A Wrench in the Works

Once again, I wiped the sweat off my neck with a rag that wasn’t completely oil or sweat- drenched from toiling over this engine that, thanks to me, hummed like a mechanical beast. Looking out the greasy window I could see the sun lowering, leaving behind the sticky summer haze that surrounded Detroit and its suburbs. The hour long walk home to Paradise Valley would mean it’d be just about dark by the time I finished and returned to Hastings Street. In winter, I’d try and half that by running for the bus and hoping all the black seats weren’t filled by the dozens of workers that poured out of the automotive factory that I worked at like my father before me. Luckily, he taught me everything he knew about machines as more workers were moving north every year and Detroit seemed bursting with people looking for work by ‘53. Despite this, my father had never seemed worried that I’d get a job there, I remember him saying our family would have work in that factory for generations to come, when I asked why he used to shrug and say it’s in our blood.

The factory bell jerked me rudely from my stupor, I grabbed my hat and sketches, hastily tucked in my vest in an attempt to appear smart as I donned my jacket. Not wasting any time, I hurried to the office to catch Mr Matherson before he fled, he had to listen this time I was sure of it, I knew my ideas could revolutionise automobiles I just needed 5 minutes. “Mr Matherson,” I called, elbowing through the throng of mechanics buzzing after surviving another day’s hard graft. Maybe he hadn’t heard me, “Sir, I…” I paused as he turned on his heel so fast for such a rotund man that I almost ran into him and his circle of elite, white roadies that tailed him everywhere. They all started as mechanics like me but with their white skin, rich families and arrogance they were soon promoted to the white -collar elite that came with a salary so big, the workers downstairs could hardly dream of, which gave them enough for a fancy car and a one -way ticket to a rancher in the suburbs (picket fence probably included). Mr Matherson snarled, “What is it boy?” in a drawl that echoed his Southern roots and flushed his pale cheeks, the roadies sniggered. I swallowed, reminding myself that I knew engines better than any of those white collars and remembering what my father used to tell me about working on cars in the garage next to Mr Matherson when they were mere teenagers. He’d say don’t ever be afraid of men like him, they may think they’re God’s gift but they’re just men who are half as skilled as us but with double the privilege and none of the heart. I steeled myself, “Mr Matherson, sir, I think you should see my drawings, with just a few tweaks my designs could be production ready in weeks.” He sighed, raised an eyebrow with a tone of disdain, coolly replying, “Unless those scraps of paper have a signed peace treaty from Korea or a letter telling me the steelworkers will never strike on me again I don’t wanna know. Look kid, you’re a good mechanic but you’re a negro so you won’t amount to a hill of beans round here if you keep getting ideas above your pay grade.” I tried to plead my case between the torrent of taunts my mother warned me to expect if I kept trying to ‘sass – mouth’ him, but to no avail. “You’re lucky I said to your Daddy before he passed I’d hire you out of respect and loyalty but you’re a dime a dozen Jimmy, so hush up and don’t make me put you top of the list of the next lay offs I’m fixin’ to do!” With that he huffed through his bristly moustache, defiantly adjusted his Stetson-esque fedora and scuttled off to seek refuge in his sickeningly expensive Packard Patrician 400.

Frustrated and rejected once again, I stuffed the sheets I’d been pouring over for months in the dead of night like a gripping obsession into my jacket pocket. Slinking slightly from my raw rejection, I started my walk home bitterly criticising the cheerful crickets that rang in the dusk. This obsession was a teasing point for aunties, cousins and neighbours (most of which weren’t related to us in any discernible way) who our door seemed to be permanently open for. They rumble in and out like a bustling hive of worker bees who worked dawn till dusk as drivers, clerks, farmhands, maids, factory or construction workers and everything in between which was necessary when one warehouse or another would close down every other week. This humdrum had been even more omnipresent since my father James had died a few days before the end of the war and for such a community man it was a tragic loss and it seemed he had been a part of everyone’s lives in one way or another. It was for this reason I only worked at night not to avoid the teasing but to hide from the pain in my mother Elanor’s eyes. I knew it reminded her of my father who had spent most of his life living, breathing and working on mechanical engines. As a young boy he’d tinker with this and that and was drawing out his next plan in pencil which he would soon build accompanied by a giddy excitement.

Over the next few months, I put my improvement ideas to one side and behaved like Mr Matherson had told me to. This put my mother at ease who, although she was always supportive, knew times were hard in our neighbourhood and we needed my wage to if we wanted food and somewhere to live. Mr Matherson had been true to his word and cut around 30 workers in the last month alone, there was an uneasiness in the engineering room as it was never the elites who were for the chop. Unemployment was at an all-time high and many took on second or third jobs anywhere they could get if there was any rumbling of more lay-offs, you’d rather be safe picking a few extra berries or cotton down the farm or hauling feed sacks in case you were next.

There was a strange air in the factory upstairs too, Mr Matherson had barely been seen in weeks and his son, nephews and even his daughter had been seen sniffing round the plant as though they were sizing up the place and its workers like a coyote stalking its next carcass. Asking questions obviously wasn’t permitted especially when we were being out-competed not only here in the states but from overseas models that meant longer hours or you were out of one of the main automotive companies within 50 miles that wasn’t “whites only”. No one dared even look up from their wrench when his daughter came around as it wasn’t long after that boy Till had been killed down in Money, Mississippi for apparently whistling at a white woman.

There was however a rumour that Mr Matherson was unwell going round but it wasn’t until a few weeks later that we heard it officially in the workshop. Around the same time that Ms Parks was sitting on a bus seat down in Montgomery was when we had the announcement from the floor gaffer that Mr Matherson had succumbed to cancer. We were told that the factory would be taken over by whichever of his family would inherit it or be split between them depending upon his will reading later that week, until then there were only tense murmurings as everyone battled with their own thoughts as to who’d be out of a job next and if anyone would be kept on.

By the end of the week, we were in the dusty yard rustling through our paper lunch bags, jacket collars stood to attention to keep the December breeze off our oily skin. A nasal, disapproving call gave me an assertive prod “Jimmy Wilson?” I looked up to see a squirrely looking man drowning in a blue grey double -breasted suit jacket with matching pleated trousers sporting a trilby that confirmed he was a man of means. “Y-yes sir,” I stammered jumping off the wall wondering if this was how I would be let go after all these years. Maybe the so-called loyalty Mr Matherson somehow owed my father and the assurance that I’d always be employed had not been passed on to his successor. I was beckoned to follow him like a sheep on the way to the slaughterhouse. We approached Mr Matherson’s old office which seemed odd without the lingering cigarette smoke and no bristling moustache in sight. It was however, scattered with family members of the late chief who were glinting with impatience and greed muttering in outrage that I had entered the same room as them without permission.

The gentleman took a seat at the desk and unclasped his briefcase, rifling through paperwork. I was stunned as to why I was there, maybe they needed someone to fetch coffee or show them the workshop when they’re named the new owner? I just kept my mouth shut and hovered by the doorway while he began. “Now, y’all are here to receive the news of who will inherit this manufacturing establishment here and the profits thereof which amount to the bulging sum of $20,000 dollars.” The vultures seemed to grow as they leant forward as if proving their worth as the rightful recipient. No one breathed as the southern lawyer continued. “First though, Walter wanted me to tell you a story about this book here.” As he revealed a small leather-bound pocket book there were some eye rolls that were quickly stifled once they remembered the prize that awaited them.

“When I was a young man I worked on cars, tinkered and played until I knew enough about engines to be the pioneer I am today. I worked with some great engineers and designers in my time, including a Mr James Wilson. He was driven, talented and the brightest man- white or negro- I ever knew. Now, years ago before the war we worked in neighbouring garages, we both wanted to build machines and he would write all his ideas in a little black book and dreamt of being the biggest car producer in the states. Thing was though he was black and ain’t nobody gonna buy cars off a black man, so I offered to help him out by pitching a few ideas to investors. But I grew jealous, he had the talent I had nothing, so I stole the book and built an empire from another man’s dream. Being on my deathbed, I have nothing left to lose and with the civil rights hubbub maybe now is the right time to make amends. That is why I’m returning this lil’ black book to young Jimmy and turning over the factory to him, I think it’s mighty swell he’s following in his daddy’s footsteps and I can rest easy knowing I did the Christian thing.”

There was a silence followed by screams of injustice, anguish and tears before I felt his son Walter Junior grab my collar and haul me against the wall. The lawyer calmly intervened, “Be careful Walter, son, Jimmy Wilson holds not only the most lucrative book in Detroit but has 20,000 reasons to kick your sorry keester outta his factory.”

I knew I had an almighty struggle on my hands to battle for acceptance with not only the white collars, suppliers and buyers. My ma damn near hit the floor when I told her, but she painted me a rusty sign reading ‘James Wilson & Sons Automotive Plant’ and told me to look up if I ever needed a nudge.