasha said hello to the receptionist, introduced Bill as their new efficiency expert, and showed him to a cubicle on the far side of the office, in a corner.

“As cubicles go, I don’t have to tell you this is a good one; lots of privacy.” There was a computer on the desk and some office supplies neatly laid out next to it. A shiny black folder was next to the supplies. “You can leave whatever you like here, Bill. This is your spot.” He pulled out the chair and motioned Bill to sit, which he did. “Why don’t you take a crack at those papers, and then we’ll get your started, OK?” Sasha disappeared, leaving Bill staring at a blank screen and the folder, which contained a W-2 income tax form and some standard new employment documents. He sat down and began filling in the necessary information.

This wasn’t the world Bill imagined he would be in; grey cubicles and rip-stop carpet didn’t shout “illegal activity” to Bill. It all seemed so civilized. Maybe he wouldn’t even know he was doing something illegal. Maybe it would be normal work, he thought, 9 to 5 stuff. Perhaps this would be OK after all.

“Don’t get too comfortable there, Billy,” said Sasha, whose timing made Bill think his mind was being read. “Whenever you’re ready, you can drop that stuff off to Nancy at the reception desk, and we’ll get going. Lots to do today.”

Bill hurried through the documents and dropped them off at the reception desk. Sasha reappeared again and the two of them slipped back into Sasha’s car. It was not a gangster car, like a Cadillac, or a Lincoln. It was a Ford Explorer. Navy popcorn finish outside, tan leather inside. Except for a newspaper thrown on the back seat and a pine tree air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror, the car was devoid of anything personal, at least so far as Bill could tell.

They drove out of town, up the highway, and exited at Branton, a small unincorporated area about 4 miles outside of Copper Harbor. Once the Copper mines closed down, the little towns like Branton that dotted the landscape, were nothing more than human dustbowls: desolate places; nothing more than a quick bathroom stop off the highway.

Branton’s original inhabitants were immigrants – Poles and Czechs and Cornish workers, accustomed to manual labor and able to withstand the cold winters that swept through that part of the country. They had worked the Copper Mines until the industry discovered that it was cheaper to buy the precious metal from foreign sources. Hundreds of underground tunnels still connect each of the old mines, and continue to be rich with mineral deposits. Until economic conditions change, however, the mines lie dormant, the tunnels empty. A few tunnel have been opened, their entrances shored up for tourist visits, and weekend lookie-loos walk down 50 or so feet to read a plaque about the number of tons that were harvested prior to the mine’s closure. Some tunnels are labeled with warnings to steer clear, as their rafters and support systems have all but rotted. Still others have collapsed on themselves, their entrances long obscured by foliage and dirt.

Like many small towns that decorate the upper Peninsula, Branton’s current residents are mostly unemployed, uneducated whites, ancestors of the workers who kept the mines going. Some of the inhabitants had the foresight to send their children off to Northern Michigan University, but not nearly enough had paved a way for their kids to make a living. Whenever the local news reported on some criminal activity, one could often count on Branton being mentioned in some form. By big city standards it was no hotbed of illegal activity, but neither did one want his daughter traipsing off to a party there.

Sasha wound the car around, moving further away from the small strip of stores and commercial establishments that made up what passed for a downtown area. As they drove, the homes seemed to get more ramshackle and farther apart. Eventually Sasha pulled behind a small home and parked on the back lawn. The two got out and surveyed their surroundings.

Clearly they were in that part of town where no alderman would care to travel. The road had turned to gravel about a half mile back, and the yards that surrounded the small homes on the street were brown and weedy. Many homes had cars in the driveway in various states of partial repair, and, although there was not a lot of morning activity, there were plenty of people hanging out on lawn chairs and front porches, looking without caring at whatever was happening in front of them. Bill saw a few people look in his direction and just as quickly go back to whatever they were doing. They were of no consequence here. Just two men Down the road, Bill could see a group of trailer homes, haphazardly set in a circle, a satellite dish in the middle; a make-shift community of sorts.

Sasha and Bill walked past the back of the house and down a small trail. For a moment, Bill thought perhaps Sasha was going to shoot him, and he considered making a run for it, but he felt stupid, and besides, where would he go? And didn’t they always have two guys if they were going to kill you? That’s how it was in the movies. He walked with Sasha until they came to a small stream.

“We like this spot because of its proximity to the water,” said Sasha. “Water carries things quickly away and that’s important. Of course, you’ll probably be telling me things like this pretty soon, eh Bill?” Bill was silent. Sasha sat down on a large rock and motioned for Bill to join him.

“Know anything about methamphetamine?” asked Sasha.

“I . . . I . . . I don’t know anything about any drugs,” said Bill. So this was it. They were going to ask him to sell drugs? Or make them.

“Well, with your chemical background, should be easy for you to pick it up, but we’ll get to that in due time. Let’s start with a little background,” said Sasha, staring out over the river.

“Look, Mr. Uh, Sasha,” said Bill. “I can repay your debt for you, but I can’t make any -- ” Sasha cut him off.

“Bill, I think we’ve been through what you can and cannot do and who will decide that. Relax. I’m not going to ask you to risk your health making meth for me. That’s not a good use of your skills. Hell, I can get any meth head to make meth for me. But you need to understand the drug if you’re going to work around it. I need you for efficiency reasons.” Sasha turned to Bill. “We can make this pleasant, but that’s up to you. Now, do you want to listen before we take the tour, and go home to your wife, or do you want me to have one of my associates pay a visit to her instead?”

“I’m sorry,” said Bill. “This is all new to me. I’m listening.”

“Well, we’re beefing up our operation to meet demand. That house you saw back there? It’s empty now, but we’ve rented it. Out of state landlord, which is helpful. No one snooping around. Here in Branton a guy’s lucky to get his place rented at all. Anyway, that’s where we’d like to set up our new operations, but this time, with some help from you, Bill.”

“For meth—methum--” Bill struggled with the words.

“Methamphetamine. Have you never heard of it?” asked Sasha. “Wow, you really are naïve, aren’t you?”

“I guess. I know it’s illegal.”

“It’s illegal now, but it wasn’t always that way,” said Sasha. “You can talk to Jim about the history. He’s a real scholar about this stuff. You’ll meet him in the coming days. He’ll give you some history if you care. Me, that’s not so interesting. What I do know is it’s a cash cow and I’ve got bills to pay.” Sasha got up and started back up the pathway. “C’mon, I’ll show you the house.”

The two of them made their way up the pathway. Bill was still not entirely sure that he knew what he was supposed to be doing for Sasha, but at least he knew what he didn’t have to do and that kill anyone or dig up dead bodies. He wasn’t sure how he felt about helping to make drugs, yet, but he was sure it was better than the alternative fantasies he had been having over the weekend. He decided to ask Bill how he felt about the whole thing.

“Does it – does it bother you to, you know, sell the stuff?” Bill asked timidly, hoping he wouldn’t offend his host.”

“Me? No. Why should it?” he said, not seeming to take offense. “As long as no one’s pushing it on my kids, why should I care? Most of the people buying the stuff, near as I can tell, are human waste, anyway. What do I care if they want to kill themselves with this crap? They’ll get off the government welfare payroll sooner, that’s what I say.”

They reached the house and Sasha fumbled in his pocket for the key. In truth, the place looked like it would fall over with one strong kick. He fit the key into the lock and jiggled it a little. He seemed to want to share more.

“It’s a real white trash drug, you know? Same folks who get hooked on the Oxycontin.”’ He turned to Bill. “Let me guess. You have no idea what I’m talking about right?” Bill shook his head. He didn’t know Oxycontin from OxyClean. “Well, it’s a real hillbilly drug, the meth, like cocaine for poor folks. Cheap to make, easy to sell, easy to move. A real white trash drug.” Sasha pushed his way through the door and walked in.

“The Blacks, they don’t like it so much. They sell it, but they don’t so much use it. Cocaine, marijuana, that’s what the blacks like to spend their time doing. Gotta admire them for that. This stuff’ll kill you. The Blacks, I guess they got that survival instinct going back to slavery times. Won’t touch the stuff. Well, here we are.”

There was nothing much too see that couldn’t have been described to Bill at the office, but he supposed Sasha had wanted to talk. The house was small, with a living/dining area and three bedrooms. There was a sizeable kitchen that looked functional and a door leading out to the back where Sasha and Bill had walked. Not unlike the home that Bill and Julie had raised two daughters in, if a little rundown. Bill waited for Sasha to speak again.

“Well, that’s it. Let’s take a drive back and we can talk now that you’ve seen the digs. On the way, I’ll show you our other units and give you the rundown. You may need to write some stuff down. There’s a lot to think about. I’m sure you’ll have questions and we’ll make sure to give you the resources you need so you can get the job done,” said Sasha. “There’s a pen and paper in the car. Feel free to jot down some notes, but you know, be careful about what you write.”

Bill was silent. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think Sasha was hiring him for a regular job.

On the ride back, Sasha explained with more particularity exactly what his plans were for Bill. Essentially, Sasha’s operations had been interrupted for a number of reasons, stemming from difficulty in finding bulk supplies like red phosphorus (there had been a crackdown by local and federal authorities on people buying large quantities of certain over-the-counter pharmaceutical products necessary for the production of meth), to rogue employees stealing his supply, to difficulty making the appropriate hand-offs to his wholesalers.

Sasha had been having trouble with consistent quality of product because he was forced to use different methods of manufacture – Nazi, One-Pot, Iodine. He also had waste and contamination issues, and the constant risk of employees either succumbing to their own habits, or being arrested for something outside of work and ratting out the lab, or worse, starting a competing lab a few doors down and getting busted. Sasha had implemented the appropriate safeguards so that he himself was never implicated, but he needed to protect the business. He wasn’t above physical enforcement (which he typically outsourced to Bobby C), but needed someone to examine the entire operation, from creation of the product to distribution, to see if he could possibly improve his odds.

In many ways, the job was not that different from what he did at Grund all those years. Indeed, listening to Sasha talk about it, Bill would go whole minutes forgetting that they were discussing how to streamline a drug manufacturing and distribution business. Sometimes, listening to Sasha talk, he even got excited about how he could reduce risk and cost. But then he would catch himself and realize that for $12.00 an hour, most of which was going back in Sasha’s pocket, he was risking his freedom and quite possibly his life. Eventually, his thoughts settled back on Dick Grund, sitting on a deck at a club house somewhere, spending Bill’s pension.

By the time Sasha pulled the car back in the driveway at the Subway restaurant, Bill had filled 7 pages with notes from Sasha’s stream-of-consciousness ramble. Most of it was a 30-thousand foot level overview of the business and problems peppered with some learned prognosticating about the future of the business, but it was all new and since Bill didn’t know what was important, he wrote it all down. He would meet Jim in the coming days who would tell him how the operations ran at a micro level, and he would answer many of the questions at the tip of Bill’s pencil. This was one area he knew he would not be able take a university extension class for, so he listened intently.

It was a short day. Bill was admonished once again by Sasha to be careful what he wrote down; that things had to be corralled appropriately. Sasha asked Bill to hand over his note-pad; it would waiting for him at the office tomorrow. Then Sasha pulled out of the lot and drove away, leaving Bill and the rest of his day ahead of him. It was 3 O’Clock.

Getting into his own car, Bill decided that it was too early to go home, so he headed out toward Houghton’s Waterfront Park. Houghton had not gone the way of Branton and other old mining cities. When it became clear in the early 60’s that the economic infrastructure was crumbling, Houghton participated in the HUD 701 program, and implemented the suggestions its experts gave, including maintaining and improving the city’s old shipping port and making the waterfront a tourist destination. Those improvements, coupled with the constant regeneration of young people to the area as a result of it being home to the Michigan Technical Institute, revitalized the community and stabilized the economy.

For his part, Bill liked to walk the gardens at Waterfront Park. To him, they represented the beauty of the area. He and Julie had been walking the little paths for years and now, after what he had just experienced, he needed it to regain his sense of balance.

Bill walked along the paths, his hands brushing against the manicured flower beds, thinking about his first day of work. He had never had to imagine what life would be like on the seedy side of the street, and except for the occasion cop vs. criminal show, he didn’t really give a thought to how the other half lived. Still, he never imagined that illegal activity was done in such a civilized manner. In his mind, bad guys were bad guys. They didn’t have nice children, they didn’t drive modest cars, and they didn’t have well-meaning wives at home making them Canadian bacon for breakfast. It was all too surreal. He wasn’t a bad man. He was a good man who was forced to do bad things. Sasha was a bad man. And Dick Grund was a bad man for forcing him on Sasha. Dick had broken a promise to the whole community and people were homeless and desperate as a result. He wished he was bad. Then maybe he would have the courage to slit the man’s throat. Someday, when he was out of this mess, he was going to find Dick Grund and talk to him; tell him what had happened in the wake of his bad decision.

The summer days were beginning to get long and the sun was still high in the Michigan sky as he strolled along the waterfront. The flowers and plants didn’t care about his story; they just seemed happy to have him there.


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