Wolverton, Julie Steimle [interesting novels in english .txt] 📗

Chapter One

“And that is the end of the factory tour.” Mr. Whidbee turned with a fat smile while leading Howard Richard Deacon the Third back into the office areas. They had toured the entire factory where ‘Rick’ Deacon was to spend a complete month working different shifts, learning how his one of father’s businesses functioned from the ground up. It was supposed to be an educational experience.

Mr. Whidbee gestured for them to go up the stairs to the second floor where he had his office. Weary on his feet and rather annoyed that he had to start his summer after high school graduation in some fringe town in Alabama at one of his father’s factories, Rick trudged up the steps after the manager. It was training, his father had said. It was the ground up, his father had said. That was all well and good and everything—but Rick wanted a real vacation for once. Yet his father was always about preparing him for taking over Deacon Enterprises one day. Couldn’t he just be an eighteen year old kid for once?

But gazing back out at the workers who had watched him tour about the place—most of them bemused, amused, and downright appalled that the rich heir was going to spend the month alongside them and learn their jobs on their shifts—Rick knew that was not to be. They had every intention of putting him in his place as a know-nothing rich boy. He had overheard their gossip. They thought that he had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth and he would be a hindrance.

They were mistaken, though. He most definitely wouldn’t have touched a silver spoon, let alone put it in his mouth.

Leading him into the hallway, Mr. Whidbee, who reminded Rick a bit of Boss Hog from Dukes of Hazzard reruns crossed with Tweedle-Dee on his spindly legs and with his height. Rick could not understand how a man could be so fat in his face and belly, and yet have such thin long legs. He thought it rude to ask the man if he had cancer or some kind of leg defect, so he didn’t try. The fact that the manager had managed to walk as fast as he did through the factory made Rick think it was just glandular—or he wasn’t fat at all, but was wearing some kind of thick Kevlar vest under his shirt… full of paranoia that his employees would attack him. Mr. Whidbee had a red face and a wide mouth, as well as condescending eyes. And during his tour, he spoke like he was teaching a 101 class in basic woodworking. He kept warning Rick not to touch certain things, as “…that is very dangerous, and you could get hurt.” As if he were a three-year-old. Rick had taken a count of how many times the manager had told him that in one way or another. He had counted twenty-two so far.

Mr. Whidbee opened the office door and let Rick in. “Now, your suitcase has been taken to your lodging. You will be staying at the Culpepper’s house in Newsom Springs. I’ll introduce you to him once your shift starts.”

Rick nodded, looking around at the office. The room had strong odor of camphor and Bengay. The man had fish on the walls. Stuffed fish. And fishing lures and traps and all those kinds of pictures on the dark veneer wood trim. There was even one of him hold up a huge fish next to another fellow who had an even larger fish. In the photograph, Mr. Whidbee’s knees looked funny in those shorts. And his hat looked like it had been squashed on his head like a tea cozy.

“You can take a nap on the couch there and get a snack from the break room. You start your shift in a couple hours,” Mr. Whidbee said.

He stepped back to shut the door, but Rick spun around and followed after him. “Did you just say I am starting my shift in a couple hours?”

Mr. Whidbee nodded, a smug crook turned up one side of his smile. “Yes, I did. You start on the night shift.” And he stepped once more to go out.

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.” Rick grabbed hold of the door, and pulled it back open. “I don’t think so. Dad made it clear I was starting on the day shift, then going to swing, then night.”

There was hardly a beat as if the manager had expected that response… Almost as if he was waiting for it, and enjoying it. Laughing, almost guffawing from his big chest, Mr. Whidbee shook his head. “Ah, no. He wanted you to start from the bottom and work your way up. That means night shift.”

This was bad.

Rick shook his head, breaking into a little sweat as his eyes raked over the clock. It said it was only four. But in a few hours it would be dark. “No. No. That is not what he meant. Day is paid the least. Night is paid the most. I am supposed to start in day shift.”

Laughing more purposefully, waggling his finger at Rick, Mr. Whidbee answered like he knew he would get a fight, “Nice try, boy. But are going to take the least-liked job first then work your way into day shift.”

“I can’t do night shift this week,” Rick protested, staring at him. “Dad didn’t intend for me to do night shift this week. I am sure of it.”

Mr. Whidbee shook his head. “You are mistaken. Now go get some rest.”

Rick adamantly shook his head. “No. You don’t understand. This week, I can’t do night shift. And I am positive that dad explicitly gave instruction that I start with day shift first.”

All humor in Mr. Whidbee’s countenance evaporated. Perhaps he didn’t expect the fight to last this long. His voice grew terse as he said, “Listen, son. Even though your father is CEO of this company, I run this factory. And he entrusted that I teach you the ropes of business, starting from the bottom up. And night shift is the bottom.”

Groaning, knowing this was not good, Rick clenched his teeth. “Be that as it may—”

“That is how it is.” Mr. Whidbee marched back into the room, eyes dark on him like a tiger. Rick stumble backward from him, nearly forced inside for that planned nap before a night shift. “You have to learn this lesson. There is no favoritism here.”

“Favoritism?” Rick protested. “I’m not talking about—”

“You will start the night shift tonight,” Mr. Whidbee didn’t quite tower over Rick, as he was a tall young man, but the manager was like a walking cudgel and looked likely to bash the strapping youth into the ground. “And there will be no crying or calling for ‘daddy’. You are going to be a man and do your job without complainin’.”

“Wha—?” Rick shook his head, clenching his teeth. It took all in himself not to lose his temper and spring on this man who was threatening him. His instinct would have made him do so, but the phrase ‘calling for daddy’ stuck in his head. He generally didn’t call for his father, but this was an emergency. He pulled out his cell phone and immediately pressed the speed dial.

Before it could even reach a dial tone, Mr. Whidbee yanked it out of his hands and tossed it into the hall where one of his assistants caught it with a smirk on his face. That man pressed END.

“HEY!” Rick went to retrieve his phone, realizing that assistant had been waiting there, probably for this moment. “Give that ba—”

Two other men entered the room—large ones who obviously ran the bigger machinery. Rick backed away from the giants, shuddering. His eyes flickered to the clock. He whipped around to Mr. Whidbee, trying to appeal to his reason. “You don’t understand, I have a physical condition. I can’t work night shift this week. Especially tonight. It would be bad.”

One of the workers cocked his head and stared at Rick, drawing in a deep breath. He quickly put a hand over his nose as the Bengay smell was really strong in the room.

“Ah, the widdle baby can’t handle it,” one of the workers said as Mr. Whidbee backed out of the room, waving smugly at him ‘good-bye’.

“Go take that nap, boy. You’re gonna need it, as you are gonna be working for eight hours startin’ at nine pm.” Mr. Whidbee then laughed and left the room.

Rick stared after him, then at his ‘jailers’. He was a prisoner

He had to get help. He had to call his father. He had to call Henry who had brought him there in the first place, especially if he couldn’t get his dad. Night shift that particular week was definitely not in the plans.

Rick looked around for an office phone, turning toward the desk. It was between the pencil cup and the computer.

The large workers’ eyes followed him.

“Oh no you don’t!” One of the workers jumped ahead and pulled out the cord. He snatched up the phone, handing it to his compatriot before Rick could get to it.

“This is kidnapping!” Rick shouted, grabbing at the phone, but not quite ready to take that man on in a fight. The man had to be bench pressing three hundred pounds on average. His hands were like hubcaps. One punch could probably smash his head in.

One shove pushed him back into the room.

Rick stumbled on his feet. “You are making a big mistake.” Rick was now panting now in desperation. He had to get out. There was no way he could do a night shift. Not that night. Not the next night, or the night after it either. It was the full moon for pity’s sake. He tried to break past them to the door, but they shoved him back inside once more. Both men left, locking the office.

Springing up, Rick groped over the door handle. There was a keyhole rather than the usual inside lock switch. He wondered if it had always been like that or if it had been changed especially for him. But that was paranoid, he told himself…. And yet it was too convenient for them.

What business did that manager have to change his father’s plans? How dare he assume he knew better than his father! It was his father’s company for pity’s sake. Didn’t he understand that his father had a reason for starting him on day shift first? Why had that manager assumed he knew better?

Rick’s eyes quickly turned to the door hinges. He had to break out. He had to. But staring at the hinge work, his shoulders slumped in dismay. On a regular door, normally he could pry out the pins and lift the door off. You couldn’t shut a door that wasn’t attached. Only this particular hinge did not seem to work that way. And though he had his pocketknife with which he could pry the pins off, he could not tell top from bottom, and after a little prying at them, he realized they required a specialized tool to remove them.

The Bengay odor in the room was also beginning to give him a headache. Perhaps there was an open bottle somewhere. Maybe Mr. Whidbee liked the smell.

Looking around the room again for another exit, he realized there was no other door out. But there were windows.

One wall was entirely glass covered in blinds. He could see the summer sky through the tint looking darker than it really was, almost HD like those sunglasses that reduced glare while improving the color. Rushing to them, Rick peered out the glass, searching for catches and handles and possibly sliding mechanisms. The first thing he noticed was that they were wire reinforced. The second was that the windows were