An essay on work, authority, and unexpected arrivals
The winter of 1980 carried a kind of national stillness that did not stop anything. When John Lennon was shot outside his apartment in New York City, the news spread quickly and stayed everywhere. Radios repeated the same sentences. People cried openly, as if permission had been granted. It felt as though the country paused just long enough to acknowledge that something had been taken in broad daylight, in plain view, and that nothing could be done about it.
Schedules did not change. The plant still required people to arrive on time.
Six of us commuted daily to an industrial facility on the New Jersey shore. The plant produced titanium dioxide and stood apart from residential areas, buffered by water, access roads, and the assumption that whatever happened there would remain contained. Each morning ended the same way, turning off the parkway toward steel, tanks, and process buildings designed for function rather than comfort.
Carpools formed out of necessity. One of the drafters owned a Corvette Stingray and brought it out once in a while. Riding in it was a novelty, briefly enjoyable, and noticeably out of place. It still ended up parked in the same dusty lot as everything else.
At the plant, the work centered on designing and installing structural steel to support a spray dryer system. I assisted the construction manager, tracking drawing numbers, revisions, parts lists, and construction schedules. Every beam, plate, and connection carried a part number. Changes were logged because they had to be. Precision mattered. Mistakes carried consequences.
Field measurements were routine. Construction was checked against drawings in physical space, not to confirm that things were going well, but to catch problems early, to prevent larger ones. Measurement was not reassuring. It was exposure.
A/P
Back in the office, bookkeeping duties resumed. Payroll. Vendors were waiting. Checks were issued according to a checklist—who to pay, how much, and when. I knew where money was due and how long invoices had been outstanding.I did not decide who would have to wait. Those decisions were the owner’s, who retained control over both the business and accounting matters.
Fabrication of the structural steel had been awarded to a local contractor and shop. The work was solid. As the year progressed, the company’s finances tightened. Payments were delayed. Bills aged.
One day, a black car appeared in the parking lot. The engine stayed running. One person remained behind the wheel. The other came inside.
There was no long meeting. No paperwork. Only a few sentences were delivered quietly and without ornament. If the money was not paid, there would be consequences. Physical ones. The message did not require explanation. After it was delivered, the man left. The car disappeared.
Knowing who owed what to whom no longer felt theoretical.
Acid Trip
Another concern at the plant involved the wastewater pond—a roughly 10-acre basin that held toxic byproducts from production. Under normal circumstances, a tugboat moved scheduled barge loads of wastewater out of the pond. But labor disruptions at the port brought tug operations to a halt. The early 1980s were not calm years for maritime labor.
Without regular removal, the pond’s water level rose. The risk was clear: if the pond wall failed under pressure, it would flood the surrounding area with toxic. Updated depth measurements were needed.
The task fell to two people and a rowboat.
We moved slowly across the pond, measuring depth point by point with a 6′ wooden yardstick. We were warned not to fall in. The warning was repeated. The smell was strong enough to register immediately. Before long, our noses burned and our eyes began to sting. The water was corrosive. By the time the measurements were finished, the end of the yardstick had softened and started to dissolve.
Getting in and out of the rowboat required care. Balance mattered. No one commented on it. The work proceeded, we never felt quite the same though, after being put in danger.
A Different Threat
Later that year, another car arrived. This one was gray. The man who came inside was polite. He showed identification. An Internal Revenue Service officer. Payroll taxes had not been paid. There were seven days to make arrangements. If nothing changed, he said, he would return and shut the business down.
He did not raise his voice. He did not threaten violence. He did not need to.
Between the black car and the gray one, the distinction between informal and formal enforcement became clear. One operated outside the law. The other was the law. Both arrived in person. Both came to collect.
The business was eventually sold to a competitor and remained viable for several more years. People went their separate ways. Records were filed. Accounts were closed or transferred. Nothing resembling a reckoning took place.
Looking back, it could be called a productive year. A memorable one. In the accounting sense, a lot happened.
Good times.
Selected essays, short works, and publications: bayliss.com
