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By Root 1318 0

IBP views the rural communities where it operates. Would there be much turnover among workers at the new IBP plant, someone asked. Once the slaughterhouse was running, an IBP executive replied, it would have a stable workforce. “Ninety percent of our people,” he said, “or 80 percent will be fairly stable.” Would local people be hired for these jobs, someone else asked. “We will not bring in an hourly workforce,” the IBP executive promised. A local IBP booster, who had just returned from a visit to the company’s slaughterhouse in Emporia, Kansas, suggested there was little reason to worry about the “type of people” the plant might attract or the potential for increased crime. He said that in Emporia, apparently, “they work them so hard at IBP that they’re tired and they go home and go to bed.” An IBP executive, a vice president of public relations, confirmed that assessment. “And people who work on our lines work hard,” he told the gathering. “As the chief of police [in Emporia] said, they go home at night and go to bed rather than carouse around town.” Another IBP executive, a vice president of engineering, assured the audience that the new plant in Lexington would not foul the air. No odor would be noticeable, he promised, even “a few feet away” from the plant. In any event, the smell emitted by slaughterhouse lagoons would be “sweet,” not objectionable. And the smell from the slaughterhouse itself, the IBP vice president said, would be “no different than that which you produce in your kitchen when you cook.”

8/ the most dangerous job

ONE NIGHT I VISIT a slaughterhouse somewhere in the High Plains. The slaughterhouse is one of the nation’s largest. About five thousand head of cattle enter it every day, single file, and leave in a different form. Someone who has access to the plant, who’s upset by its working conditions, offers to give me a tour. The slaughterhouse is an immense building, gray and square, about three stories high, with no windows on the front and no architectural clues to what’s happening inside. My friend gives me a chain-mail apron and gloves, suggesting I try them on. Workers on the line wear about eight pounds of chain mail beneath their white coats, shiny steel armor that covers their hands, wrists, stomach, and back. The chain mail’s designed to protect workers from cutting themselves and from being cut by other workers. But knives somehow manage to get past it. My host hands me some Wellingtons, the kind of knee-high rubber boots that English gentlemen wear in the countryside. “Tuck your pants into the boots,” he says. “We’ll be walking through some blood.”

I put on a hardhat and climb a stairway. The sounds get louder, factory sounds, the noise of power tools and machinery, bursts of compressed air. We start at the end of the line, the fabricating room. Workers call it “fab.” When we step inside, fab seems familiar: steel catwalks, pipes along the walls, a vast room, a maze of conveyer belts. This could be the Lamb Weston plant in Idaho, except hunks of red meat ride the belts instead of french fries. Some machines assemble cardboard boxes, others vacuum-seal subprimals of beef in clear plastic. The workers look extremely busy, but there’s nothing unsettling about this part of the plant. You see meat like this all the time in the back of your local supermarket.

The fab room is cooled to about 40 degrees, and as you head up the line, the feel of the place starts to change. The pieces of meat get bigger. Workers — about half of them women, almost all of them young and Latino — slice meat with long slender knives. They stand at a table that’s chest high, grab meat off a conveyer belt, trim away fat, throw meat back on the belt, toss the scraps onto a conveyer belt above them, and then grab more meat, all in a matter of seconds. I’m now struck by how many workers there are, hundreds of them, pressed close together, constantly moving, slicing. You see hardhats, white coats, flashes of steel. Nobody is smiling or chatting, they’re too busy, anxiously trying not to fall behind. An old man walks