to speak with him, and suggested he set aside a room so I could talk privately with some of ‘the boys’, who probably knew more about Calvin.
Forty-five minutes later, when I arrived at the factory, I was greeted like an old friend. Perry had an office up a flight of metal stairs, with windows on all sides, so that he could survey his people constantly.
The second I entered, he left his sentry box, and practically ran down the staircase towards me, hands outstretched in welcome. He must have been watching the door.
“Hi,” he shouted, before he got anywhere near me. “Hi there. Name’s Perry, Joe Perry. You can call me ‘Pez’, everybody does. Jesus, you been in a fight? That’s a pretty nice bruise you got there. I used to do a little boxing, you know.” He grabbed my hand and started pumping it up and down like he expected oil to come shooting out of the top of my head.
“Jake Abraham.” I said, quite meekly.
I was ushered through the huge factory, past acres of noisy machinery, and men in matching blue coveralls, to a small room containing a table and two chairs. The walls were lined with cardboard boxes, which, judging by the writing on the side, contained coffee. Nothing else. No choice of caf or decaf, no cocoa, or tea. Maybe they had different rooms for different drinks, but I doubted it. If they had a siege, they might starve to death, but they would certainly stay awake. Suddenly the reason for Pez’s exuberance became all too clear. As the manager, he probably sat in his treetop office all day watching the troops and drinking the coffee.
He motioned me to sit down behind the table, in the position of authority, and said he would send the boys in to speak to me, one by one. I wondered how many he had in mind.
“Mr Perry,” I said.
“Pez, please.”
“Pez,” I conceded. “Why don’t we start with you? Unless you’re busy.”
“No busier than I’m gonna be later on.” He almost sat down, but stopped himself when a thought occurred to him. “You want some coffee?”
“No, thanks.” I don’t drink coffee. Can’t stand the stuff.
“Mind if I get some?” He was an addict. I considered trying an intervention, but decided I didn’t know him well enough yet.
“Not at all.”
He opened the door to the small room, and yelled towards one of the coveralls.
“Hey Billy, get me a coffee, would you?… Huh?… No, just one.”
He walked over to one wall, and stared at the side of a box as if he was looking through a window. Before long he thought better of it and sat down in the chair opposite me. He began fidgeting immediately. I would have said he was hiding something, but I figured it was just the DTs. “So, dreadful thing about Cal, huh? Just tell me what I can do to help.”
“Perhaps you can begin by telling me what Calvin did here, exactly.”
“Well Jake, ...can I call you Jake?” I nodded. “Cal was a line manager.”
“Which means...?”
“He was in charge of about thirty machinists. His team mostly makes the stringers on the spiral plastic zippers.”
I had know idea what that meant, and was still deciding whether or not to ask, when Pez decided to tell me.
“Lot of different processes go into making a zipper, Jake. Zippers have been made here in Chicago for over a hundred years – they were invented here. Most of the production’s in China and Japan these days, but we still produce over 7 million zippers a day right here. Cal and his team run the machines that make the stringers – that’s the tape and teeth that make up half a zipper.”
“Had he done that long?”
“He started out as a machinist himself. Eight years, he stuck at it. He was a Union Rep. for a while, then he got promoted, and he’s been a line manager going on four years.”
“So, he was here for a while, then.” Loyal, I wondered, or unambitious? “You know anyone who might have had a grudge against him?”
Pez smiled. “A fairly long list of jealous husbands and boyfriends,
Forty-five minutes later, when I arrived at the factory, I was greeted like an old friend. Perry had an office up a flight of metal stairs, with windows on all sides, so that he could survey his people constantly.
The second I entered, he left his sentry box, and practically ran down the staircase towards me, hands outstretched in welcome. He must have been watching the door.
“Hi,” he shouted, before he got anywhere near me. “Hi there. Name’s Perry, Joe Perry. You can call me ‘Pez’, everybody does. Jesus, you been in a fight? That’s a pretty nice bruise you got there. I used to do a little boxing, you know.” He grabbed my hand and started pumping it up and down like he expected oil to come shooting out of the top of my head.
“Jake Abraham.” I said, quite meekly.
I was ushered through the huge factory, past acres of noisy machinery, and men in matching blue coveralls, to a small room containing a table and two chairs. The walls were lined with cardboard boxes, which, judging by the writing on the side, contained coffee. Nothing else. No choice of caf or decaf, no cocoa, or tea. Maybe they had different rooms for different drinks, but I doubted it. If they had a siege, they might starve to death, but they would certainly stay awake. Suddenly the reason for Pez’s exuberance became all too clear. As the manager, he probably sat in his treetop office all day watching the troops and drinking the coffee.
He motioned me to sit down behind the table, in the position of authority, and said he would send the boys in to speak to me, one by one. I wondered how many he had in mind.
“Mr Perry,” I said.
“Pez, please.”
“Pez,” I conceded. “Why don’t we start with you? Unless you’re busy.”
“No busier than I’m gonna be later on.” He almost sat down, but stopped himself when a thought occurred to him. “You want some coffee?”
“No, thanks.” I don’t drink coffee. Can’t stand the stuff.
“Mind if I get some?” He was an addict. I considered trying an intervention, but decided I didn’t know him well enough yet.
“Not at all.”
He opened the door to the small room, and yelled towards one of the coveralls.
“Hey Billy, get me a coffee, would you?… Huh?… No, just one.”
He walked over to one wall, and stared at the side of a box as if he was looking through a window. Before long he thought better of it and sat down in the chair opposite me. He began fidgeting immediately. I would have said he was hiding something, but I figured it was just the DTs. “So, dreadful thing about Cal, huh? Just tell me what I can do to help.”
“Perhaps you can begin by telling me what Calvin did here, exactly.”
“Well Jake, ...can I call you Jake?” I nodded. “Cal was a line manager.”
“Which means...?”
“He was in charge of about thirty machinists. His team mostly makes the stringers on the spiral plastic zippers.”
I had know idea what that meant, and was still deciding whether or not to ask, when Pez decided to tell me.
“Lot of different processes go into making a zipper, Jake. Zippers have been made here in Chicago for over a hundred years – they were invented here. Most of the production’s in China and Japan these days, but we still produce over 7 million zippers a day right here. Cal and his team run the machines that make the stringers – that’s the tape and teeth that make up half a zipper.”
“Had he done that long?”
“He started out as a machinist himself. Eight years, he stuck at it. He was a Union Rep. for a while, then he got promoted, and he’s been a line manager going on four years.”
“So, he was here for a while, then.” Loyal, I wondered, or unambitious? “You know anyone who might have had a grudge against him?”
Pez smiled. “A fairly long list of jealous husbands and boyfriends,
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