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Jackson’s Ghost

Jim Meirose

    Crowley sat at his desk in the warehouse each day assiduously working—but working for what? To get yet another stack of orders dropped into his inbox? It was as bad as being out on the floor picking orders or packing orders. What am I doing this for? The orders kept coming one after the other. Each order required his undivided attention. He carefully added up the rows of figures and checked out the codes and descriptions on the orders and then he put the order into the out box. There was always a full in box. There were orders bursting at the seams to be worked. He had no one to talk to, no one to bitch to. Just his little desk in the corner by the door to the computer room where they printed the orders. And then Jackson would come up and take them out of the out box and take them up to the picking line. He wondered why, if these were produced by computer, there was so much manual adding of columns and looking up codes for each total in the big reference book he had by him—why couldn’t that all be done by computer? He asked Jackson one time.
    Then you’d be out of a job, said Jackson.
    But surely there’s other work in here I could do—
    Oh sure, said the small black man—you could buggylug cases up to the line, you could stand and pack all day at a packing station—at least you got a sit-down union job. The only one in the place. Be glad you got it. Plus you’re a level twelve. That’s the highest level you can get to in the union.
    But that’s just it. I could take a job outside the union.
    They’d never offer you one. Once you’re in the union here—tell me. You ever file a grievance with the shop steward?
    Yes.
    Well, that blackballs you. They’ll never make you management. That’s how it is.
    But this job—
    But this job nothing! Be glad you have it. It’s the best union job in the place.
    With that Jackson scooped up the finished orders from the outbox and rushed away toward the picking line where he would give out the orders to the pickers and the customer orders would begin to be filled.
    That night he told his wife.
    I’m disgusted with my job.
    It sounds like you’ve got a good job to me.
    Well—it stinks. I don’t know how much more of it I can take. I get headaches—and eyestrain—and I bring home no money—
    But—I work too, she said. There’s enough—
    That’s it. You work. I don’t want you to have to work. I want to pull my own weight myself.
    Be glad you have the job, she said. You make enough. Between the two of us, we make plenty.
    Yah. Plenty.
    The weeks went by and he was more and more disgusted with the job but he reached a ceiling of disgust, above which he could never go, the way he could never hope to be anything more than a level twelve. Then one day he came in and there was a large long crate by the door of the computer room.
    What’s in the box, he asked Jackson.
    Computer. Improved over the other one. Guess what?
    What?
    Your job is going to go away. This new computer will do what you do and they’ll deliver the orders straight to me.
    A chill rose up in him from his soles to his bald head.
    But what will I do, he asked Jackson.
    I don’t know. One of these other jobs in the warehouse I suppose. You’ll take a downgrade though. You’re the only level twelve.
    Shit, he said to Jackson. I can barely get by on this twelve salary—you mean I’m going to make even less?
    Seems so, said Jackson. Then he scooped up the orders and headed for the picking line.
    Crowley got up. He would go see Panko about this. Panko was the foreman. Panko would know what they planned for him. He left his busy desk and went across the floor and over the green steel bridge spanning the conveyor belts and went to the glass house. Panko sat reading a magazine and he closed it over and tucked it into the newspaper when he saw Crowley coming.
    Porn, thought Crowley. Must be porn.
    Crowley, said Panko. What do you want?
    I see they got a new computer. Jackson says it’ll do away with my job.
    What? That? Naaaaah.
    What do you mean naaaah—
    We can’t do away with your job.
    Why?
    Your stupid union won’t let us. It says in the contract we got to make a new job for you at the same level if yours goes away.
    What’s stupid about that?
    It’s just stupid—but I think I’ve already decided, said Panko, fisting the desk. Jackson, he said—I’ve been thinking maybe we should get rid of him and have you give the orders to the pickers that come from the new computer—
    Crowley’s hands grew cold.
    Get rid of him? But I don’t want to be responsible for somebody being got rid of—
    Panko sat back.
    Somebody has to go—and your union contract says it can’t be you. So we get rid of a management peon. Happens all the time—
    As he said this Panko produced a banana from a wrinkled bag and began to slowly peel it.
    —that’s the only thing I can think of. In this business you got to be tough. It takes a tough man to get rid of someone. Don’t you think so Crowley.
    Yes. Very tough man—
    So go back to your desk. No doubt the orders are piling up.
    Crowley went back to his desk. He considered Jackson as he watched the small black man putter around his desk next to the picking line. He didn’t know if Jackson had a family or not. Jackson came up to get the orders from the outbox. Crowley asked him.
    Say Jackson you married?
    No—never found a woman I thought I could get along with for the rest of my life.
    Oh—so no wife, no kids—
    Well. One kid. Me and my girlfriend have a kid she lives with me—
    Crowley’s heart sank.
    Does she work.
    Oh yes.
    Where?
    Prudential.
    Prudential.
    Yeah. She checks out brochures and other literature the company puts out. She’s a proof reader.
    Proofreader? Does she make a lot?
    About what I make. Maybe a little more.
    Do you have a house?
    No, an apartment—say why all the questions?
    Oh—I don’t know. I was just curious.
    That night Crowley spoke to his wife.
    Panko is thinking of replacing Jackson with me.
    Replacing Jackson—but that’s a non-union job—
    I know. But the big shots would make it a union job and my job would be to give the orders to the pickers, and to answer the phone.
    Answer the phone?
    Yeah. That’s something else Jackson does. I guess I would do everything Jackson does.
    Then what would happen to Jackson?
    Crowley wrung his hands.
    He’d be out the door. I don’t want that to happen, Claire.
    Well—maybe Panko will think of something else. Don’t brood over it.
    Okay.
    That night, after Crowley was in bed, Jackson’s ghost came and sat on the edge of the bed, and woke Crowley up.
    Crowley, said Jackson.
    What? You—what are you doing here—
    He sat up frightened. His wife slept on. The ghost raised a hand.
    Oh I’m not really here. Don’t worry. I’m just—I guess you could say I’m in your mind. Just what are you and Panko up to?
    Crowley was raised to be honest.
    Panko’s thinking about getting rid of you and making your job a level twelve union job, which then I would do.
    What? Panko can’t get rid of me—we’re equals—
    Well I guess somebody up front has the idea. One of the big shots.
    Well what a kick in the ass this is!
    The ghost stood up straight and glowed brighter in the dark.
    Crowley shook his head and raised his hands.
    No, no—they wouldn’t actually get rid of you. You’d—you’d get an office job up front. That’s what Panko said. Yeah, he said that.
    Crowley bit his tongue to punish it for the lie he’d just told.
    Well I’ve got a real problem with Panko talking about me like this to you. Nobody’s said anything to me about it—
    I felt you needed to know the truth.
    I appreciate that.
    The ghost suddenly shrank down to an intense pinpoint of light and disappeared. The next thing Crowley knew, was the alarm clock was ringing. All that day he sat at his desk in the corner working and watching Jackson hustle back and forth with orders and answer the phone. He woke this morning thinking it had been just a bad dream—there are no such things as ghosts—and plus; ghosts are of dead people. Live people don’t have ghosts. He added up column after column of numbers and wrote down description after description and shuffled endlessly through the codes and descriptions book to look them up—and he got through the day and no one came that day to unpack the new computer and he thought he’d ask Jackson about it.
    Jackson came up to get a sheaf of orders from the outbox.
    Jackson, said Crowley.
    What?
    When are they going to hook up this new computer?
    They’re coming in to do the work next week, answered Jackson with a straight face. After that’s done, I guess you’ll be out of a job.
    Crowley bit his tongue.
    That night, in bed, Jackson’s ghost came to see him again.
    Guess what, said the ghost.
    What?
    They’re going to give me a cushy supervisor’s job up front. I’ll be in charge of all the data entry girls. They’re going to get rid of Frankie to make room for me.
    Get rid of Frankie—who’s Frankie?
    He’s the supervisor now. They’re going to transfer him to the big plant in town. It’ll be a big promotion for him. See? Everything will work out for everybody.
    How do you know this?
    Because I’m a ghost. I see and know everything—
    Like God.
    Sort of. But I can’t create things like God, and I don’t have hundreds of angels and cherubs and what not sucking up to me all day like God does.
    With that, the ghost shrank down to the same pinpoint of light it had last night and disappeared with a flicker and again, the alarm clock rang, waking Crowley up. Later on driving to the plant, Crowley was shaken. The same kind of weird dream two nights in a row—he must be thinking about all this too much. When he got in he saw there were two men in white shirts taking the cardboard box off the new computer. Today was Friday. Crowley spoke to Jackson.
    I thought they weren’t going to start working on that until next week.
    Oh they’re just unpacking it. The real work starts Monday.
    Good.
    Good? Why is it good. You’ll be out of a job—
    Crowley smiled dimly and sat at his desk and pulled the first order.
    Idiot, he thought. Damned fool idiot.
    That night at dinner Crowley spoke to his wife, who had made a big ham for them to eat. Between bites he spoke to her.
    I can’t wait until they get that computer hooked up and do away with my job.
    Oh?
    Right. I can’t wait to get Jackson’s job.
    Have you actually been told they were going to give you Jackson’s job?
    Well—Panko mentioned it—
    But have they officially told you.
    No.
    Well then don’t count your chickens before they are hatched.
    What? Why?
    Because you can’t trust anybody in management. I know that. I’ve got a management job and I know how I am. You can’t trust me!
    Crowley’s face fell a moment until he realized she was kidding.
    They laughed. That night in bed Crowley was once more visited by the ghost of Jackson.
    Crowley, said the ghost.
    Crowley rolled over to face the ghost.
    What now.
    We’re screwed, said the ghost. We’re all screwed.
    What do you mean screwed.
    They—they are going to fire me.
    Fire you?
    Crowley half sat up.
    Yes—they don’t even have to give you a reason when you’re management—they can get rid of you just like that—and they’re doing it to me—all because of you and your god damned level twelve—
    But I thought that Frankie guy was going to get promoted and move to the plant in the city to make an opening for you to take up front supervising the girls—
    The promotion fell through, said the ghost with a sneer.
    Well maybe they should get rid of Frankie—who’s got more years—
    When you’re management seniority doesn’t mean anything, said the ghost. And guess what else.
    What ?
    The ghost’s eyes suddenly bugged out, and he spoke excitedly.
    Just wait! You’ll see. The big shots will dream up something good and rotten for you. You can’t trust us management types. I can tell you that now without getting into trouble, because I’m a ghost. I don’t really exist—
    But they’ll dream up something good and rotten!
    Like make you management and then fire you!
    Crowley’s jaw dropped.
    Ha ha ha ha—
    With that the ghost once more shrank down to a pinpoint of light and vanished.
    The weekend went by uneventfully. Crowley tried to keep things about work out of his mind. He worked odd jobs around the house to help him forget the dream. By the time Monday morning came, he felt better.
    When he got to his desk he saw that the computer had been unpacked. It was just a long blue box with some wires attached. It said IBM on it. Three electricians were working in the computer room getting ready to set it up. A few men with white shirts and clipboards milled around too. Crowley started to work. Jackson came up.
    Panko wants to see you Crowley.
    Panko?
    That’s what I said. And I saw Massingill, the plant manager over Panko, go into Panko’s office too. He’s in there now—
    And they want to see me?
    Yep.
    Crowley started out toward Panko’s office and figured this was it, he was going to be told he had Jackson’s job as a level twelve. He really hoped they weren’t going to fire Jackson. He went and knocked on the door of Panko’s office. Massingill sat to the side in a tight suit. As Crowley sat down he suddenly felt very, very guilty about Jackson. He just knew Jackson was going to get the boot—
    Mister Panko, said Crowley. What did you want to see me for.
    It’s really me who wanted to see you, said Massingill.
    Crowley swallowed hard.
    How would you like to join the management team? asked Massingill.
    Crowley’s mouth hung open.
    What? he breathed.
    —how did the ghost know this how did it know—
    —they’ll make you management and then fire you—
    Massingill went on telling him what their plans were for him.
    We’ve got a vacancy up front in the ordering department. You’d be in charge of twenty data entry girls. There would be two supervisors under you to manage all the day to day work. Your job would be to manage those supervisors—
    Crowley tried to listen but he heard different words.
    —they’ll make you management and then fire you—
    Crowley swallowed hard.
    I can’t believe this, he muttered, the blood drained from his face. This can’t be—I—I dreamt about this—
    Dreamt about it? said Massingill—well your dreams are about to come true.
    Right, said Panko, smiling.
    So what do you say? asked Massingill.
    —and then fire you—
    Crowley struggled to focus on Massingill. He thought of something intelligent to say, as he shook his head to get the ghost’s words out of his mind.
    Ah—uh—what does it pay?
    About twice what you’re making now, said Panko. Massingill nodded.
    Crowley felt he’d been fisted hard in the gut. He remembered the conversation he had had with Claire about his job.
    —well—it stinks. I don’t know how much more of it I can take. I get headaches—and eyestrain—and I bring home no money—
    But—I work too, she said. There’s enough—
    That’s it. You work. I don’t want you to have to work. I want to pull my own weight myself—
    Now he would be able to, if he took this. His stomach swam.
    Can I think about it? he asked.
    Nope, said Massingill, folding his arms. You got to tell us now.
    Panko sat forward with his elbows on his desk looking intently into Crowley’s eyes.
    —they’ll make you management and then fire you—
    —but now I’d be able to pull my own weight—
    —they’ll fire you—
    —you’ll pull your weight—
    Then Claire appeared before him, smiling having been told about all this. And then it hit him! The answer—it had been a ghost that had told him they’d fire him—and ghosts aren’t real—he had just imagined the whole thing—God how could I have been so paranoid, he thought—this is all just a coincidence—those dreams were just some kind of weird premonition; words came from his mouth.
    I’ll take it!
    Are you sure?
    Yes.
    Claire stood behind Massingill smiling. Panko rose and pushed a piece of paper that’d been lying on the desk toward Crowley, and handed him a pen.
    Good. Good decision—now you’ll have to sign this.
    What’s this?
    You’re agreeing to quit the union and become management. Here. Take the pen. Sign by the X there on that line—
    His hand shook. He took the pen.
    Ghosts aren’t real—
    Claire smiled.
    He bent down to the desk. He put the pen on the line.
    Ghosts aren’t real—
    Claire smiled.
    He signed. He signed, and he half-threw the pen down on the desk.
    Now I will pull my weight.
    Now I will—
    Massingill rocked back and forth.
    Well congratulations, said Panko—welcome to management!
    And now, Crowley, we’ve got something else to tell you—
    Yes, said Panko. Something else—
    What?
    And after they told him, he stumbled from the office numb, fumbling for his car keys, having just learned something very, very profound.

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