John Henry

If you got it, a truck brought it.

George seldom ventured into the main offices of Carbone Shipping, Inc. General consensus among the drivers was to get in and get out and stay away if at all possible. The office workers inside projected an aura of cleanliness and wore starched white collars. George, despite his best efforts, was covered in the grime, sweat, and dirt that builds up during a shift. Nothing could be done about it, but George was still self-conscious. When the boss calls, one must present themselves. On entering, he wiped his feet and tucked in his shirt and saw Marie, the dispatcher, carrying a box of her belongings, headed towards the door in tears.

“What happened, Marie?”

“Frank and Vito are in Frank’s office. You better get in there.”

“That bad, huh? At least tell me if I still have a job. I hate being blindsided.”

“I’d tell you if I knew, George. Vito just came up to my desk and told me to pack up. I’ve been here fifteen years, and I don’t even get notice,” she sobbed, tears staining the cardboard box in her shaking hands. “How can they do this to me? I thought this was a family business!”

George held the door open for her as she dragged her feet exiting. He walked across the carpeted office with caution, as if across a minefield. The cubicles of salesmen, accountants, and other office workers paid him no mind, but in George’s head they stared as he inched closer to the guillotine.

He approached Frank’s door, reading the gilded plaque that was centered on its chestnut finish. It read, “Frank Carbone, Founder and CEO." George remembered Frank always talking about an open door policy. He kept that thick, chestnut door open every day since he founded the company a lifetime ago. On an ordinary day, no one ever need knock. George heard a muffled call to come in. He twisted the knob and felt a chill down his spine.

“George. Thanks for coming in. Please grab a seat. How is Rachel doing? I heard your daughter’s doing very well in school. Money well spent, eh?”

Frank was an atypical boss in many ways. He ran a shipping company that employed 200 people, and Frank made it his mission to know every one of their names. He set up a scholarship fund to help pay for the schooling of some of his employees’ children. He, unlike any of the other office workers, walked the warehouses every day. If he saw something unsafe, he fixed it. He even picked up a broom in his younger days and swept if he felt the place needed sprucing up. The drivers loved Frank, and in many ways, he loved them. He always made sure a little extra money lined their pockets around Christmas time, usually on his own dime. When the union contract came up and negotiations came around, Frank always kept things amicable, and the union men always made sure to do the same. The two had mutual respect, and though they never announced it, a firm friendship.

“All good at home. Sophia made the Dean’s list, so everything’s great. But… I’ve got a feeling that I’m not here to talk about my family. What’s going on, Frank? Why’s Marie packing up her desk?”

“Ah, right to the point as usual. Yes, it’s true there’s some change happening. And I want to start off right away by saying that I didn’t call you in here to fire you.”

A wave of relief passed through George, and he breathed a little easier. But the tension stayed in the room. Frank looked uncomfortable in his large, leather chair. The desk, which was usually immaculate, was covered in papers, files, cups of coffee, and a half-eaten sandwich. His son, Vito, sitting on a couch on the right side of the office, did not share his father’s discomfort. In fact, it is possible that Vito Carbone has never felt discomfort.

“You’re the shop steward for the drivers,” Vito interrupted, “so you need to tell them that starting next week, we will no longer require their services.”

George almost started laughing, as if to let them know he was wise to their scheme and the nightmarish charade could be over and everyone could go back to work, and everyone would still have a job. George, for a second, thought about Marie and how he would get her back for the joke. He, for half a moment, thought about how well she sold her bit, wondering how long it would take her to put her desk back in order. The second passed. The half-moment ended.

“I thought I wasn’t being fired? Now you are telling me that I have to go fire everyone else? Frank, what is going on?”

“We’ve taken on a new contract with Deluge. We will be shipping their freight in the Tri-State area and beyond. To seal the deal, they are rolling out a fleet of their brand new driverless trucks for us. We-“

“I wasn’t asking you, Vito. I don’t work for you. I work for your father.“

“Don’t be so rash, George. You may not work for me today, but you might not get to work for me tomorrow.”

George waited for Frank to step in. It seemed like he would have to wait a long time. His once lion-esque boss was playing possum. Frank’s name was on the door, but Vito was the future of the business.

“That’s enough, from both of you. Vito, why don’t you give us a minute?”

Vito got up and walked out. He muttered something, but George was so distracted that it didn’t register in his mind. The door closed, and some tension lifted. Frank sat up a little straighter, color coming back to his face.

“If he wasn’t my own son, he wouldn’t be working here.” A nervous laugh followed.

“I can’t laugh right now, Frank. You’re firing me. I-“

“You aren’t being fired, George. I told you I’m not going to fire you.” He took a pause. “These computer guys don’t know the first thing about trucking. In order for things to go smoothly, they’ll need someone to teach them how to get things done and someone to oversee the fleet from the driver’s point of view. I’d like to make you our official trucking consultant.”

“So you just want me to go fire everyone else? How many other guys are coming to the warehouse? Because you have fifty drivers and half a dozen warehouses and a bunch of guys working those warehouses, too. How many of the other drivers get to keep working for you, Frank? How many of us will be left when Junior there sells the company to the highest bidder, while he lives off a trust fund for the rest of his life?”

George could‘ve kept going. He could’ve mentioned the families. He could’ve mentioned his own family. Was Vito going to continue the scholarship program? Probably not. Was he going to be as generous around the holidays? No. Would he even come by the warehouses? He wouldn’t even come to the office if he didn’t have to.

“I understand that you’re upset. I’m not happy about this either, but dammit, I am hemorrhaging here. These damn automated trucks are going to put me out of business, so it’s better to join the winning team than try to fight it. I have another 150 people to think about, so yes, I’m sorry that I have to cut off my foot to save my body. And as to your question, no one. No one else is getting this opportunity. And it’s not because I favor you, and it’s not because I like you, even though both statements are true, George. I’m throwing this line, this lifeline, to you because you are the best employee I have, and if I can stay loyal to at least one of you, it might as well be the best one.”

George noticed that Frank was looking for sympathy, but it wouldn’t muster.

“I’ve lost sleep,” Frank admitted. “I kept hoping and praying that there would be some miracle solution to all my problems. I built this company fifty-three years ago. My grandfather was an immigrant. My father was a janitor. My son is an asshole. This is all I have. I’m sorry, but I would rather sacrifice part than lose it all.”

George could see the anguish in Frank’s eyes. Frank’s sincerity somehow made the bombshell easier to manage, but not by much. George was angry but didn’t know who to be angry at. Vito may deserve an ass-kicking, but it was Frank who made the deal. George thought of his family. He could take the deal and keep his job and pay the bills and sleep in his bed with his loving wife, and he could continue as if nothing bad had happened. Frank offered George a lifeline, and why shouldn’t he take it? He was fifty-five years old, and although he still worked harder than men half his age, the years were gaining on him. He moved slower than he did a year ago. Way slower than he did five years ago. Retirement was always a distant mirage, a carrot that kept the horse moving, even if it never got any closer. I only had ten more years.

There were forty-nine other drivers George worked with. When it came time for them to elect a shop steward—a representative who would fight for their interests—they chose George. Now, he’d abandon them? Worse, he’d have to twist the knife. What would I say? Sorry guys, that’s just the way things work out. The ship is sinking, so I jumped in the lifeboat. Good luck finding yours. A heavy pit twisted in his stomach. George may not have been much, but he believed he was a good man.

"Sorry, Frank, but I can’t do that.”

George left the office, questioning his decision. Vito was waiting outside, the smug look of self-satisfaction still lingering.

“I knew you wouldn’t go for it. I told my father not to even bother. Not that it would have mattered anyway. You would have saved your job today just for me to toss you tomorrow.” Vito chuckled. George ignored him.

At least I won’t have to see that prick again.

George made his way away from the administrative building. Every step towards the warehouse carried more and more weight, as if the lives of each of the forty-nine drivers he was about to fire were pilling on top of his shoulders. He pulled out his radio, brought it in front of his face, and paused, trying to think of something to say without creating a panic. A few seconds passed. “Every second that I wait, they think they still have a job.” That thought motivated him to finally do what needed to be done.

“Guys… I’m calling a meeting. Finish up your runs and come to the break room in the main warehouse.”

George then pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contact list. He went through the list twice, looking for the union rep’s information. “Randy, Ralph, or Reese. Some ‘R’ name like that.” He muttered. After another fruitless search, he walked into the break room and found union paperwork. “Reggie!” he said, suddenly remembering every detail of Reggie he’d once forgotten entirely. George dialed the number on the sheet and waited for an answer.

“Yeah?” greeted George on the other end of the line.

“Reggie Creighton?”

“Speaking. Whaddya’ want?” His words were short and cutting like steak knives.

“My name is George Connors. I’m the shop steward at Carbone Shipping.”

“Oh, yeah?” he replied. There was a shift in his tone. It softened toward his constituent. “What can I do for you, George?”

“We’ve been fired. Frank Carbone is replacing us with driverless trucks. We need to organize.”

Reggie took a moment to take it all in. George knew that the Teamsters boogieman was always the threat of automated trucking, so to hear that the day had finally come must have taken Reggie aback.

“George? You still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“How many men do you have?”

“Fifty or so. A few will drop off. I can keep at least forty with some finagling.”

“We’ll need them. I want you to know that I’m on this. We’ve had some time to get ready for a day like this. I need to call a bunch of people I’ve never met before, so give me some time to get back to you. Keep your men together. I’ll be in touch.”

Reggie hung up, and George wasn’t sure how to feel about the call. On the one hand, he was happy to know that the union was taking this seriously. But the degree of seriousness that Reggie brought to the conversation made George feel like he was the one being naïve.

One by one, men started coming back from their runs. They logged their routes. They filled out the paperwork and signed them in triplicate. White went to sales. Goldenrod went to logistics. Purple went to payroll. The drivers then gathered in the break room, and the whole time the warehouse workers were staring at them. The secret was out, and everyone was in on the cruel joke except for the fifty or so men who piled into the cramped room, waiting for George to deliver the punchline.

The meeting was short. George told them everything. One man needed to be calmed down and restrained. He kept talking about burning the whole place down. Another started stuttering about his kid in the hospital. He needed this job for the insurance. Strike preparations had to be made. A few got up and left. They wouldn’t be seen again. More than one just sat there crying.

“What are we going to do, George? I’m sixty-two. I can barely ride in the truck. How am I supposed to walk up and down a line all day?" Rico asked.

“What is striking going to do anyway? They can’t uninvent those fucking trucks. I don’t know about you, but I’m just going to get another job.” Another spoke out. It was a younger guy. Matt Jones.

“The fuck you are, Jonesy! Every man in this room better be there when the time comes. We’re in this shit together. If even one of us cracks, the rest of us is fucked,” yelled Mark. He was one of the few men who worked at Carbone Trucking longer than George. He could have retired years ago, but when asked about it, he’d simply say that he had nowhere else to go.

George hushed the room and asked for everyone’s attention. The yelling dulled to a quiet murmur. Soon after, it was quiet, save for the men who were still crying.

“I can’t stop anyone from getting another job and leaving this whole mess in the rear view mirror. I thought about it myself.” George contemplated talking about the next part. He wasn’t sure how it would be received.

“Frank… Frank offered me a job that would be taking not only your work but the work of every other man who drives in this country. These computers are no joke. They are going to take over everything if we let them. I’ve been doing this job for over thirty years. I don’t know how to do anything else. I bet if we took every man in here, there would be enough combined college credits to make one degree. There is still a place for the working man in this world. I’m not going to let Frank or Vito or some geek with a laptop take that away.”

They made their way out the main bay doors that led to the parking lot, and the cheering died down. A new weight gathered in the crowd. George was the first one to walk outside. He walked towards his car, got in, and turned the key. Everyone else was walking with lead-lined shoes, eventually getting in their cars. George noticed that no one had left yet. They were all meandering in the lot, hoping. George backed out and made his way to the exit. The last bits of gravel from the parking lot dropped from his tires as he turned onto the street. Out the window he saw the other men finally give in and do the same.

George made a thirty-minute commute to work every morning and a 45-minute commute home every evening. His favorite part of the day was the moment after he walked through his front door, where his dog would jump up on him and Rachel’s voice would welcome him into the warm embrace of home. His least favorite part of the day was the 3:30 AM wake-up ritual that he performed every morning. What he wouldn’t give was to stay away from that doorway. What he wouldn’t give for another wakeup.

He turned on the radio, listening to the baseball game as was his routine in the summer. The Mets were down five runs in the eighth. “Bums,” he muttered. He switched on another station, settling for country. George remembered a joke Sophia once told him.

“Hey Dad, I heard that when you play a rock song backwards, you hear the devil. You know what happens when you play a country song backwards?”

“No, what?”

“You get your truck back, your girl back, and your dog back.”

Sitting in the car, listening to the song, George laughed at the joke he’d heard so many years before and started singing along. This one happened to be one of the few he knew.

“Well, if they freed me from this prison

If that railroad train was mine

I bet I'd move out over a little

Farther down the line

Far from Folsom Prison

That's where I want to stay.

And I'd let that lonesome whistle

Blow my blues away.”

George pulled into the driveway and took his keys out of the ignition. Getting out of the car, he fumbled and dropped his keys in the grass next to the crumbling asphalt driveway. As he picked them up, he noticed that his tires were looking a little worn.

As George made his way to the front door, he tried to walk a little taller, made his work uniform look a bit less unkempt. Just as always, Bandit was waiting for him, and just as always, he jumped up to show him the kind of love that only an animal could. Bandit had no expectations or desires outside of the occasional trip to the park or perhaps the table scraps after dinner. He only knew that George could do no wrong and that his presence made everything automatically better. George felt the same way about Bandit.

Rachel followed Bandit, greeting her husband with a kiss. “Dinner will be ready by the time you’re done showering.”

“What are we having?”

“Steaks were on sale. And I baked some potatoes. And there’s some salad from the other night.”

George took off his boots and made his way up the stairs. His shower was quick, and by the time he got to the table, their dinners were set. A few empty chairs surrounded the couple as Rachel started talking about her day.

“I ran into Tina at the market today, her son Jeff... You remember Jeff, right? He and Soph went to camp together. Or was it tennis? It was probably both. Well anyway, he’s getting married. Isn’t that exciting? She told me to expect an invitation in the mail. They said it wasn’t going to be a huge affair, but you know Tina. Subtle hasn’t always been her thing. Then, on the way home, Janice called. She says that Leo got laid off last week. Said that a computer took his job or some such nonsense. Can you believe it? I said to her, Make sure he didn’t get fired for some other reason, because that just sounds ridiculous. How can a computer drive a bus? Just sounds crazy to me.”

George stared at the steak in front of him.

"Rach... I," George struggled, but the words weren’t coming. Tears filled his face.

"Rachel," he cleared his throat.

Rachel put her fork down, her attention on him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried in front of her. It might have been when his mother died, but that was so long ago. In twenty-six years of marriage, he never once looked at her the way he was looking at her now.

“I got laid off today. Computer took my job.”

With that, he picked back up where he left off on his dinner. Rachel sat, stunned. A few minutes went by with nothing to fill the void.

“You aren’t what you do, George," she said after a protracted silence.

“Huh?”

“I’ve known you a long time, and right now I know you’re thinking about bills and Sophia’s college and money in general. I also know that you’re thinking about these things because, deep down, you don’t want to think about the fact that you’ve been a truck driver most of your life and that you think that’s all you are. Well, you’re not. You are a terrific husband. You’ll always be a wonderful father. You still like the Giants, and it's a chore to get you to eat your damn vegetables. You’re more than just a truck driver, George.”

“Last time we’ll have steak for a while, I suppose.”

“We won’t miss it... Bandit might.”

“I’ll start looking in the classifieds. Or I guess online would have more to offer. Maybe you can do one of those ride-share app things. One of the cars has to be new enough. And if not, they can rent one to you. I can ask Mona for extra shifts at the hospital. Lord knows they need the extra hands.”

“I’m on strike. If I don’t show, no one will. And then the whole thing is done. Union has funds. Should be able to keep us above water for a bit. Long enough to wait for a deal of some sort.”

“We’re going to be alright.”

She said it with a certainty that had George hopeful for the first time since he’d walked into Frank’s office.

“Frank offered me a job. A real job. Some kind of consultant. I’d have been teaching those computers how to take other truckers’ jobs. I didn’t take it. It wouldn’t have been right.”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

“Now I’m thinking that I should have taken it. Someone is going to do it. Maybe it should have been me. You married an asshole, I think.”

“No. I married a good man.”

Bandit was lying under the table, patrolling the floor for something to fall. George left half his steak uneaten and put it on the floor. The dog started right on it, getting a couple pats on the head. Bandit was having a great day.

The men organized a strike less than a week after being let go. A handful of drivers were loitering around, and there was an office trailer parked down the block—the kind one would find at a construction site. George, figuring that Reggie would be inside, walked over after a few greetings and good mornings.

Out in front of the trailer, a plywood sign stood on a post with the letters “HQ” and an arrow pointing towards the door scrawled on it with spray paint. George went inside and found Reggie, Steve, and a couple other men he hadn’t met before. Reggie stood before a table covered with a map and all kinds of papers, looking like a general at war.

“What’s all this?”

“This is your dues money at work, George.”

“Seems like a lot for not many people.”

“We think we can get around a hundred today. It’ll grow from there. These things always start small.”

“Hope we have enough to make the news.”

“I talked to a few TV people. Most affiliates are sending a crew. The most important part is the message. Machines are putting people out of work. The company is taking food out of your families’ mouths. Stuff like that. If you don’t know what to say, just remember the message.”

A knock at the door of the trailer interrupted them. In came a kid, with more pimples than hairs on his head, in a rush. Dull look in his eyes and greasy hair, he was either just out of high school or getting closer to graduating. He had a nervous way about him. In many ways, he reminded George of a younger Michael before he’d left. Thoughts of Michael only seemed to bring him down more, so George did his best to think of more pressing things.

“Um, Reggie?” He spoke. “There’s like, a dude here to see you guys. He says he’s a lawyer or something. From Deluge.”

There was shock throughout the room. Deluge must have been on this from the beginning. The unions hadn’t even known how many people would show up. How could Deluge be able to have someone ready to negotiate so soon? These thoughts crossed George’s mind, but chief among them was the ease he felt, feeling that this meant he could go back to work soon and that everything would go back to normal.

“Send him over here. George, I’ll need you in here. Everyone else, out! We may just end this here and now. Real shame after getting this all together.”

“Sooner the better, Reg.”

The few office workers in the trailer scurried out quickly after the teen left to get the negotiator. George thought that Steve should stay, but he seemed to have no problem letting George handle things. Steve, for all his great qualities, often abdicated any real responsibility to George when it came to labor disputes. A few minutes passed when the door gently opened. A tall, dark-skinned man sauntered into the trailer, taking great care to close the door behind him with a light touch. He wore a midnight black suit with light pinstripes and some fine Italian shoes. His thick rimmed glasses perfectly matched the long, skinny black tie that was kept perfectly in place by a gold tie clasp. His shirt was a bright white, probably silk, and his gold cuff links shimmered when he moved his arms. George also noticed the large, fashionable wristwatch on his left hand. Probably a Rolex, but George knew very little of such things. That same hand was carrying an expensive-looking briefcase, the kind George had seen lawyers carrying on television.

The tall man looked around the trailer, scanning, analyzing, and almost inhuman in his movement. He gave George and Reggie a once-over, his expression blank. His body language did not betray his thoughts.

“Good morning, gentlemen! My name is Mr. Atto. I’m the legal representative for Deluge Worldwide, Inc., and in this instance, Mr. Carbone. May I sit, please?”

George thought his accent was African. He couldn’t place the country. He knew very little about Africa. He figured to drop the notion all together, for he knew such subjects were sensitive and he lacked finesse when discussing things like race and ethnicity.

“Good morning," Reggie greeted. “Please, sit down.”

“Thank you. Now, before we get started. Which of you is Mr. Connors? I would guess you, sir, he referenced George, “considering it says George on your blouse.” He turned his attention to Reggie. “That would make you, Mr. Creighton, yes?”

Both men were unable to respond.

“I will take your shock as affirmation. Don’t be surprised, gentlemen; my employers are excellent at research. I am quite familiar with the situation. First and foremost, I would like to apologize to you, Mr. Connors. On behalf of Deluge, we are sorry about the manner in which your employment and the employment of your colleagues were terminated. We had no knowledge of Mr. Carbone’s strategy, and the board of Deluge feels responsible that they missed such a glaring oversight. In order to rectify this unfortunate mistake, we are prepared to offer a severance package for each terminated employee equal to six months’s wages. A charitable donation of an amount to be determined will also be given to the International Brotherhood of Teamsters. We only ask that, in return, your planned protest be dispersed immediately.”

George didn’t know what to say. It sounded like a good offer. Maybe even the most cynical could call it a bribe.

They were being paid off to keep silent. What was a cool couple million dollars to a business who made that much in a day, maybe even less time than that?

“Before we go any further," Reggie started. “I want to know what Deluge’s plans are in terms of their driverless truck program. Is this something you’re going to slow down, or are we just kicking the can down the road?”

It was a good question. George hadn’t even considered the other millions of truck drivers this technology could affect in that moment. Millions of men like himself, high school educated, middle-aged, family men. Average guys trying to get by, made useless by machines. George wondered what horses thought about the first car.

“Mr. Creighton, you cannot expect us to allow our competition to take over this growing market. Someone will put truck drivers out of work. It is an unfortunate side effect in the name of technological progress.”

Years of news cycles showcasing men and women balling their eyes out in front of cameras talking about how their entire livelihoods were stolen from them in the name of progress. Progress is an unreachable and unyielding endeavor with no clear objective other than improvement upon yesterday for tomorrow. George didn’t even know who was improving. Certainly not him. Or the other drivers. Or the factory workers, either.

“So you mean to bribe us, then?” George asked.

“No, Mr. Connors. We mean to compensate you and your fellow drivers for the unfair treatment you’ve suffered at the hands of an incompetent Deluge partner.”

“What about Marie?”

“Who?”

“Marie Ortega. She is—she was the dispatcher.”

“I am unfamiliar with Miss Ortega’s situation, but I see no reason why she cannot be included. Is that your only addendum, Mr. Connors?”

"No," he began, “what about when you get some automated forklifts in there and fire all the warehouse workers?" Or when your computers start buying and selling products by themselves? What happens when someone decides a computer can make a better lawyer than you, Mr. Atto? Tell me, what then?”

Mr. Atto’s genial facade left. His smile left, and he started to resemble some kind of shark in George’s mind.

“I apologize, gentlemen. I seemed to have misled you. This is not a negotiation. These are the only terms my client will accept. This is not a labor dispute, and I am not in the business of collective bargaining. If you do not agree to these terms, my client would be well within their rights to have you all removed from the premises and arrested if need be.”

“Look right here, smug son of a-," George started as he stood from his seat. Reggie, also getting up, held him back with one arm and turned his attention back to the lawyer.

“Mr. Atto, if you do that, the damage done to Deluge’s reputation would start a boycott across the country. You’d be surrendering the moral high ground. Do you really want to risk billions of dollars to save millions?”

“Where would people buy their furniture or media, or even a large chunk of their food if they boycotted Deluge? You may be friends with newspaper writers, but my client is friends with newspaper owners. I have no doubts that the story would still get out, but the quality journalists who do will have squeezed you in their blogs and videos between proof that the Earth is actually hollow and important exposes of the extraterrestrial cabal that controls the governments of the world.”

The lawyer stood from his seat, towering over both George and Reggie, who were themselves taller than the average person. The lawyer had a menacing stare, and for the first time in quite a while, George felt intimidated.

“This story will die much quicker than you think, gentlemen. Plus, Deluge prides itself on transparency. The millions of dollars donated to charity every year will most certainly outweigh the plight of a serial adulterer, Mr. Creighton. Does your wife know that you are having yet another affair, sir?”

Reggie turned white and sat down. He had no words. George sat as well, feeling like a child being scolded for getting out of line.

“Yes, and let me tell you, I find your taste in pornography to be quite... exotic, sir. And don’t think that you lead a life of impunity, Mr. Connors. I am not one for gambling, but I do believe the objective is to pick the teams that win. It seems you are immune to such prognostications. It is not a large deficit by any means, but good citizens should report any breach of the law where they see them, I believe. I want you to rest assured that any secrets you think you can keep from us will be brought to light of day. Sunlight is a terrific way to kill parasites that refuse to die, I find. And if nothing else,” he added, “it is very hard to pay bills when your bank accounts are frozen. Computers are a wonder, but imperfect apparatuses.”

The lawyer got himself together, buttoning one of the buttons on his suit jacket. He started out of the trailer.

“If you are so confident about all of this—about us losing and Deluge going on, business as usual—then why the offer? Why give us anything at all?” George asked.

The lawyer turned back to answer.

“Do you know what the word magnanimous means, Mr. Connors? I would be surprised if you did. Most think it is generosity to your enemy. But there is also an understanding between the parties. A magnanimous king would free his rival ruler once the war ended. But first, the king would have his foot on the other’s throat, forcing the vanquished to submit and prostrate himself. My foot is on your necks, sirs. Would you like to feel me press? You have until tomorrow. Come see me in Mr. Carbone’s office when you come to your senses.”

He left the trailer, taking great care to close the door as gently as he entered. Reggie looked down at the chair Atto had sat in; it was perfectly aligned with the table. Reggie, still sitting, muttered something and tried to gain his composure, gestured and grabbed at his neck, and then unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. George got up and went to the door, looking to see where the lawyer had left, making sure he was indeed gone.

“Feels like I just got fucked in the ass,” Reggie said.

“Yeah. He had our number,” George replied.

“Maybe you should take the deal, George. Get your people paid and move on with your lives. Six months’ salary is long enough to find something else.”

“What about my pension? All of our pensions? What about health care? Do you think I can find another good-paying job with a high school diploma and thirty some odd years of experience in a useless field?”

Reggie had a contemplative look on his face.

“What about your wife?” George asked.

Reggie gave a long sigh. “We haven’t really been married for years. I wake up next to a stranger every day, and she pretends to love me, and I pretend to love her back. I think it would surprise her if I wasn’t cheating on her. It’d shock me if she wasn’t. I’m more worried about my kids. They don’t need my mountain of shit on top of them.”

“We won’t have the manpower to keep this up, you know? Fifty drivers and some other union guys across the street. More warm bodies hangin’ out at the morgue than over here,” George bemoaned.

“He can shove it up his ass!” Reggie cried. George felt a little momentum build. “We might not win, but we can bleed them of cash. Make it expensive for ‘em, right?” The momentum came and went, and all that was left was a fading sense of hope.

George thought about what the lawyer said.

“I just wanted to last a few more years. I only had ten before I could retire.”

There was a knock at the door, and George couldn’t imagine who it could be. Someone else to steal his manhood from him, probably. The door swung open, and a huge, imposing giant of a man walked in.

“Name’s Hernandez. I’m an independent driver outta Texas. I brought my rig and was wondering where I should park her. I figured in front of the exit was best.”

Texas? Independent? George didn’t know what was going on, but the giant seemed like he had a better grasp of the situation. He waited for Reggie to take the lead. Reggie looked like he didn’t have the heart, and George was tired of waiting.

“Listen, buddy,” George started. “We appreciate you coming all this way, but take a look around you. We aren’t in any shape to be putting trucks in front of exits or rioting in the streets. We-”

George stopped as he saw a few heads pass by the window. A few more followed. George passed the behemoth Hernandez and went outside, seeing hundreds of men gather in the area. Some carried signs. Some wore work clothes. All of them looked like truckers or working men, at least. George turned his head and saw even more from down the street coming through. Reggie, just beside him, put his arm around George and smiled.

“I guess I can tell Mr. Atto to go fuck himself, yeah?" Reggie asked.

George came home that night in a better mood than he’d left. Things weren’t so bad, even if that lawyer put the fear of God into him. Bandit was in his spot, waiting for George to open the door. Rachel had been working late that week. The over time was good pay, but it seemed like whenever one of them was coming home, the other was leaving.

George showered, then came down to the kitchen and heated some leftovers from the other night. Pasta and Alfredo sauce. There wasn’t enough left for a meal, and all George could find to supplement it was some raw baby carrots. It’ll have to do. George chowed down in front of the television, surfing channels, hoping to see something about them on the news.

“-disgruntled former employees who have surrounded the premises.”

I’ll show them disgruntled.

“-all across the country. A spokesperson for Deluge said that the negotiations are on going, but the disgruntled former employees’ demands are too unreasonable.”

The camera cut to Mr. Atto, of all people. His clean, black suit looked good on the camera, and he almost had an aura about him. Seeing him on television, George almost forgot about earlier, and the lawyer almost sounded genuine.

“Deluge World Wide is committed to the cause of these drivers, but we feel as if their representatives do not have their best interests in mind. My client has made a fair offer, and they threw me out with delusions of grandeur. I hope they can live with the harm they are causing these men and their families.”

That arrogant bastard. He’s the one causing harm. Fucking snake.

George’s phone started ringing.

“Reggie, you seeing this shit on the news. Guess he wasn’t lying; Deluge is gunning for us.”

“Nobody watches the news anymore, anyway. I’ve got a friend of a friend who is taking care of some things. Don’t worry about details. By tomorrow, we’ll be darlings of the press; I can tell you that.”

Reggie hung up with no good-bye. George read through the lines and understood whose friends were coming to the rescue. George was no fool. He knew that since before the time of Hoffa, the mafia had deep ties to the working man. He was the mob’s best customer and one of their primary sources of income. George remembered his only run-in with the so-called "mob." He’d just been made shop steward, and the union negotiations were going on. The guy before Reggie was a fat guy named Tony, whose only contributions to the conversations included a stereotypical “ooh” or some cooking metaphor that he told in the ancient art of Italian sign language. To his surprise, his diplomatic skills didn’t woo Frank, whom he considered his paisano. George remembered a card Tony gave him.

“Listen, if you want to get a little leverage, you call this number at six thirty. Not six twenty-nine. Not six thirty-one. Ask for Jimmy. Tell him that you need a favor and tell him that Two-Ton Tony gave you his name. By next week, you’ll get whatever you want. Believe me.”

Not trusting the integrity of Two-Ton Tony or Jimmy, whoever, George marched into Frank’s office, and the two hashed a contract out in a couple hours. A health care expansion and a fifteen cent raise. Not everything, but something he could sell the men on and something Frank could live with.

“We don’t need those pricks, George. And I don’t just mean your union guys. I’ll leave the lawyers out too, and we can discuss things, like men.”

That was ten years ago, and until all those months ago, George never doubted Frank’s commitment to him or the others. Now, sitting in a room with Reggie, who made no attempt at shrouding his connections, made George more than a little uneasy.

The door opened, and Rachel barreled through, collapsing on the ground. Bandit ran to her, jumping about, barking, and giving her all the fanfare that a family breadwinner deserved. George saw her and for a moment got angry.

Are the theatrics really necessary?

“So, tough day?”

“Awful. My shift was about to end, and a kid came in after falling off his bike. Bleeding everywhere. His mom was screaming and crying the whole time. I swear, I can still hear her.”

Rachel sat up from the floor, petting Bandit, who returned her affections with licking and a wagging tail. George went back to the television, content with the story’s conclusion. Rachel went on, but George could only watch the television and hope that she’d finish soon so he could focus on the lies unfolding before him.

“Are you even listening?”

“Huh? Yeah. Can you believe this shit? They’re calling us disgruntled former employees. They didn’t even mention how we got shit canned. That slick lawyer has them eating out of his perfectly manicured hands.”

“So you weren’t listening then.”

“Well damn, Rach, I’m sorry, but I’m fighting for our lives out there, and you’re going on about some kid who fell off a bicycle and skinned his knee. Not exactly comparable.”

Rachel got sullen. She stood up and dusted herself off, leaving her shoes and coat on the floor. George changed the channel. The Mets were in Pittsburgh that night. She heated up a plate and sat next to him on the couch. He could tell he’d said something wrong, but wasn’t sure what.

“I’m sorry. Today was rough.”

“That boy died, George. The handlebars pierced his leg and cut open his femoral artery.”

George turned off the television and faced his wife, seeing a sad, worn expression had invaded her once impenetrable positivity. Tears streamed down her face as he took the plate from her hand and put it down on the coffee table in front of them. She lunged for him, holding so tight that her nails left imprints in his shoulder blades. They sat there for a time, until she could no longer make tears. She leaned on him, which suited him fine as he enjoyed being leaned on.

A few months went by, and the strike was still gaining steam, though it had slowed a bit. Men and women from all across the country flooded to the picket line like some kind of holy site. They were a different sort of pilgrim, looking not for salvation from a hellish afterlife but for the hellish reality that was sweeping the nation. Carbone Trucking had become ground zero in the fight against automation.

George pulled into a parking spot that had been reserved for him. He found a kind of celebrity among the strikers that made him uncomfortable. Even the cops and national guardsmen who’d been sent to keep the peace knew George by face, though the months wore on him and aged him years. There was talk of the cops starting their own strike in solidarity. George appreciated the gesture but knew that that kind move would only turn the public against them.

Walking through the pop-up encampments made a small collection of buildings look like a castle under siege. The automated trucks were even parked outside the main lot. They couldn’t get past the wall of people on their way to their first pickup. They now sat motionless, covered in graffiti. Deluge was losing hundreds of thousands every day but was making it up in other ways. Scabs were hired at other sites, and since these truckers were supposed to be the test run for the rest of the country, George felt like he was at the epicenter of a battle for the country’s future. George walked into the trailer, as if it had been just another day.

“Got some news for you, George,” one started.

“Is it Atto? Does he finally want to talk?” There was a bit of naive hope in his voice. Like some part of his old, tired self had reawakened.

"No, it's Frank. He died last night.”

George felt sorry for the old man. He never wished him any ill will.

“He was a good man. This wasn’t on him,” Reggie said.

"Yes, it is. He’s

“What will this mean for us?” Hernandez asked.

“Well, Vito is in charge of Carbone now and will probably close up shop. Sooner or later, Deluge will have some more trucks ready to try somewhere else as a proof of concept. Most people are getting tired of all this anyway, and it’s hard enough trying to keep everyone organized. No way we get these numbers anywhere else. We’ve got to do something, fast,” Reggie replied.

“Temperature’s dropping, too,” another added. “I ain’t used to Northern winters, and I’m guessing most of these folks ain’t either. Not living in cardboard shacks at least.”

“The contract with the Porta-John people is going to expire soon. They’re going to want something larger and more long-term, Reg,” said one of the faceless soldiers who came to Reggie with their problems.

“I don’t want to resort to digging holes. Disease is the last thing we need. Call up Sal Marino, tell him what you told me, and I’m certain that the porta-shitter people will call you back with a better offer.”

George noticed that Reggie’s go-to answer lately was to have someone call somebody, whose name George had sworn he read in the paper once.

“Reggie, I’m wondering if these are the right ways to go about things.”

“What do you mean, George?”

"Well," he said with trepidation, “I don’t know if solving every problem with a phone call is really solving these problems. Who’s paying your ‘associates’ to sort these things out?”

“There’s no need to beat around the bush. Everyone in this room knows what you’re talking about. So say it. You think that the mob is gonna fuck us or get us fucked, yeah? Is that correct?” he snapped.

“Yeah. That’s what I think. If I’m the only one, I’ll shut up. But when we’ve got these fuckers looking to get us on anything, it seems stupid to be so open about shit like this.”

“You’re calling me stupid, now, George?”

“Oh, fuck off with that, will you? After all this, you think I think you’re stupid? I’m just saying, “

“You’ve been just saying for weeks now, George. I know what I’m doing. Let’s remember who came to who about what, okay? None of this would even be here if not for me. So please, don’t bust my balls.”

“I’m not trying to bust balls. I’m just telling you what’s what. I saw a guy behind this office, shooting up in broad daylight. I wonder who he scored from. More guys are showing up drunk, and these fucking cardboard shantytowns are popping up more and more. We’ve got real problems that all point back to your friends.”

No one else wanted to get in between these two. George hardly noticed anyone else was there at all, and he knew that Reggie’s eyes hadn’t moved at all from his.

“They started firing doctors," Reggie said. “Hospitals are replacing doctors with computers. Most of them are young and full of student debt. How long before a few of them start coming here? How long before the bills pile up and they start selling scripts? For however bad our friends may be, they provide a measured amount of security and a reasonable amount of chaos. So yeah, you’re going to see a couple people here and there who are higher than the Chrysler building, but you won’t see any crack dens or meth labs. You won’t see cops coming in and busting heads. You won’t see people shitting in the street, and you won’t see trash piled up everywhere. All that protection comes to us at basically no cost. All they want is a chance to rob these bastards blind while the focus is over here.”

George got up and made for the door. “There is always a cost, Reggie. Nothings free.”

The rest of the day was much of the same. Outside the office, people’s optimism held firm, but an unease was building among the strikers. Hoovervilles and other sorts of plywood villages in the surrounding towns were pissing off the locals, and the governor himself was close to calling shutting down the whole thing. Both sides seemed to be waiting for the other to blink, and George could feel his lids straining.

George walked through one of the shanty villages, seeing all the accessories that that kind of desperation brought. Metal drum fire pits were scattered every few yards. Stray cats were kept around to keep the rats away. The once grassy fields were now a constant mud consistency that was never going to dry. With the winter months on the doorstep, the first snowfall would sink the shoddy wooden structures with ease.

“You’re that guy,?” a man asked, approaching George from behind one of the shacks. “Jim something, yeah?”

“George. Connors,” he replied. “What can I do for you?”

“Me? Nothing. I’m here to support you guys. Millions of livelihoods depend on you truck drivers, ya know? My Pop owns a diner, and he serves truckers all the time. Imagine what's gonna happen to him if there ain’t no more truckers on the road.”

“Well, we’re glad to have you here,” George replied. The man had shifty eyes, like he was on the lookout for something. George put his hand out to shake, and the nervous man took it, then stepped into George’s personal space, close enough to whisper something. He smelled like a brewery masked in a cheap cologne, and George wasn’t sure, but he could have sworn he saw something moving in the man’s thinning hair.

“You know,” he said. “My wife, she’s here, too. She works for truck drivers, too. Just behind us, we’ve got a nice little setup in case you wanted to, um, relieve some tension. I could even give you a special deal, ya know. Since you’re such a big shot around here.”

George pushed the man away from him and held a bewildered look on his face. He must have pushed hard because the man was on the ground, stumbling to get back up again. George turned around and tried to get to his car, worried that the drunken pimp had friends.

“Who the fuck do you think you are? You ain’t better than anyone else here, Buddy. I’m just trying to make a living!”

George kept walking, putting his head down, hoping that no one else would recognize him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jim. Not like you have anywhere else to go. Fucking loser! Fucking unemployed loser!”

By the time he got home, Rachel was getting ready for a shift. They hadn’t seen much of each other lately. She was at the hospital so often that she started sleeping in the on-call room. Doctors might have been getting fired, but no robot could do the labor a nurse could. For his part, George slept at home and took care of Bandit as best he could. The steaks were few and far between, but he was just as happy getting a chewy treat and a few walks a day.

“How was your day?” she asked.

“Frank’s dead.”

“I’m sorry for his family.”

“He’s only got one son left. Feel bad for us. We’re screwed without him at the helm.”

They both got quiet. Rachel kept eating her five-PM breakfast, looking like she had something to say but was unsure how to say it. George, who’d grown intolerant of anyone beating around the bush, glared at her, goading Rachel to spill the beans.

“Sophia call lately?”

“She’s working, you know that. She sent me an email last week; I thought I told you.”

“She should come home.”

He could feel her holding something back.

“I’ve met someone,” she said, like a meek mouse.

“What?”

“He works construction. He says—He says that it's stable work. Stable enough, at least.”

“You can’t be serious. We’ve been married for near twenty-seven years, and you just want to up and go? Abandon ship when we’re so close to getting this done? Really? Rachel, come on!”

“You haven’t been here.”

“It’s been a rough couple of months!”

“I know!” she shouted. “For me, too! And I’m the only one working here! I make the money and still somehow cook most of the meals, and even the house doesn’t look like total shit, and I don’t even live here most of the time! It’s not right, George! And I’m tired of it.”

His anger turned to sorrow. George hoped he could change course and bring her back to him if he softened.

“I thought you loved me, Rach?”

“I do. But somewhere you stopped loving me.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“This is the first time I see you in days. Lord knows, you don’t say anything to me when we do see each other. You bring all your problems and all that shit from out there with you and wear it like a goddamn jacket around here, huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf. I’m your wife, and you look at me like I’m just another face in that gaggle of desperate people out there. Where did my husband go? You used to be here? Where are you?”

George looked away, ashamed. He knew that things had grown cold with Rachel. He’d taken her for granted before, but it was always for a short time. He always made it up to her. Flowers or a nice night out usually did the trick. They’d never been with anyone else, and after all these years, he still only had eyes for her. She was betraying him with this construction worker, and George wished the bastard would fall off a high rise, but he knew that he’d betrayed her first, in a way. He was irate with her still, but not as much as he was with himself.

“Please don’t do this.”

“I’m sorry, George.”

She finished her meal and put the dish in the sink. Then she walked over to him and kissed him on the forehead, like she’d done ever since they started dating. She picked up a couple bags she’d staged near the door that George hadn’t noticed, and she walked out, probably forever. No goodbye; just an empty house full of reminders that at one point, he was the man they thought he was. George sat, sulking. He noticed that she’d left her wedding ring on the table. He held it in his hands, fumbling the gold band through his fingers. Tears streamed down his face, and his body wanted to give in and slump, but there was no longer a shoulder to lean on.

George couldn’t stay in the empty house or sleep in his own bed that night. He dropped the dog off with a neighbor and got in his car and sat thinking about what he was going to do next when the phone started ringing. It was a number he hadn’t seen before. He picked up, expecting a reporter or some other annoyance like that.

“Is this George Connors?”

“Yeah, whaddaya want?”

“My name is Justina Goldsmith. I’m the executor of Mr. Carbone’s last will and testament. You’ve been named in his will, and I need to come by my office for the reading.”

“When’s that?”

“We’re gathering in the next hour or so.”

“Yeah, sure, I can make it.”

George made it to the office, and he saw some familiar, if unwelcome, faces. Marie was there, a wide grin on her face. He left her five thousand dollars. Vito was there, too, who couldn’t have looked more pissed, flanked by Mr. Atto, who still could not deem to convey any sort of emotion at all.

“What the fuck did you do, you son of a bitch?” Vito started, needing to be held back by a few of the other visitors.

“What do you mean? I didn’t do anything,” George replied.

“Mr. Connors," Goldsmith started, “glad you could make it. I just got done informing Mr. Carbone and Mr. Atto about the arrangements that the deceased Mr. Carbone made.”

“What arrangement? Will someone tell me what’s going on?”

“It seems, Mr. Connors, that Mr. Carbone has gotten the last laugh,” Mr. Atto stated. “He has left the ownership of Carbone Shipping up to chance.”

“Thank you, counselor, but I’ll take it from here.” Goldsmith cleared her throat. “From the Last Will and Testament of Vito Carbone, ‘I leave behind ownership of my company, Carbone Shipping, to either my son Vito or Mr. George Connors, based on the condition that George is able to beat a driverless truck in a driving contest. A route will be planned by Mrs. Marie Ortega, and whoever can complete the round-trip delivery first is the winner.”

George couldn’t believe it. The whole struggle had come down to a race between himself and one of those automated monstrosities he’d been railing against. If he could beat it, then he’d have proved the trucks inferior and maybe even stopped the whole plan in its tracks.

“I’ll do it,” George said like a reflex.

“Wonderful,” Goldsmith said. “Sooner the better, then, yes? How about tomorrow?”

George was born with diesel in his veins, but this was a tall order. He hadn’t been behind the wheel in a while, but time had run out. He felt the weight of those many thousands on his shoulders, and though the months had worn on George, there grew a bolt of lightning in his eye.

The next morning, everyone gathered around to see George face off against the machine. The steel driver had no idea that he could be made obsolete by a human being, and George aimed to be that human being. All the fanfare of a great struggle was set, even a large checkered finish line. Strikers held their signs, bemoaning the soulless machine, and as George stepped out from the trailer and walked to his truck, he was blown aback by the cheering, the wailing, and the amalgamation of human joy and hope that thrust itself upon him. He tried to take it in stride, waving and playing with the crowd, encouraging them to hold out hope just a little bit longer.

George stepped into the rig and, above the crowd, could see that it extended so far that he could not see its end. Drivers without signs held their license plates in the air, and George could have counted at least one from each state and a few from other countries. He started up the truck and saw the computer technicians start up theirs. George saw Reggie, Hernandez, and all the others gathered around, smiling, knowing that they were in good hands. Snaking through the crowd, even Rachel had found him, her wedding ring still firmly affixed to her finger, and just behind, Sophia, as they both yelled and cheered for him and George smiled. The truck’s engine coughed out burnt diesel as George revved the engine, only to be overwhelmed by the crowd's increasing cheer.

The race was signaled to begin, and the driverless truck sped off. George stayed behind. George didn’t even move. Smile fixed on his face, George was still in his garage, and as the car filled the room with carbon fumes, George felt like a hero and a winner and like everything was going to be okay. It was a full day later when they found George’s body. He wanted to get up and go to work again.