Moving the Box

Although this is being written with the current SAG issues in mind, the story is one that I feel is beneficial for all aspects of life.


I was at my dad's retirement party out at the plant when I was approached by a man I had never met. Very distinguished, about my Dad's age. Impeccable Suit. Tailored. Very expensive. Perfectly groomed. Hair as white as snow.

"Your Charlie's boy Chris, aren't you?"

"Yes sir, I am...and you are?"

"Harry Rothschild...got a minute?"

The owner of my Dad's company wanted to speak with me. I didn't know how he knew who I was(I'm adopted and look nothing like either of my adoptive parents), or why he would want to speak with me. I was a little nervous, but I went. He took me off to one side at first, but the room we were in was pretty noisy. He motioned to an adjoining room. I followed him in, and he shut the door behind us. He told me a lot of stories that afternoon...about my Dad...and about his relationship with my Dad over the years. The one I'm telling you today is one of the few stories about my father that I had never heard from anyone else before. I don't think too many people knew about it...which is part of the story itself.

My relationship with my father had been rocky for a number of years prior to that day, culminating with my being kicked out of the house on my 18th birthday. I had lived on my own for a number of months before my Dad asked me to move back in.(That's a story for another blog) I had only been back for a few weeks, and we were still doing that delicate dance between father and son. Mr. Rothschild's conversation with me...the stories he told me...started me on the path to looking at my Father with the kind of respect that had been so sadly lacking on my part for a long time.

"Have a seat, Chris. You know...there's an awful lot about your Dad I bet you don't know. Mind if I tell you a few stories?"

"No, sir."

"Good...maybe you are as smart as your Dad has built you up to be. Do you know Nate?"

"Yes sir. He's a great guy."

"Yes...yes he is. Did you know that Nate was the first black man ever hired into the union out here?"

"No...no, I didn't know that."

"Did your Father ever tell you the story of how he got Nate hired on here at the plant?"

"No, he never did."

"I'm not surprised. Your Father has never been one to blow his own horn. One of the many things I've always admired about him. This goes back to the late fifties. Your Dad came to me in private. He did that a lot if there was something important on his mind. He said,



"Harry, it's time we got this plant integrated."



I told him he was right...that it was long overdue. I couldn't, however, appear to be behind it. My doing so would make that first man's life a living hell, or I should say, more of one than it was already going to be.



"You know you've got my backing Charlie, but...you're going to have to figure out a way to get it done. The old-timers here are pretty die hard racists...the newer guys that you've hired over the years aren't as bad, but we can't have a civil war going on on the job. And Wiley..."



"I'll handle Wiley. Just wanted to let you know what I was setting in motion."



"You have a man picked out?"



"Yeah. Fine young man. Name's Nate. Worked on our construction team on the last project. College degree. Family. Good church-goer. Clean as a hound's tooth."



"Good luck Charlie."


Nate came in the next day to fill out an application. Wiley, he's my sister's husband, and my top manager, saw him from a distance. Grabbed his application as soon as he left. Now...Wiley is dumber than a post. No, seriously...dumber than a post. Being my brother-in-law is the only reason he has a job. I love my sister, I really do, but why she ever married that...anyway, besides being stupid, he's very prejudiced. I couldn't figure out how your Dad expected to pull it off.



Wiley had the option of firing Nate at any point up to his ninety day probationary period ended...and it would have been just like Wiley to do it on day one as it would have been to do it on day eighty-nine. The few old-timers left at the plant were either friends, or stooges of Wiley's. I just didn't see it happening.



You have to remember Chris...there were still "White's Only" signs all over the country. People were being beaten. Dr. King hadn't given his "I have a dream" speech yet. Things were tough. Trying to break the color barrier anywhere was difficult enough, but in the oil fields? Still...someone had to be first...somewhere had to be first. I was really hoping it could be here. It would cause a nice little stir at the country club where no one wanted me as a member, but couldn't keep me out of.



Wiley came running to me, giggling like a buffoon.



"I'm finally gonna pull one over on Charlie."



"How?"



"Charlie hates spooks. Hates them He just told Fred yesterday that he was scared I'd find out about this spear-chucker applying, and stick him with him, just to screw with him...and that's exactly what I'm gonna do. I want to assign this Nate to work every day...every shift, right next to Charlie...and you better not try and stop me this time Harry. Charlie's got it coming. I'm damn near blood to you...you gotta take my side...just this once."

"All right Wiley. Whatever you want."

Days turned in to weeks. I tried to stay abreast of everything as discretely as possible...which wasn't that hard...considering Wiley would talk to me almost every day about how miserable his stooges said your Dad was.

The ninetieth day finally came. Wiley signed off on Nate's papers. He was in. I called your Dad in to the office after Wiley went home that night. I had to know how he'd done it.


Your dad had started the day before Nate even applied. Every union has its Judases. Guys that report directly to management. Your Dad, of course, knew exactly who they were. He made sure that one of them saw him get visibly upset and take one of the old-line, anti-union racists off in the back. The spy stood just outside to listen in. Your Father told the old timer that he had heard "some colored guy" was going to apply. He was scared to death that Wiley would stick that "spook" with him, just out of spite...maybe even let him make it through probation and get in the union. If Nate made it, it would make Charlie the laughing stock of the union. Your dad asked the guy if maybe he could have a word with Wiley...or at least help your Dad drive the guy out by making him miserable.

Wiley got the info that day. That's why he pulled Nate's application so fast. He changed a bunch of the schedules so that Nate had to work every shift with your Dad...and he told all of his buddies that Nate was not to be touched. Period. Getting revenge on your Dad was more important to him than keeping the plant segregated. It was brilliant. Truly brilliant.

"My dad must have laughed so hard in Wiley's face when he told him...wish I could have seen it."

"Your Dad never told Wiley."

"You mean Wiley never found out?"

"Eventually...but not from your Dad."

"Who told him?"

"It was about six months later at our semi-annual meeting between management and the union...which meant your Dad. Wiley couldn't resist getting in some digs at him. I kept waiting for your Dad to tell him off. He didn't. Kept playing it like he was pissed off about the whole thing. I don't think your Father would ever have told Wiley the truth."

"Then who..."

"Me, I'm afraid. Your Dad wasn't too happy with me about it either...but I couldn't take that smirk on Wiley's face any longer. You should have seen both of them after I told Wiley how your Dad had played him. Wiley looked like the whole world had just seen him with his pants down around his ankles. Your Dad...he looked mad. At me. Wiley left the room, muttering to himself. Almost tripped and fell on the way out. Your Dad chewed me out after Wiley left. Told me never to do something like that to him again."

"Why?"

"He was afraid that if Wiley found out, he'd have those old-timers make Nate's life miserable...try and force him to quit. Told me he'd hold me personally responsible if anything happened to Nate. Then he stormed out."

"Did they go after Nate?"

"No. Thank God for me, no. Wiley was far too embarrassed to let anyone know how your Dad had played him. He continued to act like he had screwed your Dad over. Only the three of us ever knew...and now you."

"Wow."

"I learned a lesson in business a long time ago. Life is about "moving the box" from point "A" to point "B". Getting the job done. For most people, however, their box isn't the job...it's recognition...being noticed. They really don't care if the job itself ever gets done...just that people recognize their work. I learned early on that, not only did recognition not matter...sometimes it was better if no one even knew you wanted the box moved. The best circumstance was if you could get people to move the box for you...and think the whole thing was their idea.

Your Dad was one of only a handful of men I've known in my entire life who looked at that exactly the same way that I did. Your Dad was all about getting the job done. Period."

Mr. Rothschild told me a lot more stories that afternoon. I didn't find out why he took so much time with me that day for a number of years. Doesn't matter for this story...but I'm very glad he did.

That story...that lesson, has served me very well from that moment on...especially when I was a Deputy Sheriff in LA...and a high level bodyguard and then PI after my retirement. It's amazing what you can get people to do...especially if you check your ego at the door.

Some of you might be asking how this applies to the current situation at SAG. Check the latest news. Does what has happened, and continues to happen, sound like people are trying to get the job done...or be recognised for trying to do the job? I realize that in our business in particular, we tend to thrive on being noticed...complimented...stroked. We are, by the same token, the union best equipped to "move the box"...get the job done, without others ever knowing what it is that we are really trying to accomplish. We are, after all, actors.

I've tried to make this point before. I'll try again.

To all of the members of SAG:

Your brothers and sisters within the union are not your enemy. You only have one enemy. That enemy is the AMPTA. They may have moles, stooges and/or Judases in your midst...but those people are just pawns.

Meet behind closed doors. Formulate a long-term strategy that includes ALL of your affiliate unions. You may not be able to get everything you want this time. Do your best. But...if you unite with the other unions...if you can work together for a common purpose...then collectively you will have the strength to stand against the AMPTA...you will be able to "move the box"...instead of being the box that is moved by those more powerful...at their whim.

"A house divided against itself cannot stand... I do not expect the Union to be dissolved — I do not expect the house to fall — but I do expect it will cease to be divided. "

Abraham Lincoln

My favorite Super Bowl of all Time!

I wanted Arizona to win...they lost in the last second...they aren't even my team. The Rams are. So, why was this my favorite Super Bowl of all time?

My son Chance stayed home to watch it with me. His Mom and sister went out to my wife's parent's house. Chance was invited to go. He loves going out to his Nana and Papa's place...one of his favorite things in the whole world.

He told his Mom this morning he wanted to stay with me.

This is our first Super Bowl together. Our team lost.

But I won.

I thought nothing could top the Ram's first Super Bowl win. I've been a Ram's fan since I was a little boy. My folks took me to a Ram's game every year on the anniversary of my adoption being finalized. I met Lamar Lundy of the Fearsome Foursome. I was never so up as when they won their Super Bowl.

Until now. My team lost. I should be down.

But I'm the happiest man on earth. My son wanted to watch the game with his Dad.

We're going for a walk now...blow off some steam. He was cheering for the Cards too. He's pretty disappointed. I should be. But...

I feel like I just won the Super Bowl myself.

This was the best Super Bowl of all time...

Thank you son.

I love you.

The Spirit of The Law vs The Letter of the Law #1

This is the start of a new series that I will come back to periodically. Most of the stories will be true...but told hypothetically...not to protect the guilty, but rather the innocent...and those that seek to protect them.



Today's story is going to be told by Jay...the lead character from TWO DOGS. Here we go.



I was part way through the Academy when this story took place. All I knew at that time was that my dirty Captain wanted me dead...he had a DI on the Academy staff out to screw me...and I had no friends on the job.



They'd been sending us out to different stations for ride-alongs for a couple of weeks. Some guys were lucky and got actual TOs(Training Officers). Not me. Somehow, I magically always got some dick that even the other Deputies wouldn't work with...almost always on graveyards...right before a new day at the Academy. Until this one...



I get called to work at East LA station. Days. They partner me with this old salt Deputy who takes a shine to me. He likes to drive, so I'm riding book...taking the calls and writing the reports. He actually talks to me about how to handle each call before we go...then breaks everything down when the call is over. Introduces me to the other deps on days. A real good learning experience. Then we get a 273 A1 call...



Section 273 a (A) of the California Penal code deals with child abuse...severe physical abuse. I reach for the mike to let them know we're on our way. He jerks the mike out of my hand...short and sweet. Slams the mike down. We're going code three in a heartbeat. Something's up...but I don't know what. My helpful TO has been replaced by a bear of a man who looks like he wants to rip somebody's head off and piss down their neck...and I don't want it to be me.



We pull up in front of a ramshackle, neon pink bungalow. There's a crowd forming already. The car is barely in park when my partner bails out the door. I'm right behind him. There's a couple standing in the open front door. Big, fat borracho and his sucked dry wife. Both look and sound Guatemalan to me. Yelling at each other at the top of their lungs. In between them is a little boy. He's wearing nothing but a pair of over-sized skivvies that he has to hold up with one small hand. From his size, I figure him to be about Ruby, my daughter's age...four or five. Looks like he's been using different colored markers all over his body. He doesn't seem to be aware of anything going on, except...my partner. Can't take his eyes off of him. Biggest brown eyes I've ever seen. I wonder what the fuck this kid is doing here with these two...he doesn't fit. Much lighter complexion...and he's a strawberry blond. The woman's hair is dark brown...but it could be dyed. The borracho's hair is black. Jet black. Something's fucked up about the whole scene...I just can't put my finger on it.



My partner gets there first. Hunkers down to get on the kid's eye level. That's the first time I really get a good look at him. I was wrong about the markers...dead wrong. They're scars. Burn scars. Some cigar, some cigarette...some look like...fuck, I don't even want to think about what some of them look like. The scars are different colors because of age...and depth...and pattern. What the fuck...



My partner's name is Mark. He picks the kid up and looks him over...then gently...carefully, sets the boy down. This whole time, that kid hasn't taken those big brown eyes off of Mark...once. The over-large underwear slip over to one side...and I see the newest scar. The boy's testicles have been burned...by boiling water, or something close to it. I can't imagine the pain...but there ain't one tear in that boy's eyes...and they never leave Mark. Mark hooks the big fat borracho up and heads toward the car. I'm trying to take the woman's statement. Her broken English is worse than my poor understanding of her Guatemalan dialect. That's why I was distracted for so long...it took me a while to realize that something was wrong. I couldn't figure it out at first...then...



The crowd had been buzzing from the moment we got there. Now, it was quiet. Like the hush in a bull ring before the coup de gras...that's when I heard it. The steady. repeating sound...like someone taking a hammer to an over-ripe melon. The sound was accompanied by one word...over and over again...in a low, soft monotone...



"Duck...duck...duck...duck..."



Mark had the borracho's hands cranked high behind his back with one meaty hand of his own. The other hand was entangled in the man's bloody hair. The word preceded the sickening sound by a split second...every time that Mark slammed his head into the frame around the open back door. I left the woman and the boy and ran down to the car.



Mark was a big man. Arms like tree trunks. I put my hand gently on one of those trunks. He turned and looked at me...well, not really at me. Through me. Paused for what seemed an eternity. Then he tossed the broken man into the back of the car. I looked up at the house as we roared down the street. I would still swear, to this day, that the boy was smiling...a Mona Lisa smile, but smiling.



The drunk prick seemed to recover quickly in the back seat. Cursing and swearing with every breath...the blood from his scalp wounds spraying with his spittle. You're not always as aware as you should be in the heat of the moment. Mark obviously could have, at his size, shattered the man's skull. He had been holding back...just enough. This asshole was letting Mark know he'd be out in hours...just like every time before...every time before. There's a history here...and I don't know it. Fuck me number one.



We're headed back to the station when Mark takes a sudden wrong turn through the back end of an industrial complex. Slowly edges the car up to top speed. Still hasn't spoken to me, but when he buckles his seat belt, I can guess what's coming. I buckle mine. There are no seat belts in the back of those cruisers, and shit head child beater couldn't have buckled one anyway...not with his hands cuffed behind his back. I look over at the speedometer...it's hovering around one-o-four...top end. I brace myself for what I know is coming. Borracho is oblivious...but not for long.



Mark stomps on the brakes so hard I expect his foot to slam into the ground beneath the car "Flinstone" style. Our passenger fails his "screen test"...his face smashed into the wire mesh separating the front and back seats. God does look out for drunks and idiots, and this guy's both. He starts swearing again. Mark takes off, and repeats the process. The fool sees it coming, but still can't brace himself. This time it's the side of his head...his ear looks like he tried to listen to a waffle maker. Doesn't shut him up, though. Now he's talking about the boy...and what he's going to do to him this time when he gets out. That's when I get spooked...



Mark picks up the mike...asks to be "put on the patch". That way the call only goes out to cars in our reporting district.



"This is one-eleven Charlie...I have a ten-five-fifty-five..."



There is no ten-fifty-five code on the Sheriff's Department. Fuck me number two.



We pull around to the back of the station. There are at least six black and whites waiting for us there. Mark gets out. Makes me stay in the car. The Deps from the other cars join him...they take Mister Happy around the back of the building...down a flight of stairs...where no one can see. Fuck me number three.



They all come back up about fifteen minutes later. Borracho is crying...looks like he pissed his pants too...maybe more, but I'm not close enough to smell. Mark takes him in for booking. Another fifteen minutes. Then Mark is out. In the car. Away we go. Back to the warehouses. It's been a long day now. Almost night. The colors of twilight give everything a surreal glow. Mark takes out a smoke. Lights it. Watches me. Finally speaks.



"I don't know who the fuck you are...but you ain't no Academy fish, that's for fuckin' sure. Handled yourself all day like you've been through the shits on this job for years. What's the story?"



"I read a lot."



"Close to the vest...don't blame you. OK...this could be your career, as well as mine. I'm going to give you the straight skinny. All of it. Then you're going to write the report. Fair enough?"



"Yeah."



"First of all, you need to know that there's a captain with a hard-on for me. I stepped on his dick on live TV. He wants me. Bad...and he knows he's running out of time. This would be his wet dream. You got me?"



"I got my own Ahab...so yeah...I got you."



"I bet you do...makes sense, somehow. Well, welcome to the fucked club. Now, here's the story.



The borracho's a Guatemalan. Got legal about twelve years ago. The wife's Guatemalan too...but she's illegal. They've got seven kids. They already had six when she got swept up in an INS raid ten years ago. Shipped her ass back to Guatemala. Took her a while to get back up here. Not long after she's back, he finds out she's pregnant. She's able to convince him it's his, until..."



"That boy was nine years old?"



"Yeah...hard to fuckin' believe, ain't it. Anyway, you can tell old drunk ass ain't the sharpest tool in a ball pit. She would have kept him fooled if the guy she fucked back home wasn't some rich, white, blond tourist. Even that stupid prick figured it out after a couple of months after the birth. He's pissed...his machismo's at stake. He wants to punish her. What better way than..."

"Fucking with the boy. Son of a bitch."



"Pretty much. First and fifteenth of the month is payday. He gets drunk...I got this beat about four years ago. That's when I got invited into this fucked up dance. First and fifteenth, he fucks with the kid. She calls the cops...he threatens to have her deported...the boy was born here, so..."

"He stays...and she's got no family here?"

"None. Boy would go to the brother. Then back to him when he got out. Then he'd be dead. Slow."

"Fuck."



The boy still cried when I first started coming here. He don't cry anymore. Not one sound. Ever. Just looks at me with those big brown eyes. I see them in the mirror now. I see them in my sleep. I see them every time I...doesn't matter.



It keeps getting worse. Two months ago, it was a curling iron to the boy's nipples. Still does the cigars, but just out of habit, I think. Last month he held the boys ear on a grill. Today...today he put the boy's balls in boiling water. That was it.



I saw some nasty shit in Nam. Seen worse here. This is the worst...but I don't know why. Maybe it's just the fact that the boy don't cry any more. I don't know.



The guys that met me are old buddies. We were all in Nam together. We believe that there's a big difference between the letter of the law...and the spirit of the law...and the two rarely have even a nodding acquaintance. Sometimes...sometimes you have to help out...



They made him get on his knees. I took all of the bullets out of my revolver...and then put one back in. Spun the cylinder. Put it in his mouth. Pulled the trigger. One time after the other. At some point he pissed himself...then shit himself. I stopped on the last round. It's an old trick I learned in Nam. There's a way to make sure you get to the last one. It's a useful trick.



Then I laid it out for him.



I'm retiring soon.My boys aren't. They'll let me know if there's so much as one more call to that house. If there is...here's the bullet I'll kill you with. It might go down as a drive by...or a robbery...or maybe you'll just disappear. But you'll be dead if you ever touch that boy again.



That's it, Jay...your call now. You write it up."



He got out of the car and walked off. I took out my own smokes. Lit one. Thought. Hard. The whole thing could be a set up...still...I couldn't forget that boy's eyes.



What would you do?



I wrote the report. He came back about forty-five minutes later. I was done. He never asked to see it. Just took me back to the station. I turned in the report and went to change. A three striper came and got me. The captain wanted me in his office. Mark was already in there.



"There's two careers riding on this report. You both stand by it?"

Mark is the Sphinx. Impossible to read. Am I being set up? Time to roll the dice.

Mark says it at the same time I do.

"Yeah."

"Let me read some of this out loud before you commit...On the above mentioned date and time, at the above location, blah, blah, blah...let's get to the meat of this shit...

The suspect, apparently extremely intoxicated and combative, did not respond to my partner's repeated commands to duck before entering the patrol vehicle...

Really? OK...how about this?

A small child darted out between two parked cars on our way back to the station, requiring my partner to go into a four-wheel, power lock stop, causing the suspect to...

Small child? I don't think so...then this...

The suspect, still combative, unresponsive, and apparently intoxicated, pulled away from me going down the stairs into the basement lock-up and booking area. His actions caused him to fall down the stairs, striking...

That's the biggest load of bullshit I've ever read. This is the last chance for either of you to change your story before I talk to the suspect...well?

"It went down exactly the way officer Norris wrote it."

"Jay? Last chance to salvage your career...you don't want to hitch your star to this loser. Tell me the truth...I can protect you."

"Everything happened exactly the way I wrote it...sir."

"Get the fuck out of my office...both of you. You've made a serious mistake, Norris."

"I've made them before, sir."

Mark and I walked out. In the parking lot. Neither of us spoke. Just nodded at each other. Got in our cars and left.

Mark retired on schedule. You know my story. I did try and keep tabs on the boy. Six months later, he went to the hospital for some new injuries. The dad disappeared. Everyone assumed he bailed for Guatemala. That's what the wife said. Of course, if anyone had looked closely enough, they would have found...well, never mind. Let's just say that no one was looking at the case too hard...and if you believe he made it to Guatemala, I've got some wonderful ocean front property for you on the Rez in New Mexico.

That was almost thirty years ago. Mark passed away eleven years ago. Cancer. The boy graduated from high school with honors. Got some anonymous help paying his way through an Ivy League school. Big degree. Funny thing...he came back to East LA...started mentoring inner city kids...abused kids. Does a pretty good job of it, from what I hear...

That, like I said, is just a story...a hypothetical situation. Never really happened. But...just for the sake of argument, let's say it was true. Let's say you found yourself in "Jay's" position.

What would you do?

Oh, and if any of you are wondering...except for the pain...I sleep just fine...thank you.

"Any group of men that can steal me into becoming a multi-millionaire are OK by me..." SAG vs The AMPTA

My grandfather was part of the Railroad workers strikes in California in 1916-1917 and 1922. My father, 7 during the first strike and 12 during the second, remembered vividly the boxcars full of scab workers...the beatings and deaths of his father's co-workers and friends...the joy of victory in 1916-1917 with the winning of the 8 hour day...and the tragic defeat in 1922...that defeat was laid at the feet of the operator's unions; representing the engineers, trainmen, firemen, and conductors, who did not join in the strike, by the striking shop workers. The operator's union represented the superstars of their day, and the impending wage cut didn't effect them. That lack of solidarity, by supposed union brothers, was not lost on my father later in his life and career as both a head stillman in an oil refinery, and as a union organizer.

My father's wages, as a head stillman, were never really a point of contention during strike negotiations. The head stillman of a refinery is the top blue collar job...responsible for overseeing every aspect of the refining process. It takes many years of hard work and dedication to reach the position: it requires you to have worked at every job at the refinery...to be able to not only direct the temperature of the "cracking" unit to tenths of a degree while monitoring the output of the various distilled fuels...it also requires you to be able to step in, at a moments notice, into any job within the refinery...from common laborer on up. Men like my father were few and far between, and commanded the top wage. Most, unlike my father, didn't remain in the position for very long. It was to each company's benefit to have, in their non-union management staff, a former head stillman. The reasoning behind this was obvious at each and every strike...management could immediately send someone over to insure the proper running of the refinery with scab workers, thereby ensuring product output during the strike...in other words, they wouldn't lose money from lost production while a strike was on-going. This was a huge advantage for the owners...and an enormous detriment to the strikers.

My father was offered a top white collar management job in 1946...almost immediately after his return from the War. The pay was three times his wage as head stillman. The caveat, of course, was leaving the union. He refused. My father had brought the union into that refinery. He had organized the men. Stood on the picket lines with them. He was their shop steward. He had protected them from harassment and physical attacks. He would not turn his back on them now. He remained head stillman at that refinery for the next 29 years...refusing the offer of management from the owner, a man he admired and respected, every year.

My father told me hundreds of stories about his days in the union. Two stand out in my mind, at the moment, as being pertinent to the ongoing problems between SAG and AMPTP.

My father was walking out into the refinery, late one night, at the beginning of his shift. His board man, "Mouse", walked by him in a huff. My Dad was the only person "Mouse" really got along with, so my Dad was used to seeing him in a foul mood.

The board man at a refinery is responsible for monitoring the temperatures in the "cracking" unit, the brain of the refinery. The raw crude is brought in and heated, separating it into layers which are siphoned off and heated to produce the various fuels. The temperatures have to be watched very closely...off to the slightest degree in either direction and the fuels don't separate properly. This results in inferior fuel products which can't be sold according to government regulations.

The board operator was not allowed to leave the "cracking" unit without a proper replacement. The only two people on site at the time who could were my Dad, and my Uncle "Dub". You can imagine my father's surprise when he saw "Dub" standing outside of the "cracker."

"I just saw Mouse storming off, so what the hell are you doing out here, Dub?"

"Management sent over some efficiency experts from Stanford...they're getting ready to raise the reactor temperature four and a half degrees."

"They can't do that...it will shut down the whole plant...didn't Mouse tell them that?"

"Yeah...he told'm...they told him he didn't even have a high school diploma, and they had PHDs in engineering form Stanford...that's when he told them to go...well, you know Mouse...and stomped out."

My Dad stormed into the unit just as one of the efficiency experts was about to turn turn up the temperature on the reactor.

"Get your hands off of that board right now...what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Raising the reactor temperature four and one half degrees."

"Did my board man tell you what would happen if you did that?"

"Yes...he said it would shut down the whole refinery...but..."

"But what, you idiot?"

"Our studies have shown that, in theory, the optimal temperature for..."

"Theory? Theory? Do you understand that I'm holding this place together with baling wire and spit...that I'm already running her three degrees higher than she should go? That it's only the skill and knowledge of these men that allow me to do that?"

"As I stated...our theories show..."

"Get Wiley over here...right now."

Wiley was the top white collar manager for the refinery. A former head stillman, he had taken the promotion to management when my Dad brought the union in because he thought it would put him in good with the owner. Then he married the owner's sister. He hated my father...with a passion. The feeling was mutual.

It didn't take Wiley long to take the walk across the street from corporate into the refinery.

"What's the problem, Charlie?"

"You know what the problem is, Wiley...your experts here are about to shut down the plant. Tell them to back off. Now."

"I'm going to tell you the same thing I told Mouse when he..."

"Mouse already called you?"

"Yes...and what I told him applies to you as well...if I am going to take the word of someone on heating temperatures between a bunch of Stanford PHDs and a bunch of illiterate high school dropouts, I know who I'm going to pick."

"That's your final word?"

"That's my final word."

My Dad turned to the experts.

"Knock yourselves out boys. Come on Dub, let's go home."

They were barely fifteen feet out of the door when the rattling of the equipment shook the ground. Within five minutes, the entire refinery was shut down. My Dad was in the changing room about an hour later, getting ready to go home, when Wiley ran in. The owner, Harry Rothschild, was across the street. He wanted them both...right now.

They arrived at the corporate offices to find The Old Man stomping and swearing.

"Jesus H Christ, Charlie...what the hell did your men do?"

"My men?"

"Wiley said something about Mouse and the board..."

"Why don't you ask Wiley about his efficiency experts."

"Wiley, what in God's name have you done now?"

My father recounted the nights events. In perfect detail.

"Wiley, if you weren't married to my sister, I swear...OK, Charlie...what's it going to take to get her up and running again?"

"Double shifts for everyone...for about two weeks."

"Do whatever you have to, Charlie...Wiley...just go home."

Two weeks later, the plant was up and running. All it had cost Old man Rothschild, was a couple of million dollars in lost product...a couple of million dollars in 1950s money. Adjust that for inflation. All because of petty personal animosity...and the belief that people who've never gotten their hands dirty know a machine better than the people who work with it everyday.

The second story took place just a few months later. Union negotiation time with management. It was my Father's job to take the demands to management...which in this case was Old man Rothschild, Wiley, and the corporate attorneys. Wiley, never one to let a grudge go, thought he had a way to sting my Dad, and the union, again.

Construction work on a refinery was done by the lowest level journeymen. The tools for their specific job were purchased for each man. It was, and had been for over fifty years, standard practice for these journeymen to be allowed to take the tools home at the completion of the specific job. One of the few perks for manual labor. New tools were then purchased for the start of the next assignment...and so on.

There was an ongoing construction project at the plant. Phase one was completed...but phase two was not only behind schedule, it hadn't been started. Why? No new tools. Wiley was sure he had the union, and my Dad, this time. The old man had to walk by the project on his way into the meeting.

"Charlie...why are we behind on the new project?"

"I'll tell you why Charlie's men are behind, Harry...they're thieves. They stole all of the tools, and now they stand around waiting everyday, doing nothing."

My Dad, of course, had been asking for new tools for the men for weeks...to no avail. He was about to start in on Wiley, when Old Man Rothschild did it for him.

"Wiley, Wiley...how in the world does my sister stay married to you? I want you personally to go down to the hardware store right now...buy TWO sets of every tool that will be needed for every man in the plant, not just the journeymen, so we can get the project done."

"But, Harry...they stole..."

"Wiley...you're too stupid to be let out alone...any group of men that can steal me into becoming a multi-millionaire are OK by me...now get your ass over to the hardware store...what's next on the agenda, Charlie?"

And that was it. Wiley was forced to retire a few years later by the old man. Mr Rothschild thought so much of my father, he personally hosted his retirement party...and told me his version of both of those stories...which were far more colorful.

What points am I trying to make here?

1. Solidarity has been sadly lacking in our union's dealings with our brother unions. Collective bargaining between SAG, AFTRA, WGA, the directors, and the teamsters would be far more powerful and effective than the splintered approach that we have now. The main problem has been crossover...actors, writers, directors and others who fall into multiple categories, and are also producers. This presents a clear conflict which the AMPTA is only too happy to exploit. Divide and conquer is a mantra that has served management very well in its fight against unions in every field. We should never allow ourselves to be divided from a common, and mutually beneficial purpose.

2. I do not doubt the intelligence of those who have been negotiating on the union's behalf. I do doubt their hands on, practical app knowledge, of the "machinery" that they have been trying to improve. Those who work with it everyday are usually far better qualified to know when it might be reaching a breaking point.

3. Residuals are the "perk" tools that benefit the journeymen actor. They used to be the same for every job. But new tools are required now, as the jobs; IE different media streams, have changed. Even though everyone benefits from getting these tools, they're not a necessity for the head stillmen...let alone the former head stillmen now working for management. They are, however, a necessity...no...a hard earned right, for those who are least able to protect themselves. All of the superstars in our field should remember from whence they came...and look out for those less fortunate.

I do not know if we should strike or not. I am no where close enough to the action to even venture an opinion. By I can observe, even from a distance, the process...and I believe it needs to change. If not, we may soon have a union in name only...or not at all. What a shame that would be...not only for us...but for those who fought and sacrificed for us to have this union, so many years ago.