Page 48 - WTP Vol. X #5

War & Peace in the Window Factory
Not what Tyler Bentley expected. His father’s old university chum, Charles Acton, now the senior vice president at the Midvale Window Corporation, had promised Tyler a summer job. Tyler assumed it would be something in the company’s front office. Af- ter all, Tyler was a rising sophomore (class of 1956) at prestigious Wilherst College. Convinced university people held a patent on wisdom; he described him- self as committed to the life of the mind. He’d intend- ed to spend the summer reading and, well, thinking about things. Tyler applied for the job only to placate his father who had declared it time Tyler “learned to do some real work.”
A brown-eyed, lanky nineteen-year-old, Tyler some- how convinced himself that puffing on a pipe en- hanced his contemplative image. Tyler was bright but lazy and self-centered. In fact, conceit embraced him like an intimate friend. The only physical activity he’d counted on for the summer had possibly been a few sets of tennis at the Club. So, when the personnel offi- cer phoned to offer him a laborer’s job on the factory floor—a night shift at that—Tyler did not react well. He groused to his father, a physician at the Midvale Family Clinic.
“But, Dad, I’m not really good with my hands. And I was hoping...”
Seated in his paneled home study, Dr. Bentley, a well- knit, middle-aged man, sent his son a spare me look. “You were hoping for something soft where you wouldn’t have to get them dirty.”
“That’s not true. It’s just that I think I’d be more suited to being some kind of assistant in the front office.”
“Look, Tyler. You avoided doing anything last sum- mer. Not this time. A job that makes you sweat a little will do you good. Might even give you a sense of how I started.”
Oh, God, Tyler thought. That again; the old up from the ranks story. He’d endured the mantra a hundred times.
“The job is exactly what I asked Charlie to arrange,” his father went on. “Anyway, Tyler, it’s only for twelve weeks. I think you can handle that, don’t you?”
“I’d planned to read War and Peace.” 41
“I’m sure you and Tolstoy can work it out.” ~
Tyler maneuvered his Thunderbird into the parking area at four in the afternoon. There must have been a hundred or more cars. Like denizens of a used car lot, beat-up Fords, Chevies, and Oldsmobiles occu- pied row on row of white-lined spaces. Topped at intervals by rectangular glass skylights, a complex of flat-roofed white buildings lay directly before him. The factory impressed him as bigger, much bigger, than he had anticipated.
The sky overcast and the air heavy, rain seemed im- minent. Jags of lightning scampered across the dis- tant sky. Not an auspicious beginning. Tyler slid out from behind the wheel, slammed the door behind him, and trudged toward the main entrance. Khakis and button-downs had given place to a tee shirt, jeans and a ball cap. About to step onto a new stage with new actors, Tyler felt his confidence falter. It occurred to him he really didn’t know any blue collar people. How were you supposed to relate to them, anyway?
A forty-year-old assistant named Conway ushered Tyler into the personnel office. Tyler eyed the man’s tie—too short and obviously a clip-on. Conway seated him at a table and outlined the company’s organization. He also described the profit-sharing system; unfortunately, summer help didn’t qualify for a share. He then issued Tyler a timecard.
lawrenCe F. Farrar