After the sun went down last night, things got very bad.
I was sitting under a tree, when I heard a terrible noise. Coyotes sound a bit like a nursery on fire. There were a lot of them and they were close. I sat wondering for about five minutes if they knew I was there. The sounds got closer. I climbed the tree behind me. It was about thirty feet to the top. The branches could bear my weight about two thirds of the way up. My eyes had adjusted to the light, what little of it there was after the moonlight had filtered down through the haze of the smokescreen and clouds. I could see movement below me. Heard their excited yipping. Perhaps they thought they had me in a good spot. Perhaps they did. One by one they made attempts to climb to my location. They weren't terrible climbers, but they were not arboreal acrobats either. A few of them got close to me. I could smell their awful flesh. They came at me growling and looking tough. They must have been very hungry to try an aerial attack like that. I held on tight with my hands, kept one foot planted on the branch below me solid, and kicked at them brutally. I felt my foot through my shoe connecting with their bodies buried in fur and bristle. The sound they made when I connected was pitiable. The sound they made when they hit the ground from a twenty-foot drop was even more painful to hear.
Kicking coyotes out of a tree was like giving job interviews in a way. The first couple were weak, younger and less experienced. I could see it in their tentative movements, their eyes looking every which way as if to continually gauge the depth of the shit they were in. Then there came an older dog. He moved more fluidly. The gaze of this animal was frightening. The others had been comic relief up until now, the opening acts. This one was the headliner. He moved silent and smooth through the tree. When he came nearly within striking distance, he stopped. Fixed his eyes on mine. There we stayed, perhaps communicating in a sense. Interviewing each other as to which one of us would be dinner. He let out a low growl and then howled arching his salted and peppered face high to the nonexistent moon. I had been still and silent, but I let off a shout at him. Not words, just a gorilla noise, as though I were drawing on the distant reserves of strength of simian ancestors. He took my challenge and leapt at me. I swung around to the other side of the trunk, and he sailed past me and tried to land on an out-swept branch. I kicked at him and missed, as he stumbled off the end of the branch and disappeared silently into the black void beyond the end of the visible tree. After a few more attempts they stopped climbing and waited for me to come down. Eventually I passed out, my bulk wrapped around the trunk of the tree. My head nodding against a yearling branch.
Somewhere in the twilight mind between nodding off under threat of assault and waking up cold to a hazed-out sunrise, a reminiscent mood overtook my thoughts. It's hard to measure time in a less than conscious state, but perhaps the images that flashed before my mind's eye came just before the break of dawn, in the silent void between night shift and day. I woke up with memories of a paper mill.
#
I don't understand people individually. I think that on an individual level people don't make sense, they are emotional, unpredictable, erratic and generally that just makes me lose my patience. I am a rational person. I believe that everything has a cause and a solution. Groups of people make sense to me. The law of large numbers. Groups are predictable almost infallibly when you have the right data or intuition.
I was in charge of the total turnaround of a paper plant in Maine. The company I was with had gone in on the investment, but they were pretty disappointed getting into the nuts and bolts of the restructuring. It seemed to many of my company managers that we had invested in a hopeless mess that was about to implode in a final bankruptcy. Of course it was, of course we did. That is what we did. Only this mess was a little deeper than my colleagues were capable of seeing through without becoming hopelessly mired in details. So, I volunteered to take it on as a personal project. I enjoy a challenge. So, I moved to Maine for the summer.
I rented a cottage in Lisbon and drove to Lewiston, where the mill was, every day of the week for six months. I think that in restructuring people often overlook the small changes in favor of the big ones. It was certainly important that we fire and replace the directorship which had driven the company so far into debt and unmanageability, but afterward, what then? I find that people need clear space to function correctly. They need to have the garbage taken out. I don't just mean the trash bags from the break room. That stuff is obvious. But junk piles up in plain sight all the time, you just have to know where to look.
I went down to that mill on a Sunday, when no one else was working. They could have been working on Sunday, but the state of the company was so besieged that the payroll had to be cut back in order to float through the end of the previous year and no one had been able to make those hours reappear on anyone's schedule since. The place was a mess. I looked around at that dysfunctional wreck, sensing out the logical weak points of the system.
This was a big place. If you've never been in a Maine mill building, especially a paper mill, they're huge. Some six stories tall with twenty-foot ceilings on the ground floor, twelve-foot ceilings on the upper levels. It stretched for an entire block long and half a block wide, with a parking lot taking up the other half of the block. I went from room to room, methodically checking out the contents of each space. What were they using it for, how was it contributing to the function or the dysfunction of the whole. My methodology with people and businesses is centered on the use of space and the allocation of resources.
I found room after room filled with the dust of decades. The evidence of neglect was so thick I had trouble walking through it. Hundreds of thousands of cubic feet of space packed tight with defunct machinery that had been brought in for repair, or whole divisions shut down for maintenance, obsoleted before they could be fixed, held in stasis as if waiting for time to return to them. Paper files going back a hundred years filled cabinets lining wall after wall of office space. It was as if, when they filled an office with records, they'd just move their desks into the next room and start the process over again without ever purging. In the loading dock area, I found that four of the five loading bays had been shut down due to an accumulation of broken forklifts, skidsteers, and an agglomeration of picnic tables. Everywhere I touched, my fingertip came away smudged with the lampblack of the boilers mixed with the sedentary particles of idleness. There were thousands of windowpanes. They were all choked with this thick, barely translucent layer that looked like it had been applied by spray can overnight, but had accumulated slowly, imperceptibly. It was this kind of growth by neglect that I found in just about every business I salvaged. It made my flesh ripple with goosebumps to know how easy this would be.
On Monday, I had a meeting. I'd had my assistants go through the employee review records, which were undoubtedly spotty, and I had my two lists. I gave out pink envelopes and yellow ones, so everyone knew where everyone else stood without having to go through any idle chitchat or banter. Save it for the pub, I said. Those of you who got the yellow envelopes, I said, you've been selected to be part of the restructuring. They all just looked at me. They were stunned and silent, but not from my firing half of them, that had been a long time coming. Their minds were suffocating from the same level of stasis and neglect that had so deformed their mill over the last hundred years. Comfort and stability afforded to the few at the top had allowed things to degrade from the bottom up with very little notice taken of it. To be a part of this system as it was was to be partially degraded. Those I had selected for salvage, seemed salvageable to me.
There was one kid, he wasn't that young, but he was respected, well liked and strong enough to change with the times. His name was David, I think. I set him the task of removing every single piece of junk and garbage from the plant. He said, do you want to try and recoup any money from this stuff?
I said, don't waste any company time trying to sell any of this stuff. Get rid of it in the most efficient means possible. We can't have local contractors running all over the place breaking legs and suing the company. Just rent some dumpsters and put everyone to work. If there is anything too big to handle, come to me and I'll see to it myself.
Uh, yes sir, He said.
It took six months. By the time we were done cleaning out the old and useless crap, all the people who had managed to stay with us through the process all felt invigorated and renewed. They could see the changes. They could feel them, and they were a part of the solution. All the place needed was a house cleaning. It started with the top, the entrenched lazy corporate level people feeding off the teat of the still somehow functioning company even as it floundered under their guidance, but it had to go all the way down to the mop boards and the floor tiles.
For my upper end of things, I researched modern methods of the industry. I learned to streamline the processes and cut the ones that weren't profitable altogether from the equation.
I gave everyone a job. If some employee appeared before me, lost and wandering because he'd arrived to find the division he'd pioneered in the nineteen seventies shuttered and locked or thrown headlong into a dumpster, I'd give the man a mop and tell him to clean something, anything, I don't care what. It took one hundred people over a month just to clean all the windows. I made that one man's entire life mission after that, to keep those panes transparent and shining like a light bulb.
I brought in new practices, new machinery, new investors, new clientele, all on my own. That's my particular charm. And when I walked away from that town in the fall, I can tell you they were in good shape and had been returned to a profitable position. What they've done with the place since, I can't say. It just takes a little vision to do what I do. A lot of the time that vision is just the ability to see through the scads of junk and wasteland ethics which permeate the folds of an organization down to its roots. Admittedly, you have to have a non-sentimental personality. You have to look at people both as parts, but also as a whole, an organism. I don't really care whose grandmother died this week and who needs the day off to care for their sick kid. What matters to me is that according to the sociology and the statistics, the people showing up to work are doing so with a clear head and clear direction.
It was the summer after that paper mill restructuring that my first wife left me. After she was gone, I threw out everything we had ever owned together, and most of the things I had accumulated before that. I can't have things sticking to me, dragging me down into this mire of unaccountable slack where I can't let go of a specific chair because so and so's grandfather made it in shop class. It's broken, and it was made in a shop class. It has no value and no use. Throw it out. After Darby left, the last thing I needed was something to remind me of the utter failure of that relationship. Her implacable disposition, the way she'd use the kids against me over something completely fucking inane. That bitch was troubled.
She took the kids of course. Even in the nineties, men's rights were pretty uncomplicated, as a father, you had no rights. It's not that different today really. It took me years to get to the point where Chet would even talk to me. Melissa, she was daddy's girl of course. It's different with daughters and fathers. Sons are another story. There is some inherent complication, some competition, and ultimately some form of mental and emotional poisoning of the boy against me by his mother. When it comes down to irreconcilable differences, I'm pretty sure some of the difficulty he and I have is genetic, or that she raised him fucked up and there isn't much I can do except try my best to reach him.
He got into some trouble as a young man. He was trying to copy me I think, only he went at it all wrong. Then he got frustrated, and as young men sometimes do, he lashed out at the woman he was dating. I bailed him out and calmed her down. She wasn't hurt, just scared. He hated me for interfering in that. Told me that he wasn't a child anymore that I had no right to come into his life now and start ruining things. I told him I had kept him out of jail, that he should be grateful, but that I understood why he felt the way he did, because his mother had him so confused about life. He just about hit me, which I could have taken. I trained him myself, so I know what he was capable of at that age, and while I wasn't scared for myself, I certainly wasn't comfortable with his demeanor around that young woman.
When they broke up, he didn't understand why. He drank a lot for a while, then appeared to settle down. Started coaching basketball for kids. His temper was still bad, but being around the kids had a calming effect on him. I figured it was good for him to be around people who were essentially of his own maturity level. He didn't really seem to be doing anything with his life, but at least he was behaving, and maybe through the intervention of sport and being a mentor, he could arrive at some place of serenity with himself. Maybe he'd even be able to find a woman who would care for him and put up with the defects from his rearing which he would probably never overcome completely. Maybe. Last time I saw him he was pretending to be putting a business plan together. Just like dad I thought. Only I also knew, there would be no way in hell he'd pull it off. Something was missing in the boy.
#
I wake up with these memories fading and rub my forehead. There are familiar sounds below me. Conversation! Not in English. People! I am saved. I groggily croak out a hello from my perch above them. They are startled and scatter into neighboring trees, leaving behind a campsite beneath me. I stiffly climb down the branches one by one, being very careful not to fall. My limbs are on fire from the experience of sleeping in a tree. I talk out loud in supplicating tones. Don't be afraid, I need help. Ayuda? I ask. Por favor? I don't know much Spanish, but it seems to make an impact. One of them comes out from hiding and stands below the tree while I climb down gingerly. His face is suntanned and brown. His eyes are a bit native, small and dark. In my excitement I stumble on the last few branches. Luckily, they are close to the ground and I kind of just eat shit in the last couple feet, landing sprawled on all fours. My knees strike hard on the half-buried root systems. I squelch a shout of pain, make an awful face instead. He looks like he wants to help, but it's obvious the damage is done in this moment and best for me to regain some dignity on my own. I'm not a child.
After I recover, I sit on the dirt and look at him. He's short, like five feet tall. He eyes me like a nervous dog. I say, what's your name?
Waldo, he says.
¿Dónde está Waldo? I ask.
Que? he says before the shadow of suspicion lifts from his face and he smiles then laughs quietly. Now that he looks less serious, I can see that he's only about twenty years old. He has a bloody scab over his left eye. The others are coming out of the next tree over and joining Waldo and I in a group discussion on how evil it is to grow millions of acres of nothing but lemons. I ask if they discovered the irrigation lines and it's news to them. They are digging up the lines and inspecting them within seconds. They ask, when do they come on? Several times a day I say, not knowing if that's true or not. I mean, they must, right? They look at my watch. I tell them they are going to lead me out of here, and I give the watch to Waldo. I've put him in charge. There is a lot more where this came from. Let me show you. Just get me home.
Truth is, I've bought and sold people like this by the thousands. You just gotta know how to work with them, what makes 'em tick. They all wanna do a good job, you just gotta clear the way for them. Remove obstacles to the streamlining of their work. They won't tell me what they are doing out here, which is as good as telling me they are illegal border crossers, probably lost on their way to a rendezvous. Or maybe, as I am hoping, they are following meticulous instructions on how to get through this grove.
The water hasn't come on yet. It's been an hour since we met. I have made a trade with Waldo. My watch for him to lead me with his group out of this checkerboard jungle. It is the only thing of value I had on me, but I promise to give them all a thousand bucks each when we get to civilization. I tell them I'm a doctor, and that I will treat them in my private practice. I promise them a safe place to stay in my town, if we can just get there. I pretend to check the pulses of each member of the party, giving them a thumbs up after each checkup. The children are amused. Maybe I went too far. Maybe I didn't need to make up such an elaborate cover story. I was out here checking the health of the migrant farm workers and got separated from the group by a thunderstorm. I lost my vehicle and my phone and even my proper clothes you know. It's hard to believe, but they don't understand most of it anyway. They seem to hear doctor and mas dinero.
It dawns on me how lonely this place is. Farms in storybooks were always places where people worked together, family style whether they were related or not. They are the sanctuary of the archetypes of honesty, simplicity, and labor values. This place is an industrial wasteland. I say to Waldo, should we go now?
Okay, he says.
You lead, I say.
Okay, he says. Then he speaks rapido to his clan and they pick up their asses and we move.
I'm watching Waldo as he leads us. Trying to decipher a pattern from his rights and lefts. He seems to know what he's doing, which could be confidence or con. If I was in better condition I could read him, but right now, I'm just glad he's not a coyote or a shapeshifter. Right, left, left, right. I lose track. I daydream a little in the wake of this quiet group. I think about a hooker I hired in Thailand. I look at the group. There are two younger women. They are dressed poorly, they haven't showered in a week, perhaps more. I try to imagine them with a bath and some makeup and decide they'd probably be alright in another setting. The human sex drive is incredible. Here I am fifteen minutes from death perhaps, in the arms of some Spanish speaking salvation army and I'm thinking about fucking a pair of them just to pass the time. Good thing Waldo can't read my mind. I'm probably checking out his sister. He's too busy trying to look like he knows where he's going anyway.
My watch shines unholy fire on his wrist. It dangles down around his palm. It's not one of my nice ones, just a Movado. They might be the only company in existence to fetishize Esperanto. What's six hundred bucks for a wristwatch? It's dependable and it looks good enough to wear to the gym. If I caught a squash ball across the bezel of a Rolex I'd be pissed about it, but this thing is cheap and indestructible.
They move quietly. Obviously, they are practiced at not drawing attention to themselves. Me getting the drop on them from the top of a lemon tree is almost comical. I laugh, a chuckle. Waldo looks at me briefly, but he doesn't ask. It would be too much chatter. I watch the group. They are silent, but they communicate. They care for each other. There are seven of them. Two men, Waldo and Ignacio. Three women and two children. The women are all different generations. They could be related. The youngsters are vibrant but also quiet. They look at me more than the adults. A boy and a girl, but at their age, not a whole lot of difference. They both have brown eyes with that same native look to them. They are beautiful kids, but they have no business being dragged across international borders by what I can only surmise are irresponsible guardians.
The intimacy they express toward one another is unsettling. The women have smiled at their companions more in an hour than my wife and I have in a year. They touch each other and I see an old woman, obviously in pain, brighten and unfold. She is reinvigorated just by the steadying hand of the younger woman. They give each other strength. I think they are giving me strength. For a moment I feel like a thief. They have something between them which is both precious and foreign to me.
After a couple hours I say, let's check for water, no? Agua?
Agua, the word rises up through quiet murmuring to a dissipating chant. They look at the ground, tired and thirsty. Waldo and I crawl under a tree, they follow us and dig up the roots to find the hoses. They are dry, but we decide to wait and see. Siesta. We've walked all over hell today. It's been half the day and we haven't walked in a straight line for more distance than it took to arrive at a break between two trees. He keeps changing direction on us and honestly I get a little worried. I ask, Waldo, you sure you know where you're going?
Si, he says.
Bien, I say.
The water begins to flow out from the torn up tubing. There are three fountains running. They water first the children, then the women, starting with the oldest, Then they offer it to me. The men and I take a few gulps each before the pressure dies off and the fountains dry up. The elder woman comes over to me and says, doctor, por favor. She motions to the younger of the two other women. She makes a sign with her hand at her belly that says, this one is pregnant. Then she points at me and says, you check?
I don't know the first thing about obstetrics, but I know a thing or two about women. I put on my doctor face and approach the young woman. Of course she is pregnant. I kneel down and I say, how do you feel?
She looks up at me and shakes her head, doesn't understand.
I say, como esta?
She says, ok.
I say and motion, can I check your baby?
She nods, ok. I lean in slowly, lift her shirt and put my hand on her belly. I close my eyes and wait to feel something. Her belly is just a little round; she's got some time to go before she'll be giving birth. I say, how long? When she shakes her head again, I ask Waldo, how many months?
Cuatro he says.
He speaks and she and I both feel a kick. We look at each other. She smiles reflexively. I smile back. I say, baby's fine, esta bien.
I see a very personal look of relief on Waldo's face. This is his baby. This is his woman I've got my non-doctor hand on. I pull her shirt back down over her swelling navel. I sit back on the dirt. my hand is shaking a little bit. Waldo sees it and asks, you okay?
Fine, I say.
He looks around at the group of tired huddled masses. Descansamos, says Waldo. We all recline in various postures under the tree. I hear him whisper one more thing, but I don't recognize the words. Esta fador, Dios lo está castigando. I fall asleep quickly, exhausted from the ordeal, unable to translate that last sentence.