Blue Collar Blues Read Online Free PDF Page A

computer and put on her London Fog trench coat. With the contents of her future tucked between her breast and her armpit, Thyme left her office and headed down the hall toward the exit.
    Located just adjacent to the door leading outside to the parking lot was the ten-bay truck dock where they loaded and unloaded purchase parts. The heavy scent of gasoline was a constant reminder of where she worked: in an automobile plant.
    Ordinarily, plant managers were required to put in or be accessible for at least twelve hours daily. Today Thyme had worked thirteen. It was 6:01 P.M. when she backed her silver Presidio out of the spot bearing her rank and name: PLANT MANAGER—TYLER.
    As she drove toward Khan’s neighborhood on the west side of Detroit, Thyme’s thoughts ran back to the tour in the morning. Apparently, Allied was interested in having Troy Trim build the front seat components in their 1999 Pantheon sports car. Okay, but why Champion? Thyme knew that General Motors had already submitted a good bid for the same job. It didn’t make sense that Allied would also come to Champion.
    After Thyme purchased cookies for Khan, she called Cy at his office and then at home. He wasn’t at either. She’d try again later.
    It was dark as a thief’s pocket when she parked by the neighborhood party store close to Khan’s house. She could smell the thick fragrance of rain in the air the moment she stepped outside the car.
    Once inside the party store, she paused to view a new selection of wines: Medalla Real Private Reserve Cabernet and a Rodney Strong Sonoma County Chardonnay. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed two rough-looking men enter the store. Their eyes seemed riveted on her clothes and jewelry. Suddenly nervous, Thyme gave them a Don’t-fuck-with-me-today-boys stare until they finally turned away.
    Thyme purchased the Medalla and Rodney, a fifth of Chivas Regal for her husband, and also a bottle of ’92 Beringer Cabernet Sauvignon Private Reserve, her favorite, and left the store. The tension of tomorrow’s meeting had caused her body temperature to rise above normal. She could feel the edges of her neat wrap hairstyle rolling back like Buckwheat’s in the
Little Rascals.
    Slow down, girl. You don’t have time for a trip to the beauty parlor in the morning. And you know you can’t perm or hot-comb your own hair.
    Turning down Virginia Park where Khan lived, she could see half-dressed young men from fourteen to thirty running, cursing, and shouting along the lighted basketball court. It was a sight Thyme rarely saw in the suburbs, and it brought back memories of when she was in high school.
    Even though the evenings were cool for April, the sound of kids in the neighborhood seemed to warm the early spring air, and the excitement of the young voices was infectious. And as Thyme shut her car door, she breathed in the sweetening air and tried to let go of some of her heavy burden. Was she really going to be forty-five in August? Lately she felt as if she were turning sixty.
    With packages in hand, Thyme took a final glance over her shoulder at the young men playing pickup ball. Turning away, she climbed the short set of stairs and rang the doorbell.
    Khan opened the door, wearing the exact pair of pajamas that she had given Thyme for Christmas.
    “Hey, girl,” Thyme said, hugging Khan. She stood back and appraised her, then reached for her friend’s arm. “Are you still in pain?”
    “Naw. Just a little sleepy from the painkillers,” she said, yawning and beckoning Thyme inside. “Mmmm,” Khan said, grabbing the familiar red and white bag of Mrs. Fields cookies from Thyme’s hand. “I can smell the raisins and brown sugar.”
    “Good. Dig in. I need to make a call.” Thyme removed her coat and tossed it on the chair.
    Moving toward the small kitchen area, Thyme followed Khan and watched her count our four cookies and pour herself a glass of milk. When Thyme removed a bottle of wine from the other paper