Chapter 13. The Student Union

Marlie faces workplace challenges on campus

Dear Comrades, Colleagues, Compañeres, Neighbors, Relatives, Readers, Friends (CCCNRRFs, still pronounced Knurfs :-) :

My plan for January and February of this new year was to focus on writing and project planning. But a spate of illness forced me instead to focus on healing and being. An unexpected experience for me, quite challenging during this period when my activist community is so keyed up and active.

Though I didn’t exactly chose this, I’m grateful for it. Soon I’ll say more about how this time has shaped my quest to explore activist culture, but for now, here is Chapter 13 of Rainwood House Sings, a movement mystery. You can pick up the story thread here if you’ve been following along, or start from the beginning here. This guide will let you go to whatever chapter you like.

And now, back to our story, where we find Marlie dealing with workplace challenges at the University of Maryland…

Rainwood House - Juliana Barnet

Over her copy of the University of Maryland Chesapeake Bay Retriever, Marlie glances at the crowds of students in the Student Union, eating, drinking, chattering, staring at laptops, cell phones, iPods, and—rarely—books.

The cold blue November sky presses in through the plate-glass window that towers over her little table. “Like fish in an aquarium,” she grumbles under her breath, scrunching behind her paper to block out the other fish. She wishes Laranda had chosen someplace more private to meet up.

When Marlie had phoned Laranda in distress, her friend—also her union shop steward—said to keep calm and wait for her here in the Student Union until she gets off at 4. That leaves Marlie nearly an hour to sit stewing over what happened that morning.

She had clocked in for work at 8:40 that morning—late, but with the plausible explanation of Samantha’s brief bout of stomachache. Her supervisor, Elmer Crenshaw, had not been in the Grounds office, but since tons more leaves needed removing from the lawn Marlie had been clearing on Friday, she decided to go on with that task.

She drove one of the Grounds Department’s little Daihatsus over to the Music Building, parked it near the large stand of maples on the north side, and worked steadily through the sea of yellow leaves. She was almost ready to break for lunch when she heard someone shout behind her.

“Marleena Mendyvale!”

The supervisor stood glaring at her, his face bright red, fists cocked on his hips. “I can’t believe I see you using a rake!” His voice trembled with outrage. “You won’t get done ‘til next fall!”

Marlie took a breath, as she has often had to do lately before responding to him. “Elmer, the cello professor came out and asked me not to use the leaf blower near her classroom today because of the noise.” Marlie gestured toward the building’s large ground-floor windows. “She’s having performance midterms, and with the blower roaring she can’t hear the students.” It goes right through my own skull, too, Marlie thought, but, naturally, didn’t say. With the rake, she gestured to a nearby winterberry bush. The heavy leaf blower with its long snout lay under it like an elephant’s head, proof of her intention to burn her share of fossil fuels that day.

“Midterms, my ass. Those sissies want us to tiptoe around and never use a machine. Then they complain about too many leaves!”

“Well, Elmer, I can’t disturb the exam, and I’m supposed to remove the leaves. So I’m using a rake.” She strove to keep her voice neutral, not defiant, but not apologetic, either.

“I bet you wasted time going back to the compound to get it,” Elmer snarled.

“Actually, Andrés and Zachary had one in the golf cart.” Andrés and Zachary are the other groundskeepers on the team she nominally supervises.

Marlie’s unruffled replies had only made Elmer madder. “You were over two hours late today!”

When Marlie opened her mouth to explain about Samantha’s stomach, Elmer had launched into a tirade that drowned her out, enumerating the backups caused by her lateness. “You always do whatever you damn please,” he growled, his face crimson. “I’ve cut you plenty of breaks, but no more.”

It’s true Elmer has been lenient and flexible with Marlie over the five years she’s been working in Grounds. For her part, she’s generally felt more comfortable with him than with most of her coworkers, who constantly chatter about TV programs and sports teams she cares nothing about. Elmer always requires at least as much of her and Ramie, the only other female groundskeeper, as he does from the men, but his manner has been collegial rather than boss-like, consulting with her about work issues, rarely finding fault, and letting her go off campus to a vegetarian sandwich place for lunch when she hasn’t managed to bring her own. He teases her about eating “rabbit food,” but has never sanctioned her for not making it back within her allotted half-hour.

Since late summer, however, he’s become a different—and much less pleasant—person. That morning, at the end of his tirade, Elmer had suddenly leaned forward until his florid face was inches from hers, and grabbed the rake from her hand. With the other hand, he snatched up a lock of her hair. “Two hours late, and you can’t fix your hair! You think you’re so sexy with these curls. I oughta take a weed-eater to ‘em!”

“Hijo de puta!” Marlie had jerked back, feeling the sting as her hair pulled out of his grasp, a jolt of heat rushing through her body.

Elmer tossed the rake on the ground. “I’m writing you a first warning! One more, and things will get serious.” He stalked off, leaving her rooted to the spot. She called Laranda right away, saying she’d had a problem with her supervisor but giving no details, and then somehow made it through the rest of the day.

She rubs the spot where Elmer pulled her hair. It still burns, but the rest of her body feels icy fear. During the custody battle over their daughter, Marlie’s lack of a stable job—after Blake led the charge to get her fired from the Cleaner Conscience Campaign—had given her ex his biggest edge. Race, class, education, and nationality all favored him, too, of course, but financial security was the advantage he could openly cite in court. Now, if she loses her job and Blake gets wind of it, he’ll have even more ammunition for his crusade to get Rainwood House.

She curls her fingers into a fist on the table. The worst thing about Blake’s attacks is that they’re usually based on reality. She is barely making it nowadays. Her job, plus small contributions from Vivi and from Ruben, Samantha’s dad, support them well enough, but Marlie has little left over for unexpected expenses like the computer and car fiascos that had hit her this fall, let alone funds for maintenance and repairs of Rainwood House. Which is why she needs Cole Robert Benson.

She fishes her phone out of her bag. It’s 3:35. She’s already called Samantha’s school to leave word for her granddaughter to go home with Kathrin. While she waits for Laranda, she can phone Cole Benson’s reference. She digs out the paper where Cole wrote Augustina Banks’ number. When she punches it in, the screen informs her she has eight prepaid minutes left.

On the fourth ring, a woman’s voice says, “Good afternoon,” with an unhurried musical inflection.

“Hello, ma’am. My name is Marlie Mendíval and I’m calling because your grandson, Cole…”

“Ah, yes,” the woman cuts in, suddenly crisp. Then, with more warmth, she says, “How can I help you, dear?”

“He’s asked to rent a room in my house, Ms. Banks. He gave you as a reference.”

“Of course. What would you like to know?”

“Um, did he help you with the chores while he lived there?”

“Oh, yes, indeed, he did nearly everything!” The woman’s voice is enthusiastic. “Except shopping. I always did that. But he cooked most of the time, even as a small boy. Very talented in that regard. Likes to eat, too.” The grandmother chuckles.

“And, um, he wasn’t messy?”

“At first he was, of course—what child isn’t? But I trained it out of him.” The woman laughs again as if recalling an amusing anecdote, but she doesn’t share it with Marlie. Instead, she says firmly, “He’s a good boy. Thinks a lot.”

“I noticed that.” Marlie wishes she had made a list of questions before calling. What she wants to know are things like, is he reliable, will he pay his share on time? But that seems too bald to ask of his own grandmother. Marlie frowns at the phone and tries an indirect probe. “I hope his new Internet plant philosophy counseling service will be successful.”

Silence on the other end. Then, “He’s always been a great one for philosophy. And he is a wonder with plants, being a horticulturist and all.” Marlie hears the grandmotherly pride in her voice.

“Yes, ma’am.” Marlie waits for more.

“My boy has always kept a job and paid his rent,” the grandmother goes on. “He gets big ideas sometimes, but that’s one of the things I love about him.”

The tenderness in the woman’s voice gives Marlie an unexpected prick of envy. “That’s great,” she says into the phone. “Actually, ma’am, this isn’t just about renting rooms. My young granddaughter and I are starting a collective household—where we all cooperate and help each other,” she clarifies, in case the grandmother envisions a drug-crazed, hippy commune. “So he has to be good with people and…” she stops, unsure of the qualifications for this venture.

But Cole’s grandmother breaks in. “Oh, yes! He has a very good heart, Ms. Marlie. You won’t go wrong in that department. And he’s excellent with young people and democratic grassroots community kind of things…” She stops, then says, “I may be partial, being his grandmother, but it’s God’s truth that he’s a natural for all that.”

“I’m glad, ma’am, but I also wanted to know…”

“Missy, I do have to go. Got a pie in the oven. But if you have any trouble with him, be sure to let me know and I’ll give him a hiding for you.”

They both laugh and the grandmother hangs up. At that moment, a computer voice informs Marlie her minutes have expired.

A good recommendation, Marlie muses, snapping the phone shut and shoving it in her bag. But a couple hesitations and that sudden folksiness at the end make her wonder just a bit.

In the end, she’ll have to trust her instincts. She lets out a loud derisive laugh at this thought, causing nearby heads to turn. She lifts the newspaper again to hide her face, feeling unequal to dealing even with nice people, let alone mean ones like Elmer…Elmo.

Even the prospect of seeing her good friend Laranda feels fraught. She’ll have to relate the humiliating incident of that morning.

To put this unpleasant prospect out of her mind she lifts the coffee she purchased, takes a sip, and examines her cup. It proclaims itself to be 100% recycled paper, with a lid made of a biodegradable material derived from corn. Corn-based plastic is a great idea, Marlie thinks, but too brittle. The lid has cracked, causing some of her coffee to spill. They should do more research on it at this very university.

She thumbs through the Chesapeake Bay Retriever and finds an article she’d skimmed moments before. “The US Department of Defense provides a large percentage of research money for universities, including the University of Maryland,” the article asserts. Right, Marlie thinks, to qualify for research money, corn-based plastic would need to be useful for bombs.

Her sour mood pushes her mind back to the morning incident. As she stood paralyzed beside her leaf barrels watching Elmer stalk back to his truck and roar away, a nearby voice said, “That damned Elmo.”

Turning, Marlie saw her coworker Grant rounding the corner of the Music building. Mortified that he’d witnessed her being bullied, she blurted, “‘Elmo’?”

He gave a friendly nod. “Girl, on this campus, anyone named Elmer is gonna get called Elmo.” He cocked his head in the direction the supervisor’s truck had disappeared. “You’d know that if you hung out more with the rest of us.”

Marlie hoped her face didn’t reveal her embarrassment, or her annoyance. Embarrassment at being pegged for a virtual hermit. Annoyance because, sure, she should know that Jim Henson’s alma mater would have its share of Muppet jokes, but it irritates her that North Americans assume she (and everyone else in the entire world) must be familiar with every US cultural icon. She doesn’t expect Grant or any other North American to know La Chilindrina, Cantinflas, or Cri-cri.

A teasing grin illuminated Grant’s weathered face. “Of course, Elmo’s pet likely wouldn’t call him that.”

Marlie stared at him

“Relax, kid, I can see you’re not his pet anymore.” Grant gave her a warm smile, touching his temple in a half-mocking salute as he walked away. “Hang in there.”

This memory makes Marlie squirm, but she forces herself to consider her coworkers’ viewpoint. They have seen her take several university classes—landscaping, pruning and grafting, soil conservation—during work hours, a benefit in theory available to everyone in Grounds, but, as Laranda once remarked, in practice only granted to workers on good terms with their supervisors.

Of course she’d been aware he favored her in some ways, but she’d assumed it was to even her odds as one of only two women in the whole Grounds department. Some male coworkers were openly hostile to Marlie, others patronizing, and a couple had attempted to hit on her. In contrast, Elmer had always treated her with respectful friendliness. Even when he’d attempted, starting that past August, to push their friendship further than she wanted, he had seemed to accept her polite refusals.

Glaring out the big window, she sings under her breath, “She’s as blind as she can be...”

“Hey, Bob.” A tall, graceful woman sweeps up to the little round table, bends to kiss Marlie on the cheek, and drops into the opposite chair. “Glad you’re still singing.”

“Hey, El.” Marlie gives Laranda a wry smile. “I’m singing songs of self-flagellation.”

Laranda pushes her sheaf of tiny braids threaded with colored beads back over her shoulders and smooths her slim black skirt. “Well, stop that and tell me what happened.”

Marlie briefly describes that morning’s run-in with her supervisor. She can’t bring herself to say that the man fingered her hair, only that he’d yelled in her face.

Laranda shakes her head, braids rustling softly against her flame-colored blouse. “That’s rough, Bob. He has absolutely no call to shout at you.” She regards Marlie encouragingly. “Now give me a little background. You were on friendly terms with this supervisor, and then out of the blue he screams at you, writes you up, and threatens your job?”

Marlie watches Laranda poise her pen over a small notebook. “It wasn’t exactly out of the blue.”

Laranda angles her head and waits for Marlie to continue.

“For years we got along fine.”

Marlie thinks she sees Laranda’s mouth give a brief quirk and adds, “But I was not his pet!”

Pleasantly, Laranda says, “Everyone deserves to be well and justly treated.”

Marlie sighs. “Okay, I realize he allowed me certain privileges, but I thought it was to shield me, or to make up for the extra shit I had to take as a woman in this department. And I’ve always worked my butt off!”

“Of course you have,” says Laranda soothingly. “Even pets gotta do that around here. Just kidding!” she adds quickly. “Don’t get huffy on me.”

Marlie shakes her head. “I never thought I was a pet.”

“These things creep up on us sometimes,” Laranda replies lightly. “Just finish the story of how he ended up screaming at you this morning.”

Marlie gathers her curls to twist them into a bun. The gesture rekindles the burning sensation at the spot where her supervisor grabbed her hair.

Suddenly, she is twelve, back in the bedroom of the little white house in Edmonston. Her mother sits beside her on the bed, fumbling to tell her about men. She imparts few facts, but the message is clear: never trust men. But be nice to them because they call the shots. Over the years, as Marlie observed the complicated relationship between her parents, she identified another rule: men can do things to women and women must act like these things aren’t happening.

Marlie gives herself a small shake and looks her friend in the eye. “One afternoon this past August, Elmer asked me to get an ice cream with him at the Dairy. It was punch-out time, but we were trying to solve a problem with the sprinkler hoses.” Laranda offers a brief nod. “It was a hot day, so I thought, why not finish talking over ice cream? And if he paid, well, he’s the supervisor; he makes a lot more than me.” Hearing herself get defensive, she calms her voice. “Then, a couple days later,” Marlie goes on, “he asked me again.”

“Uh-oh.” Laranda raises her eyebrows.

“That time I said I couldn’t, because I had to get home to Samantha. Anyway, there wasn’t anything special we needed to talk about. A week or so later, we had ice cream again, because some other problem came up near the end of the day. But then Elmer… Elmo,” she corrects, “started asking me to go out after work nearly every day. I made excuses, but then he started asking me to lunch, joking about taking me to get vegetarian meals. So I told him straight that I never socialize at work.” She gives Laranda a crooked smile. “I said it was nothing personal.”

“But he took it personally?”

Marlie nods. “He came on even stronger, giving me these smiles.” She shrugs her shoulders in distaste. “Making personal remarks about my body.” She feels herself blush, which she hates, knowing it turns her face a muddy red-brown. She stops, having no words for the creepy feeling she gets when Elmo says he likes her curly hair or mentions that a round figure like hers is his favorite type of woman.

Laranda’s lip curls. “Is he married?” Her own engagement and wedding rings glint in the afternoon sunshine slanting through the glass.

“I think so, but I’m not even sure. He doesn’t wear a ring, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.” Marlie glances down at her own bare, callused hands. “We never talk about our families, just the job. Occasionally about the Terps.” Marlie jerks her head toward the Maryland Terrapin’s Stadium, visible through the expanse of plate glass beside her. “Not much of a friendship, really, even when it still was one.”

Marlie presses her lips together. “In these last few weeks, he’s changed again. Now, everything I do irritates him.” She screws up her face, mimicking Elmo’s glower. “But this is the first time he’s yelled or threatened or…” She checks Laranda’s expression. Seeing friendly solicitude, no hint of disapproval, she finally recounts how Elmo grabbed her hair that morning.

Laranda’s face is now grave. “Bob, this is serious. That was an assault. Are you sure no one saw? Students, coworkers?”

Marlie replays the moment in her mind, picturing Grant’s small, wiry figure and recalling his half mocking, half sympathetic words. Surely if he’d seen what Elmo did he would have mentioned it. “Grant Burns came along, but only just at the end.”

Laranda nods briefly. While she makes notes, Marlie watches students passing by or chatting in little groups, absorbed in their own lives.

“It’s frustrating,” Laranda says, looking up from her notebook. “Supervisors do this all the time. Treat folks bad, but not quite bad enough to be illegal. If you went to Human Resources with what you just told me, they’d laugh. They might be slightly interested in the hair-grabbing, but they’d just say you have no proof. Anyway,” she looks up, “if you complain to them, you won’t be able to file a grievance through the union. You’d have to wait for HR to do an ‘internal investigation.’ Which might or might not happen before the Second Coming.”

Marlie sighs. “El, I’m sorry I’ve stayed away from the union. And from my coworkers. Pretty much from everyone, really. It’s like I’ve been in my own little bubble: just me and the trees, me and the dirt.”

“Well, looks like Elmo’s dirt has burst your bubble.” She smiles. “Forget your Catholic guilt. The union has a thick skin and so do I.”

Marlie smiles ruefully. “My skin is thin as a baby’s.”

Laranda pats Marlie’s hand absently as she riffles through her notes with a frown. After a moment, she brightens and looks up. “We’ll Weingarten him!”

“What?”

“Weingarten him,” she repeats slowly. “You don’t know your Weingarten rights?”

Marlie does recognize the phrase. She had become well versed in workers’ legal rights when she was a union organizer, but that had been so long ago. She wrinkles her brow. “It’s coming back. Something about having a right to a union representative when the employer is abusing you?”

“Close,” Laranda replies. “A worker can ask for a union rep to be present at any meeting which might result in disciplinary action against them. Since that guy already wrote you up, any time he gets on your case you have reason to expect discipline.” Laranda leans forward. “So, here’s the plan. Next time Elmo lights into you, you tell him, ‘I need my union rep present.’ Then don’t say another word.”

“But he’ll get even madder!”

“Yeah, that’s the hard part. It makes them furious, and sometimes they get ugly. But not always!” Laranda studies Marlie’s face. “Sometimes they just fold. You never know. The ones who huff and puff most can be the first to crumble.”

“The louder they yell, the harder they fall...”

Laranda smiles. “Yup!”

Marlie grins back. One thing she loves about Laranda is that even though her friend has little tolerance for foolishness, she is totally cool about Marlie’s habit of punctuating her conversation with odd bits of song. With a twinge of guilt, Marlie says, “To be honest, El, the thought of getting mixed up in union stuff again makes my skin crawl.”

Laranda’s brows draw down. “Listen to me, Bob. In your mind you’ve hooked unions to that awful experience with your ex. Bastards like him turn up everywhere. It’s not the union’s fault.”

True, Blake led the charge, Marlie thinks, but the whole local had ganged up on her. She blows out a breath, not entirely convinced but weary of defending her old grudge.

Thanks for reading! If you’re enjoying these serialized chapters of Rainwood House Sings, please click the heart below or at the top to indicate that you like it! And leave a comment about the story and/or about fiction featuring activists.

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