Lonely Crusade Read Online Free PDF Page B

a Los Angeles March morning remained, cold and depressing. They slopped through the puddles silently and turned into a bar and grill. As always, Lee suffered his moment of suspense over whether he would be refused service. But the bartender waved to Joe, and he became relaxed. They sat in a booth and ordered. The coffee went through Lee like a drug, sharpening his brain and refashioning the day with a more rounded perspective.
    Tilting the bottle to his mouth, Joe set it down empty and called to the bartender: “Send me two more; that was a boy.”
    Lee laughed dutifully. “Say, Joe,” he asked suddenly, “just who am I supposed to take orders from?”
    “From me,” Joe replied. “I’m the organizer.”
    But this was not what Lee wanted. He knew the general setup. The organizer was assigned by the national union to organize a shop. He was given full charge. But in the locality where he was to work, he could elicit the aid of the local union council, use its resources in the field and its assembly halls for union meetings. In this case, it had been Joe who had asked for help with the Negro workers. The union council had decided to hire a permanent Negro organizer to be used in turn by all locals within its membership.
    “What about the local officials? Todd? And Stone?” Lee wanted to know.
    “They’re to take orders from you. But who gives the orders and who takes ‘em ain’t what’s important.”
    “Well then, am I supposed to work with them? Or do I work alone?”
    “You work with everybody. It’s the rank and file that builds membership—the volunteers. No volunteers, no union. You get the volunteers. They’ll get the members.”
    “Oh, I can do that all right. I just wanted to know about Todd.”
    “To hell with him!” Joe said.
    Now Lee felt better. “I just wanted to know.”
    Joe gave him a penetrating look. “Forget it.” He dismissed it from the conversation and launched into the vital business: “Now let me define the issues for you. This is how it is. We got mostly new workers here—new to industry, that is. Most of ‘em are from the South, against the union on general principles. They been taught the union is a part of Russia; they believe what they read in the papers. On top of that, they’re making more money than they ever made. And they’re working under better conditions. The company keeps ‘em hopped up on patriotism. Some of ‘em are so ignorant they believe it’s treason to join the union. They got recreation rooms in the joint, bands to play while they eat; and they even have dances. Better’n an Irish picnic. They don’t even have to buy newspapers any more; the company gives ‘em one free— The Comstock Condor —you’ll see it. You read it and you’ll learn what a son of a bitch I am.”
    Lee laughed. Joe said: “This is dry talk,” and called to the bartender, “Make it two more.”
    Waiting until he was served, he tilted a bottle, emptying it, then went on: “There is a man named Foster.” At the mention of the name, a new quality came into his voice—respect underlined with bitter hatred. “If you want a job making twice as much as you do now, go over and tell ‘im you’re working for me.”
    “Looks like they got it in for you,” Lee commented.
    “But Foster don’t work like that. He gets the others to do the dirty work—the personnel officer, a little rat named Porter. To hear Foster tell it, he’s the best friend the union’s got.”
    “Oh, I thought he was the personnel director.”
    “He’s the executive vice-president in charge of production. That means he runs the joint. He’s a retired millionaire from back East. I used to work in his steel mill. He took over the job out here when the war broke out; I guess he owns a lot of stock. There was a piece of crap in the Condor saying: “…he talks softly and carries a big stick. I suppose he thinks he’s another Teddy Roosevelt. But the workers swear by him.
    “Now we can’t agitate.