Grace After Midnight_ A Memoir - Felicia Pearson [41]
Tell you the truth, I liked the assembly line. Had a rhythm, a definite groove. I liked the movement, liked seeing those auto parts dancing down the belt. It was sort of exciting.
I thought of Pop, the man who had me working next to him all during my childhood. Pop had taught me the value of hard work. He had shown me that I have a knack for making things and fixing things. Pop had given me the confidence that I was showing my foreman.
Foreman was impressed. He saw I was willing and capable of doing anything the men could do. He respected me.
I caught on quick. I could handle the speed of the assembly line in no time. I could handle placing the right parts in the right places. I could handle some of the guys looking at me like they wanted to say, “What’s this bitch doing here?”
After a day or two, I even made friends with some of the guys. Once they saw I could stand with them toe to toe, they gave me props.
I got to work early. Worked my ass off. Sometimes I didn’t even bother taking the breaks so I could get more work done.
I was on fire.
I wanted to shine.
I wanted to show everyone that I could hack it, I could do whatever they gave me to do.
At night, I went home tired, but it was a good tired. I’d go to sleep early and wake up at the crack of dawn, ready to go again.
“You sure are the eager beaver,” said Mama.
“I’m working on a promotion,” I said after I’d been there a short while. “Foreman says if I keep going the way I’m going, he could bump me up to an assembly line that pays a little more.”
“Just keep at it, baby,” Mama encouraged me. “I sure am proud of you.”
I was proud of myself.
The shit had sure-enough turned around.
The way a good rap has a good flow, well, my work life had a flow. I was making bumpers and I was making friends. I was seeing how the straight life was the good life. When you get off from eight hours of solid manual labor, when you don’t try to cut corners and give it your best, you feel good about yourself.
I was feeling great about myself.
“Snoop,” said the foreman one afternoon, “would you step into my office for a minute.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
Here’s that promotion, I thought.
“Snoop,” he said, “I gotta let you go.”
“What!”
“Got no choice.”
“I thought I was working out.”
“You were working out great.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Your jail record. They told me you served long time down in the pen.”
“I did,” I said, “but I never said I didn’t. It never came up in the interviews.”
“Well, it’s come up now.”
“And you can’t say nothing for me?”
“I said a lot of things for you, Snoop, but my boss overruled. He said you’re dealing with sharp metal down here, and with your record, that’s dangerous.”
“That’s bullshit. I ain’t hurting nobody. I ain’t even arguing with nobody. You seen me arguing?”
“Not once, but, like I said, Snoop, I don’t got the final say.”
“There ain’t no way to appeal this?”
“’Fraid not. They say you gotta clear outta here.”
“Today?”
“You’ll get paid for today, but I’ve been told to escort you out.”
“Like I’m a criminal,” I said, “like I done something terrible here on the job.”
“I don’t like it any more than you do, but that’s the way it is. All I can do is wish you luck.”
“I’ll need it.”
IF AT FIRST YOU
DON’T SUCCEED . . .
. . . try and try again.
That’s what Pop always said when we were making stuff together.
If I hammered a nail crooked or patched the roof wrong, Pop would say, “Getting it right takes time.”
Mama reminded me of that when I got home from being fired.
“Sure, you’re discouraged,” she said. “You can’t help but be. But hang in there. You did good at that job. You’ll do better on the next.”
Gotta confess that it took me a week or so to get my spirits back up. I had a big resentment to shake off. Back in the Cut, they had told me if I followed this program and took their advice, I’d work.
Well, I took their advice and got canned.
Getting fired makes you feel like shit. And especially after you break your ass to do a good job. Getting fired unfairly makes you mad.
But what could I do with my anger?