Tuesday, April 21, 2015

Hello, Is It Me You're Looking For?

I grew up in a proud union home. My father retired (earlier than he had hoped) with 35 years at the steel mill. It was ingrained in my head that unions were good - they helped the common man, they stood up for you, they brought you baskets around the holidays, they were who we voted for. It was our bread and butter, as it was explained.

When my father was laid off when I was younger, the union was always there for us. When I was a little girl, one of the union workers snuck me in one year later than I should have been allowed for the Christmas party because he didn't want me to feel left out. I won a bike that year. I also donated the bike back that same year and left with a stuffed animal. My parents raised me right, don't worry. The point is - we have always been union proud.

Stick with me, I swear it pertains.

Yesterday, my mother and I were discussing people communicating with us after they die. Not that we are having tea parties with my father or anything. But it would be nice. I know my mother feels the same way. This isn't, however, Ghost - and we don't even own a pottery wheel. So there is little to no chance that Whoopie Goldberg stars in our Made-For-Lifetime-Movie that we call a life.

Fast forward to my proof that Murphy's Law exists day.

I was headed to an event for work (late as it was) when I got a message saying: Ooops, I added an extra 1 when I sent you that invite - it starts at 1 pm not 11 am. I was on the highway. I turned around, headed back to the office and then started out a bit later. With just enough time to spare, my GPS took me what I can only describe as the "You have spent so much time by Arcellor Mittal this afternoon, I think you work here now" route to Whiting. I wind through the mill area, and get stuck by a train.

Not just any train, have you. A train that was being pulled by a turtle. With a heart condition. In a wheelchair. Missing an arm. Seriously, it was that slow.

I text my apologies to my co-worker. Seriously, she gets major kudos for not harassing me when I finally showed up with my story in all its glory. And I sit. I wait. I think back to the conversation my mother and I had. And I think: seriously, Dad. No pottery wheel needed, but you could make a softball fall off a shelf or something so we know you're still around. I laugh. I finally start moving again.

I decide (not really, I follow my GPS (too) religiously) to then wind around by the BP refinery. I see some of the union workers still out picketing at a stop light. I wave. I think how my Dad would be baffled this is still going on. I move on to another stop light. And then I get stuck behind a truck that weaves suddenly, leaving me no option but to run over a small lightweight plastic container.

...it's not a small plastic container. It's huge. It's hard plastic. And it's making a noise that I can only liken to someone trying to escape the bowels of hell. And now my car smells like melting plastic. I continue for less than a mile, thinking this small (it wasn't) container will pop out. When it doesn't, I pull over, put on my hazards and watch about a million people look irritated at me as they speed around me. I apologize, of course, for my tragic moment interrupting their very busy lives. Or not. Seriously, is there a fire somewhere I don't know about?

I calmly assess what is happening and I think - well, I'm glad I'm calm. But now what? I do that thing where you lean over and look at something that's beyond repair and try to think about a solution. I stand up. I bend down again. And I think - this is when I need a Dad. So I can call him and say, meet me by the refinery. And bring a stick. But I don't have that luxury. So instead, I lean down one more time, I get in my car. I try reversing. This must work, right? No. Not even a budging of the container.

I get out again, intent on just leaning over and staring as I mentally run through what may be in my car that can help. Hairbrush? No. Hand sanitizer? Nope. Six hairties around my gear shift? Probably not. Damn these t-rex length arms of mine. I have floss. I have paperclips. I watched MacGuyver at least once - I can do this, right? Suddenly from down the street, at the corner, an older man starts moving towards me. A union guy, picketing at another street corner. He is waving. I flash the "Hi, I am an idiot. Yes, my parents taught me better than this" nervous smile that you all know and wave. He proceeds to get down on the ground and come to the same assessment I have. It is stuck. I know this because I leaned down and looked at least 10 times myself. He tries a stick on the side of the road. It won't move. "One second, I can fix it!" He runs off to the end of the street and returns with one of the big wooden sticks from their picket signs. He has to lie down on the ground and forcefully hit the container 20-1,000 times by my account and it comes out.

"Thanks," I say. "I'm so sorry. It was starting to smell like burning plastic"

He holds up the plastic container and shows me where it's starting to melt as if to say "Well, because it is burning plastic" And assures me it's no problem and takes off.

I get back into my car, turn off the hazards and take a deep breath. And that's when the radio starts to come through. I no longer hear the "AAAH" in my head but the soft soothing sounds of Lionel Richie asking me if it's him I'm looking for. No. But I was looking for my Dad. I found him in the kind older union worker all bundled up on the corner of the street. But I found him. That's all that matters.



Maybe the dead don't communicate with us the way we'd like. Maybe you don't believe in that. I'm not even sure if I do, fully. But I know today I needed my Dad. And I got the next best thing. Another USW union guy. Like my Dad said - they take care of us when we need them.

You can argue the point that it wasn't because he was a union man, but because he was a good man. My dad was that, too. So either way? Yes, it was you I was looking for.

Thanks, Dad. You did always promise to haunt us when you died. I suppose I didn't think it would be in the form of an older Hispanic man with a sign on a stick that was just the right size - but it works.

Also, if any of you ever hear a really nice man telling the story of the dumb girl who ran over a container by the refinery? Tell him I said thanks. He was gone by the time I headed back out for the day.