Trash Talking

Go get the salt . I'll wait right here. My pride didn't get in the way of the right action on that cold morning. I followed the instructions that the shop steward bellowed at me without a second thought. Before I set the alarm clock the night before, I knew there would be ice around all of the entrances that morning. Freezing rain the night before left a real mess for us to deal with, and the persistent gale force winds in the port of Newark didn't show any signs of letting up. It was pitch black when I made it to the office that day, and as I suspected, the asphalt ramp leading to the employee's locker room was slick with ice. It was Robert, the shop steward who knew the contract better than I, any lawyer, or union representative, the man who distrusted me, the company, the government, and just about everyone else, helping the elderly employees navigate the ice in front of the entrance. As he promised, he stayed right there, making sure no one slipped, ...

It took a few minutes for my eyes to get used to the dim lighting in the recycling plant. It was dusty and slightly rancid and there was a cacophony of conveyors, trucks, and loaders. The first time I walked through that paper recycling plant I was intimidated to say the least. I had been hired to run this place. What did I get myself into? I knew landfills and transfer stations and garbage, and ran great facilities in Florida, but what did I know about managing a recycling plant on the wintry East River in Brooklyn? I looked at the men sorting material flying past on the conveyors and they stared back at me, stone faced behind their dust masks, safety glasses, hard hats, bundled against the frigid cold. At my previous post, I was used to solicitous smiles and a friendly greeting from my employees. I worked with the same people for many years, knew their wives and kids, and prided myself on my flexibility when it came to their needs. The hardest part was when they request...