It is the middle of July. It’s nine o’clock in the morning and already the air is thick, it has to be forced into the lungs with hard deep breaths.  The sun reflects off the pavement leaving no pour in the body refuge from the heat.  It is only a few steps from the car to the door of the building, but perspiration already pours from the skin.  

 

Stepping inside the building, not much relief is found.  The air-conditioning is broken and the long steel, glass, and brick structure acts like an oven.  The shirt on my back is now fully soaked.

 

This is Atlantic Design Corporation’s (ADC) building #139, the cable warehouse of the company.  One of ADC’s main contracts is with IBM and #139 is now handling a major job for the Fishkill plant.

 

Walking through the door, one finds corridors made of crates, which run width-wise across the building.  An Aisle is created length-wise which leads to the heart of the head office.  Inside, Brian Foster sits at his desk, his feet propped up on the clutter. Barking orders onto the phone, he stares out the large plexiglass window, which allows him to see the whole plant. 

 

“I need four more guys down here!... What do you mean no?!  Look I’m at least a week behind as it is!... NOs, one won’t do!!...(sigh)...Yes, I’ll settle for three, but they better be here by lunch!!” The phone crashes to the receiver blocking out the muttered swearing.

 

At first glance, Brian would appear to be a young Kris Kringle.  He is short, about 5’6”,  thinning red hair and a bright red mustache.  His wide brown tie sits on a large paunch tightly canvassed by his white shirt.  His smile is the only thing that doesn’t fit.  His teethy grin rests uneasily on his cherub face. 

 

He rises to greet me.  As we shake hands, his large soft hands engulf mine.

 

“Welcome to #139, son.  Let me show you around.”  His Georgian Accent bleeds through his years of working in the North.

 

We walk out of his office onto the floor, it is very active.  The week behind on the deadline has caused hysteria.

 

“Here at #139, we handle external computer cables.”  He holds up a long blue cable.  The external computer cable is about ½ an inch in diameter, the cables come in different lengths, and at each end is a connector.  “The connector module takes twenty thin wires which make up the cable and divides them so the proper junction can be made.” 

 

He gave a brief description of the warehouse and its function.  He then introduced me to Sam Whitman, the warehouse Foreman.  Sam’s strong black hand shakes mine firmly.  I can tell by the calluses on his hand that he has seen much more hard work than Brian, and he probably knows more about the job than Brian too.

As we walk around the warehouse, Sam explains each step the cables go through in the factory.  

 

“If you have any questions just ask,” he says with a smile.  It is easy to see why the other workers like Sam so much.

 

The cables are shipped in from #107 and #169.  They are unloaded through the back of the warehouse on the right side.  After the cables are unloaded and unpacked, tagged and logged.  The serial number, the type of cable, and the length of the cable are put on file for later use.  The cable is stored in the corridors of crates that I had first walked passed.  The cable is logged according to it’s type and length.

 

Pat, who recently arrived in this country from Jamaica, is nineteen.  He is in charge of Logging.  He climbs through the stacks of crates as if he were playing on a jungle gym.  

“I like da wo’k, it’s betta’ ‘dan wo’king up front. Ya gyet to move ‘round more.  So de day goes quicka’.”

 

The cables are stored in the crates until needed, then the cables are pulled and brought to cleaning.  The cables are cleaned with TMS, a Freon based solvent which removes and foreign from the outer rubber coating of the cable.  The laws require that anyone handling TMS must be over eighteen, so most of the older workers do the cleaning.

 

After the cables are cleaned they are visually and electronically tested for defects.  Woody, who runs the electronic station, is a heavy metal fan, who uses his long hair to conceal his headphones.

“Man there is no way I could get through the day without my tunes.  The day would just drag on if I couldn’t listen to Metallica,” he says with a laugh. 

 

The cables are then brought to the labeling area.  The cables receive a label, a 3 x 5 sticker, which tells the cable type, length and if it’s an old or new, some cables are on their second time around.

 

Carla, a red-headed woman in her mid-forties is an experienced labeler.  

“You have to be very careful, the label has to be wrapped around the cable just so, “ She demonstrates the proper technique.  “It has to look like a cylinder was placed around the cable, you shouldn’t be able to see the seam at all … You can only put the label on once so it has to be right the first time.”  She takes a certain pride in her work, she has 110% efficiency record.  On her table are taped four photographs. The first three are individual portraits of her three children, two boys and a girl.  The fourth is a family portrait of all four of them together.

 

As we walked away from the labeling department, I asked Sam how much the workers earned.

“Most of them earn $4.00 an hour with benefits after six months of employment.  But those that have been around longer and are more important to the company, like Woody and Carla, earn $5.50 an hour plus benefits” 

 

The cables then go through final inspection and are packed for shipping.  A stroll through the shipping dock will show some very impressive addresses; NASA: Houston, Texas, US Navy: Norfolk, Virginia, and the Pentagon: Washington, D.C.  The workers must sign a release form which will not let them discuss government projects, a reminder of how important their work is.

 

When the tour concludes, Sam answers a few remaining questions.  I thank him for the tour and he directs me toward the exit.  As I leave, Sam fires up the fork lift and unloads more cables to be unpacked. 

 

The bright light of the sun blinds me as I step out of the building.  As I head for the car all I can think about is Carla.  How can a single mother raise three kids on $5.50 plus benefits.    

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                                                                                                 Submitted February 27th, 1989