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Page 26 text:
“
Oscar McCee, president of Local 1699 ot the American Federation of State, County and Municipal Employees (AFSCME), shown here, was largely responsible for main- taining the spirit and con- viction of the striking non-aca- demic employees.
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Page 27 text:
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I asked the man next to me how many people he thought should have been out with them that night. He folded his arms and spat. Four hunnert. At least. Shit, man he explained, I call up these guys, you know, and their wife, their god- damn wife for chrissakes, gets on the phone and says ' well, Frankie ' s been awful sick, you know, ' or ' gee, he ain ' t been home all day, ' blah blah, blah. Always some pissant excuse. He pawed the dirt with his foot. They broke the union, he said, biting off every word, sure as I ' m standin ' here. The dirty bastards. They all go to the fu- ckin ' meetings and cheer and clap for a goddamn strike. That ' s okay. But when it comes to showin ' how you feel, standing in the lines and getting their little rear ends frozen, no sir, ' I ' m sick. I ain ' t been home all day. ' That kind of crap. What the hell is Sowie or somebody gonna think drivin ' past here and seein ' 20 guys? He ' s gonna laugh, man! He ' s gonna say ' let ' s walk all over these jokers, ' he shook his head. You know, it took a long time to build up this union. And it ' s all over now. Don ' t let anybody tell you the University beat us. Our own beat us. Shit on a stick. The dirty basteds, said someone listening. You ain ' t kiddin ' , mister, was the reply. Basteds. Somebody spat. Everybody waits for the University to make its move. It has to. Reports of no hot water on the South Green filter through and hands are clapped together. Someone who knows, who works in the Heating Plant, says that the University has to have coal tonight. Immediately. Within the hour. Every truck becomes suspicious. There ' s a scab behind every wheel. A ton of coal in every van. At 8:10 p.m. all West Union Street traffic stops. City police cars block the streets in front of Dolen ' s. Noth- ing can be seen uptown. Within seconds three police cruisers pull up to Factory Street and right behind them are three monster vans barreling down Union at 50 miles an hour. A cop waves them into Factory Street. In they go with no slackening of speed. The pickets are dumbfounded. Truck after truck zips by, flaying the road, sending up showers of gravel. Mouths are open. What is disturbing is not that the coal has gotten through, but that the trucks never slowed down. They had orders not to stop. For any- thing. Or anybody. It is 8:20. Traffic is moving again. Moving past 50 men staring down Factory Street. And two oil drums of smolder, the flames having died for lack of fuel. Oscar McCee, the union president, shows up and the workers all crowd around. He looks like an owl. He is offered an egg salad sandwich and politely re- fuses. They love him, they dote on his every word. He gives a little pep talk, prefacing every other sentence with Now, boys, or Well, boys. It is getting late. Oscar has to go home and get some sleep. Exit Oscar McCee. Rumor has it that six more trucks, this time with food, are on their way towards Athens. The largest man there, a veritable catalogue of muscle, calls for volunteers to go find ' em. He gets three carloads and away they go, into the night. Two other men, both old, wiry types, with whiskers like plant roots and wide grins, announce they are go- ing for a stroll down Factory Street. Moments later there are three crashes. When they returned, I asked what had happened. The meaner of the two stroked his chin. Ya know, he drawled, it was a real strange thang. We was jest standin ' there when a bunch a windas jest took off an ' ' sploded. By theirselves! How de ya like that? It was getting late and maybe half of the group had left. A little guy with a peaked hat chewed gum and swung his stick. A police car slowly rolled past and someone wandered into the high grass by the railroad tracks to take a piss. Nothing much at all happened af- ter that. 23
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