Part Eleven...

Sam and I followed our buddies to the union hall where we picked up referrals to the John Amos power plant, a two unit coal fired facility belonging to American Electric Power. Our buddies went their own way, while Sam and I looked for a restaurant. We finally got to eat, and it became my turn to drive on to the powerhouse. Sam decided to change clothes while I was motoring just past downtown Charleston. Just as his pants came off, I pulled up beside a loaded city transit bus that was waiting to make a turn, Of course I seized the opportunity and stopped right beside the bus and honked the horn. Sam swore and tried to hide in the front floorboard of the Torino. The folks on the bus clapped and hooted and a good time was had by all; less one. I believe is was the first inkling that Sam had concerning the fact that his chosen travel buddy wasn't what he seemed to be. Then, when I tried to put the Torino into first gear, it wouldn't go. Nor would it go into any other gear. Sam had no choice but to finish dressing and get out of the car, climb under it, and push the tranny shift levers by hand until they loosened. Fortunately, Sam was a skinny 5'11" at 135 pounds. By this time, the bus was long gone and we were holding back a lengthy line of impatient Charlestonians.

We made it to the powerhouse, hired in, and asked about local living arrangements. We were referred to a motel near St. Albans that had a semi-barrack building on a hill in back of the main unit. We got an upstairs room with two single beds, a box fan, and no air-conditioning, but it was affordable. We shared a small bathroom and an even smaller "kitchen" with two guys in the next room. We found a real good home-cooking restaurant in St. Albans, and it became our place to have supper.

West Virginia at the time had no public bars that sold whiskey by the drink, or any other way. All the nightclubs were private, including ones in places like Holiday Inn. Of course, if you met the "requirements" you were welcome to join for free. However, there were sufficient bars that sold 3.2 beer. Bottled whiskey could be bought only at state run stores.

Someone at work told Sam of a decent nightclub just west of downtown Charleston, so Sam and I gave it a look first chance we had, which was the following night after hiring in day. It just happened to be lady's night, and the place was packed. After standing around the bar for a while googling the eye-candy, a table came open and we made the best of the situation.

Charleston, being the state capitol, was thick with secretaries and clerks the elected and appointed officials couldn't do without, and most of the clubs had a special night of free or discounted drinks each Wednesday. The club we found ourselves in was one of the most popular with the young women.

By 11:00 pm. we were drunk and on our way to our sleeping quarters. I won't say much more about that club, except that we went there about once a week.

Meanwhile, and after nearly cooking ourselves in the hot room we had rented, we found a room in a private home in the town of Nitro which was on the other side of the stinking Kanawha. A bit further to drive to work, but well worth it. And, the rent was cheaper.

The rumor on the job was we were due to start a lot of overtime to make up for some of the days lost during the strike. It never happened. We did get one Saturday in, but that was the extent of our extra pay.

We were able to drive home on weekends, though. It was the same story for us as with all tramp construction workers; we went home with three things: an ass-pocket full of money, a sack of dirty clothes, and a hard-on.

First weekend home, I collected the family and drove to K-Mart to treat the kids to toys. We went about our shopping experience and ended up with just over a $100 tally, tax included. I whipped out my paycheck like I had done many times before, and presented it to the cashier. She took a look at it, excused herself, and went to the manager. There was a sign over the manager's little booth that said "Payroll checks gladly accepted". Mine wasn't. His excuse wasn't that it was on an out-of-town company and bank; it was because people just didn't make that kind of money, therefore the check was fake. My pay was $7.50 per hour, of which fifty-cents was taken for medical insurance. two percent of the gross was taken for union assessments, plus I had to pay WV and federal taxes. It wasn't a big net check at all. Needless to say, I dumped the shopping cart in the floor, gathered two very disappointed children and a wife whom didn't know whether to curse the manager for his stupidity or me for making a scene, and left the K-Mart. I never went into another one unti 1994.

On our Sunday trip northward, Sam and I carried leftover food for that evening's meal and our lunch on Monday. We always stopped in Virginia and bought cigarettes for fifty-cents a pack, usually a carton for our own consumption during the week, and several cartons to sell on the job. The first week I drove the Bird, the power window on the passenger side fell down and quit working. I was able to get it back up, but had to stick a screwdriver between it and the door panel to get it to stay. Trading cars was a must, I figured, because the a/c had quit a couple weeks before this, and it also was ready for new tires. When I got it home next weekend, I went to the Ford dealership in Bristol (Sam lived in Bristol and knew a guy...) and traded for a demo 1970 Ford Galaxy 500 XL coupe with 10k miles. That sucker had a factory 8-track tape player mounted on the hump, and a power front bench seat. It had pearl-white (not Ford white) paint, except the hood and top of the fenders, which had a medium blue paint all the way to back to the top of the quarter-panels, and hide-away headlights. The roof line was typical sloped XL style, but had a recessed rear window, about like the '66 Chevelle coupe sported. It was also the most expensive car I owned up to the time, at $4800 and change. The ''66 Chevelle SS 396 had cost $3200 brand new, and the new '63 Impala convertible had a sticker of just over $2900. When I bought the XL, the dealership had a green GT40 in the showroom and were asking $6400. It had a 289ci engine.

Sam's and my main job at Amos was to keep the man-lift running. Several times each day, some joker would trip one of the safety switches at the very top and we would have to climb a bunch of steps to get there and reset it. Then we had to go back down and fill out a safety report on the occurrence. Usually by the time the paper work was finished for one stoppage, we were summoned to do the whole thing over again. I developed some fine leg muscles and lung capacity during the time.

Seven weeks after hiring on the job, we were fired. The electrical superintendent told the area foreman who in turn told our foreman that Sam and I were young and too inexperienced and he didn't want us on the job.

Next stop; Parkersburg, WV.

Part Six...

My map indicated the union hall was pretty near the Beltway, so I proceeded in that direction, hoping to find a service station where I could get my bearings and ask directions. I had been advised by some worldly person back home to stay off the beltway if possible, resulting in my round-about and difficult time getting to the hiring hall. I was also bursting to pee and needed some gas for the Bird and and a snack for myself. I hadn't eaten since the previous evening. Found a busy looking station near the beltway on ramp, and got squared away. The proprietor happened to be a transplant from Johnson City (JC)—where I now call home—and upon seeing my tags, asked if I had ever driven the beltway before. I answered that I until I saw my map of DC, I didn't know such a thing existed. He advised me to get on the beltway, and stay in the farthest right hand lane all the way to my exit ramp. After exchanging a few stories of things we had in common in JC, I bade him farewell , entered the beltway and followed his advice... for a few minutes. As I was poking along behind a semi and all the other cars flying by on my left, one of them slowed, tooted the horn, and motioned for me to roll down the window. It was two young ladies in the car, and the passenger hollered and asked what part of Tennessee I was from. I yelled back I was from Jonesborough. She laughed and said she was from JC. They waved and went on their way, and their lane of traffic seemed much happier.

I soon became bored and decided to join the faster lanes of cars. I turned on my signal, and after an eternity, another car allowed me to get in. I didn't realize at the time I was supposed to just go for it and that they would toot their horn and shake their fist, then do the same thing I did to a driver in the next lane. It is the only way the locals know how to keep moving on freeway. I finally saw a sign that said my exit was one mile away, and by now I was two lanes away from the exit lane, and we were zooming at a good clip. I finally was able to move over a lane, and then tuned on my flasher and tooted at a semi who graciously allowed me to make a hard right in front of him and directly onto the off ramp. If hell exists, one level of it is being on a beltway forever and ever without being able to change lanes.

Somehow I got on 301 South. Anything going south was a good thing; I was a tattered bumpkin needing to see some hills and open country. The open country would soon come, but it would be more than two months before I was to see a decent hill again. I think I passed Andrews Air Force Base on my left, but I'm not certain. After a long spell of driving and seeing pine trees and lots of motels seemingly in the middle of nowhere, and just south of a little town called La Plata, I found my destination; the powerhouse under construction. The unit was already more than half completed, and the turbine was on turning gear. Turning gear is actually a small electric motor and gearbox that keeps the turbine and generator shafts turning at a slow but constant speed. I think it was to relieve the stresses of gravity on the huge and heavy precision parts, and to keep the steam from having to begin turning the turbine from a dead stop.

It was already afternoon when I got to the job site, I was hungry, and I needed to find a place to sleep and take a bath. I located the trailer of Bechtel Corporation, my new employer, hired in and told them my situation. They told me to go back up 301 until I came to a place called The White House Motel, because they were providing rooms for some of the powerhouse workers like myself.

The facade of the motel did resemble the White House in DC. Until just a short time before I arrived there, the state of Maryland had legal gambling. All those motels I saw on my trip down from DC were for that purpose. Not just for the slots that each one had in their lobbies, but to take care of other "good time" residuals. The legalized gambling had been done away with by the legislature, and the motels were hurting for occupants.

It was a very nice motel, built for catering to the needs of our nation's lawmakers and their lower echelon bureaucratic employees. Hell, The White House motel and a lot more of them were designed to be places where they could get away from the spouses for a few hours... if you know what I mean. They had a beautiful dining room with excellent food, but it would take a while before I could afford to partake of its culinary delights.

I paid for a room for a week, and it took a big hunk out of my remaining cash. I went to a 7-Eleven and bought a couple of sodas and some snacks, and such would be my fare for several days. Later on that week, I called my folks and had them wire me another $150... I was desperate. Western Union charged them $62 bucks to make the wire transfer. I was beginning to wonder if becoming an electrician was the right decision.

Next... my first payday.