When the Whistle Blows

Lying back on his pillow, Bill looked up at the ceiling, and attempted to gather his thoughts. He looked across the room at an open window. The heat of the night had given way to a soft, cool breeze. Mary breathed softly. The thin, white cotton curtain covering the window seemed to dance with her every breath.

As the cool breeze wafted over him, Bill mustered enough strength to raise himself up, put one foot on the floor, and then the other. Facing the window, he steadied himself on the edge of the bed. It was time to get ready for work.

A few hours later, Bill sat alone at a table in the break room of the refinery. For the first time in a long time he felt alone. As he drank his coffee, his mind raced. Across from Bill that morning, at the other end of an adjoining table sat Dale. The argument the night before had put a momentary strain on their friendship. For now, the two men were not even speaking to each other. Neither one would make eye contact, even though they both had plenty of opportunity.

A few tables over, Roger and another co-worker were engaged in a long conversation. Seated around them at various tables were many of their fellow co-workers. Some of them were also parents of the "Oilers," including Joe Carter – something Roger had said had obviously gotten Joe’s attention. He looked rather attentive. After a moment, Joe stood up and walked over to Bill’s table, grabbed the edge and leaned over toward Bill.

"Hey Bill," Joe said in a hushed tone. "What’s this I hear that you and Dale paid a little visit to Colored Town last night?"

Bill looked at Dale as if he had been betrayed. Dale looked away. Bill looked up at Joe. "Yeah, so what?"

Joe looked angry. He inched closer. So close, Bill could smell the coffee on his breath. Joe raised his voice a little, "So what? What’re ya doin’ over there?"

"Lookin’ for kids," Bill said.

Joe raised his voice another notch, "You mean niggers."

Joe’s comment had everyone’s attention. The break room grew silent. It now seemed everyone in the room was a party to their conversation. Dale lowered his head. He knew what was coming. Bill squirmed in his chair, glanced over at Dale and then looked back up at Joe.

"Look Joe, we need more kids. I mean what’s the big deal, they got ‘em in the pros?"

Joe remained unconvinced. "Yeah, well this ain’t the pros – and you ain’t payin’ anyone."

At an adjoining table another worker piped up. "Yeah, and next thing ya know, they’ll be practicin’ with hubcaps and watermelons."

The entire room erupted with laughter. Bill’s face stiffened. He angrily shook his head. Across the room, against the wall, another voice boomed out. It was another of the Oiler parents who had been attending the practices.

"Yeah Bill, what’s goin’ on? We ain’t ever needed the colored’s before?"

Bill pushed his chair back so that he could make eye contact with the faceless voice. "Look, you know we don’t have enough kids. What do you want me to do, forfeit the season?"

But the man persisted, "Well, I sure wouldn’t be lookin’ over there, that’s for sure."

Around the room, there was a chorus of agreement as several of the men nodded. Every eye was on Bill. The room became dead silent. Bill looked at their blank faces.

Outside, the whistle blew, signifying the end of the break. Bill seemed relieved to hear the sound of it. Gradually, the men all got up and went back to work, but Bill lingered. And as the men left, a few privately patted him on the shoulder as if to offer support, including Dale. But this was of little consolation to Bill Campbell. For that day – when it really mattered – no one had spoken up. No one had come to his defense.

Bill watched as Joe walked back to his table, grabbed his things and left the room. As he passed by, Bill felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. He thought he was going to be sick. He felt horrible. Could everyone be that prejudiced? The thought weighed heavy on Bill’s mind. He hoped not.

That afternoon, Bill worked alone. He climbed several oil storage tanks, checked their gauges, and recorded his findings. By the end of the day, he was looking forward to going home. Then there was practice – he still had to attend at four o’clock. But what was the use, he thought. On Thursday morning – in exactly two days – the final rosters had to be turned in. As things stood now, Bill was still three kids short.