WHERE'S GEORGE?

by John Maczak, MMD

George was one of the first real "characters" that I'd met. Both in the mill, and the "real world" too. A nice, soft-spoken man about early to mid fifty's or so, when I hired in. He was nice and soft-spoken afterwards too. George, never, and I mean never, wore a jacket once he came through the gate. The winter of 76-77 where we had a blizzard one day, and a week of sub-zero after made no difference to George. If it got cold, he'd put on more long sleeved undershirts. If it got warm, he'd peel them off. It was kinda cute, to watch George come into work, when it was cold out. It looked as though his Mom had dressed him; a good coat, heavy pants, rubber overshoes, and one of those baseball style hats with the fur earflaps. Someone asked him about it once, but George just cussed at them and then laughed at himself. George drank---a lot. I mean real a lot. His drink of choice; Blackberry Brandy. In fact, in the whole time I knew George, that's the only thing I ever saw him drink, except on holidays when everyone brought in something different. But George brought in Blackberry Brandy. He did it every day. Never pints or fifths or any other size, just half pints. That's odd, I thought. So one day I asked George why.

"Whall, I tell ya," George said in his soft Tennessee accent. "It seems to me to be just right. I mean I can put it in my pocket, an ain't nobody gonna see it, an if Ah got to get rid of it, well it's no big thing." "Getting rid" of it was usually a matter of consumption. I found out later that George bought his Brandy by the case. He had his adventures, though. George being the oldest (in age and seniority) had his choice of batteries to work on. So he picked Number Six Battery. Six was the southern most battery, and the cleanest, if there can be such a thing in the Coke Plant. It also happened to be the furthest away from the prying eyes of the Mechanical office. Not, however, from some of his co-workers. Jimmie was less than half George's age; he got put on Doors because his back was messed up---or so everyone there told me. Jimmie seemed nice enough; he was from the Appalachians, the Kentucky part. So it seemed, to us, that he and George would have more than an accent to share. It wasn't to be so. Jimmie was, to us apprentices anyway, jealous of George. He was overheard, more than once complaining. "Whall, wise he getten ta come in ever day, an still git paid what I do?" At that point, none of us "young kids" had the nerve to ask. "Well what's the problem then? You both do the same?" So the snipping and the finger pointing kept on going on, until THE DAY. Jimmie wanted, I mean really WANTED, George's spot. Well with George being blitzed just about every day, you'd think the handwriting was on the wall. No, not really. George, I found out, had friends. Nowadays "friends, don't let friends, drive drunk." Back then, the code was, "get outta here, and don't get hurt on company property." Another part of the code included, "what goes around, comes around." In short, what could happen to George (or any one else) could very well happen to you too. Back then (the early 70's) it was ok to repair coke oven doors on the batteries themselves. It was okay to do a lot of things, but that's another tale altogether. George, because of his age and seniority, worked doors. Never did find out if he'd asked for it, or the job was just pushed on him, but it was battery doors nonetheless.

Getting back to Jimmie though. One fine day it was as cold as it could be. We were all outside because that's where Door repair was then. To say we were all cold too was no small understatement. The only heat you had, was the heat that you made, which was usually a wood or a coke fire in a Salamander. Or in George's case another hit of Brandy. That particular day, George came in stumbling. Seems that he'd "went out with a few of the boys last night." Jimmie saw his opportunity----he dime'd him, and never gave it a second thought. "Ah saw him, just stumbling around, an Ah thought he might hurt himself", said Jimmie. One of the other guys asked, "so why didn't you just take him downstairs to the South change house?" We were all thinking that. "Well, ah never thought of that!" said Jim.

He thought of one thing though---and that was what to do next. Jim decided to go to the "right people." The "right people" were production management, rather than maintenance. The reason, was that production thought it was a feather in their "career cap" to nail a mechanic. If Jim had gone to the Mechanical office, he'd have gotten nowhere. Most of our mechanical foremen used to drink with George, and more than a few still did. Well, two production foremen and a Plant Security officer came to check out Jimmie's story about George stumbling about. The scene they found was tranquil, George's helper busily cleaning up the work area. "Where's George at?" asked foreman Number One. "George who?" the helper innocently replied. "Don't get smart!" Number One said. You could tell this had touched a nerve. He was starting to turn red. "Where did he go?" "Maybe he went to the bathroom; he's my Mechanic, I don't ask him where he's off to." Said George's helper.

The three of them stomped off. After an hour or so, like a bad penny they all came back. This time the inquisition began in earnest. To this day I think that it must have been a terribly slow day for somebody.

"O.K. where's George at?" asked Number One again. Number Two never said a word through- out the entire episode. "George who?" the helper asked. "Listen, do you want to go home right now?" asked Number One, his face getting redder by the second. "What for?" asked the helper innocently. "Let's try insubordination," gloated Number One. "Well no, of course not," insisted the helper.

You could see in his face that Number One was preening, just a step shy of out and out laughing at this hapless nobody of a helper. "All right then, where's George?" said Number One again. "George who?" the helper asked. You would have thought that Number One had just seen his first-born son going off to live with The Village People. What had been a smirk of self-satisfaction turned into a snarl. You could read it in his eyes. "I'll get you for this." His face turned from a normal (for an overweight white foreman) slightly sweating pink, to a tomato red sheet of hate. It was at this point that the Plant Guard, who I'm sure, had heard versions of this story a million times before, took Number One to the side and whispered in his ear. You could almost feel sorry for Number One. He visibly hunched his shoulders as if he had to prepare for a difficult unpleasant task. "Where is George Du Bouchett at?" Number One asked through clenched teeth. "Oh, him, well he told me he's got bad stomach trouble today. You JUST missed him; he took off for the bathroom. Couldn't tell you where he might be now." Said George's helper, obviously trying to help. "Well when he comes back, tell him I, want to see him immediately." Number One said. Trying to regain his lost clout. "Sure if George comes back before it's time to go home," said the helper, obviously trying to rough over any smooth edges, he might have forgotten. "What do you mean…if?" choked Number One. "It's just about time to go home now," said the helper with a smirk.

It was hard to imagine that Number One could get any redder than he already was. His face would have put many a Blue Ribbon Tomato to shame. Without a further word to the helper, Number One stomped off with Number Two and the Guard in tow, coming up with new cuss words, even for the Mill.

When the rest of us got back to our change house to shower up and go home we found George, who'd had a good day sleeping off his night out. He offered everyone, a swig of Brandy, and grinned. The laughter was overwhelming and infectious. We roared with laughter; it bounced off of the paint pealing walls. We pounded each other on the back, cried and gasped for air, we were laughing so hard. At this point I thought we would witness the Coke Plant's first case of spontaneous human combustion. But, no, Jimmie didn't say much then, or for a while. Later on it was said that Jimmie tried to turn in the entire locker room aisle in, for drinking, drugs, spitting on the sidewalk, anything. However lots of things get said without substance, much like asking "Where's George?"

George stuck it out about two or three more years. Where's George? Well there's a lot on Kentucky Lake, with a cabin, and a boat. All of which was bought with Coke Plant money. If you'd care to stop, visit, and b.s. I think that you'd find a soft-spoken man, no jacket, drinking out of half-pints, and laughing a lot.