Michael Leslie
Fire Work
"Right there, behind that wall is where you could hear 'em screamin'...screamin' 'n' bangin' on the door as they burned inside the building. They never stood a chance."
1.
Dave Miles is dark, soft spoken and solemn. When approached he smiles, nods his head and answers "yes sir, no ma'am." Beyond that he's simply blank. He blinks, stares at nothing. This 20 year old has seen too much.
As a grade scanner at the Carolina Food Products Dave inspects and packages processed chickens for the first third of his shift. The last two hours are spent on clean-up.
Dave's a big kid. At 5' 11", 190 lbs. he has solid, well-rounded shoulder and long, strapping arms that come with years of weightlifting and football.
Most days he proudly wears his 'Fred's Gym' T-shirt. The front of the shirt bears the caricature of a beefy Fred Flintstone dead-lifting a loaded barbell.
Last Tuesday Dave's weight lifting skills were put to the ultimate test.
Carolina Food Products supplies whole chickens and chicken parts to local restaurants, colleges, high schools and super markets. Joe Ford, the owner, uses the bygone practice of hiring the poor and unnoticed who live in the surrounding community. Black women make up the majority of his work force, women who live in the low-income housing project behind the plant. The rest are Hispanics and whites from around town.
Most of Carolina's employees work the processing room, a dark airless chamber packed with generators, washers, power cables, tables, hanging conveyer lines, scalding tanks, belts, flame tanks and pinning, drawing and cutter jobs.
Managers at Carolina Food Products are an odd lot, in an old southerly kind of way. Recently they've taken to sealing off the loading docks, padlocking exits and barring all windows. Management thought that black employees would steal chickens for their families.
"The place is a garbage dump," said Willa Mae Johnson, a Carolina employee and survivor. "It was a death trap waitin' ta happen...slimy dead chickens, thousands of 'em. Blood 'n' chicken parts all over 'da place. I stayed sick. Eye and skin infections. Sick, I'm sick all da time."
2.
Earl, the maintenance man, has been pressured by management to keep production running. A oil hose to the No. 1 carrier line would periodically crack, lose pressure and slow the line. Two women on the line, Ann and Patricia, would howl "Shit Earl, fix dat fuckin' hose, I'm tired of workin' overtime."
At age 61, Earl's arthritic knees and joints allowed him to shuffle an inch or two at a time. He could never move fast enough for the boss, the line women or the flames.
"Bunch 'cha clackin' old hens is what he'd," mumbled Earl as he wrapped the gray masking tape around the cracked hose. When he finished, he pulled off a long strip of tape, shuffled over to one of the women and raised the tape to her mouth.
"Gon! Go on away from here Earl," she screamed.
Earl drew back, with a rehearsed hurt and confused look. Then he'd shuffle over to the next woman, raising the tape to her face.
"I'ma slap the shit outta you if you don't get away from me Earl..." snapped Ann.
"Foreman say I gotta tape up everythin' thas hissin 'n' makin' noise."
"Do I look like a busted hose?" said Ann.
"Foreman said I gotta do ma job," said Earl, grinning. "Gotta do ma job 'n' stop da noise. Man gotta do his job."
3.
One morning, as the foreman turned on the carrier line he heard a loud hiss. The carrier line jumped then eased to a stop.
"Earl!" he screamed, flapping his arms like chicken, "Earl, Goddammit the line stopped." As he turned Earl shuffled toward him with his tool belt.
"Fix it man. Please."
"Ain't got the right hose for this line, this is oil," pleaded Earl. "Rubba hose'll heat up 'n' melt..."
"It ain't gonna melt. We ain't even runnin' this line all day. Look, I don't give a rat's ass how you do it long as it runs."
Using a pair of pliers, clamps and a length of rubber hose, Earl replaced the hose, then shuffled over to the control box and punched the start button. The carrier line jumped forward and slid around the processing room.
"Thank you sir," quipped the foreman, bowing slightly towards Earl then turned and walked away. Earl smiled, proud of himself. He began gathering his tools. Before walking away he stared at the hose, shook his head and decided it was time for a long break.
As the line lurched forward the new hose began to heat up, hiss and vibrate.
Earl, who had walked away, stopped, shuffled back to the conveyer.
"What da' hell..."
Suddenly, the hose cracked and whipped free. Like a large, black snake it waved back and forth spewing oil. It twisted and whipped around until it found the flame tank and ignited.
At first it appeared as a beautiful thin layer of greenish-blue flame. Earl watched as the flaming hose slid in his direction.
"EARL," screamed a woman on the line, "GET THE HELL OUT UH THERE!"
A river of fire began to form around his feet, and before he could scream "WHOOOSSSHHH!!!" Earl, the walls and machinery around him exploded into flames.
Then, like a flame-thrower the hose swung around spraying the tables, generators, power cables, washers and flame tanks.
Workers throughout the processing room scattered. Many were engulfed in flames. Other simply panicked and ran or piled into the large walk-in freezer, thinking the cold would protect them.
When the explosion occurred, Dave was sweeping the dock area. He dropped the broom and ran towards the noise. The roar of burning generators, cables and power lines made him go white inside with fear. Then, another sound penetrated his ears, screams, screams of the women on the line.
When he reached the room he found them dancing--the kind of dance one does when clothing, skin, hair, eyes and fingers are engulfed in flames and agony.
Many were dead, injured, running or pinned to the wall furthest from the flames.
"C'MON," Dave screamed, "Y'ALL C'MON...OUT THE BACK DOOR," then turned and ran towards the docks.
The dock's large corrugated door was locked and blocked off. To the right was the exit, chained from the outside. Chained to stop the Chicken Thieves.
Through a crack in the dock wall a sliver of sunlight trickled in. Dave kicked at the opening. Then kicked it again, and again, and again. He dropped to his knees, grabbed the siding panel, tearing it away from the post. Metal screw popped as he wrestled the panel.
When the hole was the size of a medium-sized dog he grabbed the outside wall post, stuck in his head pulled through. Metal screws and ragged siding sliced into his neck, back and chest.
Once outside he pulled at the panels. The women inside were big and healthy, they'd never make it through.
He heard the chained exit door rattle, then a cry, another rattle, another voice, the door shook again, then screams.
"NO!" yelled Dave into the hole, "that door's lock..." Smoke and fumes choked him. He stepped back, caught his breath and put his face up to the hole again.
"C'mon over here," he yelled.
"Where Dave, where...oh Jesus..." screamed a woman's voice.
He stuck in his arm, waving. "Down here..."
The women screamed and clawed at the hole. Both were too large to squeeze through.
"DAVE...DAVE...GIT US OUT...GIT US OUT..."
Joe Ford pulled up in the company truck, jumped out and ran towards the locked door with a ring of keys. A hundred keys. Keys to his home, his car, his plant, his wife's car, his son's car, skeleton keys, company truck keys, his girlfriend's car, building keys, keys dating back to the Civil War. He and Dave fumbled with the keys and fumbled over each other.
Frustrated, Dave ran back to the aluminum panels and began to pull. Hands from inside grabbed and scratched at his face and arms.
Then he heard different voices. Children's voices. He turned to see three small black children screaming hysterically.
"GIT MA MAMA OUT...GIT 'ER OUT...MAAAA, MAMA. GIT 'ER OUT...MA, MAMA..."
One child ran up to Dave and began punching him in the back and tearing at his shirt "GIT 'ER OUT, GIT 'ER OUT, GIT 'ER OUT...MAAAA, MAMA..."
Soon, the screams from inside stopped. Choking, blinded by fumes, Dave continued to pull at the panel until four firemen wrestled him to the ground and dragged him away.
4.
I first met Dave at a Rally and march organized to support the twenty-five workers killed by the fire.
Dave looked OK, but vacant. A group of us surrounded him, asking questions. Stupid questions.
Someone told him he was a hero, a remarkable young man, someone special. Dave never answered. He simply smiled, looked at us, then looked away.
Later, during the march, I saw him in the parking lot of a local restaurant leaning against a parked car. He stood there, watching, distant. I waved. He smiled and waved back, then looked away.
I don't think he feels like a hero, or remarkable, or special. I think he's seen too much. He was less than six inches from the screams and flames. He was in that dockwell and by some miracle crawled out. And the kids, their screams, their rage. Dave has seen too much.
Dave, and others who're poor, black, white and Hispanic need a voice. They need something that'll unlock doors, unblock exits, unchain workers. They need a union. They need laws.
5.
A hole had been cut in the security fence on the plant's east side. "Some of the folks at the rally are going inside the plant," said Dave. "you can go in and see if you want. I ain't goin' back in."
I shouldn't have either.
As I walked through the broken wire and police tape I noticed a door that had been kicked in. A guy stepped out as I approached the doorway. He paused, looked me in the eye and walked on.
I should've turned around.
The plant's power was turned off. In the first darkened room there were generators, power boxes, tanks, conveyer belts and a standing pool of water about three inches deep. No signs of fire damage.
Stepping through the water and under an archway I entered the processing room. A section of the roof had collapsed, letting in sunlight.
The sun illuminated one peculiar section--the wall and floor where Earl was standing. It was charred black like the insides of a barbecue pit. Machines, power lines and conveyer lines were mangled and burned. Steel beams were black and twisted like licorice candy. The floor was a pool of dirty water. Burned wood, pipes, beams and wires hung from the ceiling.
Then there was this smell. I prayed that what I was smelling was the stench of chicken meat. Dead chicken stink. This had to be the smell of dead poultry, because if it isn't...
A guy on the other side of the room yelled "hey, this must be the freezer where the others were trapped." I stopped, turned and looked in the direction of the voice. A man behind me walked by and whispered "that's the freezer where they found the other bodies. They thought that walk-in freezer would stop the flames. They got cooked alive."
"Come around here so you can see it," yelled his friend.
That when I got the hell out of there. I know what Dave saw.
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