Despite the funnels of steam, from his glass-lined catbird office on the second floor, Barry Andrews could see most of the brown-skinned workers as they tended the moving conveyor belt of tomatoes.  He nodded his head at how well things were progressing.  The line had definitely picked up speed since he had reorganized things.  Over considerable objections he had moved the old men from the cooler locations they had staked out by the open roller doors and put them at the slower, internal stations. 

The union rep carped about offending the elders, the abuelos, and hinted at other complaints by the summer migrants, but Barry had reminded him that this wasn’t a retirement community and they weren’t playing bingo.  Less than 90 days to make a summer run and no time for siestas.  “If you want to file an official grievance, go down to HR and do so,” Barry had stormed.  “Otherwise, get the hell out of my office.  I’ve gotta plant to run.”

Barry wasn’t going to fall into the trap of prior plant managers.  Start mollycoddling the Mexicans and kowtowing to the union, and you were finished.  The plant owners had made it clear:  increase production, increase revenue, decrease cost.  This was Barry’s third plant in three years and he was tired of moving on.  Failure wasn’t an option.

The phone on Barry’s desk spit out an irritating “braa-aa-at” and he moved quickly to answer it.

“Barry, this is Dana Madison in corporate.”

“Dana, good to hear your voice.  How is summer pack going up there in Washington?”  Madison had been hired as a corporate watchdog reporting directly to the owners, but Barry relied upon his tall athletic frame and boyish good looks to sway women and his charm had been effective in keeping Madison at arm’s length and out of his files.

“Up to our ears in pears already.  I’ll make this brief Barry.  Remember the special industrial run you did for Pizza Hut last week?”

“Sure do.  We’re more than proud of that one.  Came in a day ahead of schedule without overtime.  Do they want more product?”

“Afraid not, Barry. Hey, have you pissed off anyone lately?”

The shortness of her tone, the raw language, caught Andrews off guard and he stuttered “Just the usual knuckleheads out on the line.”  

“Pizza Hut has cancelled the rest of the staged order, Barry.”

Andrews sank into his high back chair, racing through all of the possible reasons for a cancellation, as well as a logical defense.

“Almost a million in revenue.  Gone!” Madison continued.  “Seems like one of their stores opened a 6 pound can and found a metal plate that we’ve identified as the covering to a spice compartment in the mixer.  Not a screw Barry — the whole plate.  I don’t know what’s happening in your plant Barry, but I’m flying down there tomorrow to find out.”

Bitch, Andrews thought as he dropped the phone onto its cradle.  He stared out onto the floor at the rows and rows of red fruit rolled down the moving belts and remembered the sickening smell that filled the street level.  A wave of weakness roiled his stomach and moved up his throat.  The word sabotage floated at the edge of his brain.  The afternoon sun had begun to wane before he blinked his eyes and moved out of the trance.  I’m fucked, he thought, running his freckled hand through his sandy blonde hair. Again.