text: He wasn’t that close of a friend to anyone, but most of the guys liked him. He was an immigrant, probably illegal but you can never tell these days with all of ‘em coming in. He never introduced himself to us. I had tried to get him to talk but he'd always slip away. We had to corner him in the locker room to get his name. I mean, what the hell was he hiding it for? We’re a small company, not a head more than we need and that usually means about 40 guys in the yard and a quarter of that in the office. Anyway, with enough pushing we got it: Jorge Peña. The yard I mentioned is about 100 acres of gravel with pole-built warehouses and semi-trailers scattered around. The office is a repurposed fast food joint; one floor, poorly arranged into cubicles, with an oversized red shingle roof. A big sign sits in front of it saying “Dillard Lumber.” The company sells construction-grade wood to the housing industry. We were a big deal until the suburbs stopped expanding. Each morning I drive my rustbucket of a car to work, get out, then climb into another rust bucket, a faded yellow bug of an electric forklift. It's my job to unplug the thing and skitter about the yard for ten hours a day hauling pallets of wood between the various warehouses and from the warehouses to the idling trucks that ship to site. I’ve been doing it for over a decade now and only once was I given a raise. I mean, what the hell does a guy have to do to make a living wage? ‘Guess George Dillard has to afford his McMansion somehow. Anyway, it turned out that Jorge was a forklift driver too and a damned good one. That’s fine by the way. I’m always rushed to load and he was a great help. In about a week he was doing better than me. I don’t think he was trying to show anybody up, but intents aren’t results. Maybe the man just naturally moved like a jackrabbit on coke. Eventually I started worrying about my job. You know, nobody there is union and the word itself is banned in the office by unspoken treaty. I went to him and said, “Hey, take it easy man. You’re makin’ us all look bad.” Then I laughed and slapped him on the back so he didn’t think I was disrespecting him. We’re all working for a paycheck, taking orders from George Dillard. I mean, George Dillard's an alright guy; the typical son of a man who built a nothing hardware store into a giant enterprise. I never met his dad, but I’ve heard stories and he sounded like a man who could move mountains. Or thought he could anyway. He died of a massive stroke two years before I started. George isn’t far from the age his father died at and you can see it in his face. Fear, that is. You see, he doesn’t have an heir, spouse, or even a business partner. When George goes, so does Dillard Lumber. Maybe that's why he began fraternizing with a certain worker so much. I don’t know who noticed it first, but it certainly wasn’t Jorge. George Dillard hung over Jorge like an umbrella. Jorge would load two trucks in the time it took me to load one. There’s George Dillard. Jorge would fix a jam in his forklift with some grease he kept in a little jar in his pocket. There’s George Dillard. Jorge would shit in record time and be back out in the yard. There’s George Dillard. It all started rubbing on the other guys. Okay, fine, it got to me too. One morning, right before work, me and three other forklift drivers corner Jorge at his locker. We ask him all kinds of crazy questions. One guy asked him if he was some kind of spy for the boss. Another guy asked if he was a spy for the unions. I asked him if he thought he was better than us. Jorge started sweating bad, and it was barely above freezing. I opened his locker, took the hardhat out, and put it on his head. “Don’t suck up to George Dillard,” I said, “he’d wring the last drop of blood from your body before he'd give a bonus.” I thought that’d fix things, but stupid me, it didn’t. Jorge still worked pretty hard, but stayed weary of outperforming everybody. He really did try to avoid George Dillard’s eye. Thing is, the yard’s only so big and George is the owner. You can’t tell him to buzz off; you can’t hide without a good excuse; you can’t work and stay vigilant all at once. Everything hit the fan when clouds rolled in from the west and a batch of water-sensitive lumber was left outside. Jorge noticed first and didn’t think to, or didn’t bother to, tell the rest of us. He moved the wood into the nearest warehouse just before the rain began. Apparently, George Dillard saw it all. Jorge disappeared without a trace a few days later and we didn’t see him for the next six years. We’re all used to guys starting and getting cold feet once they see the kind of work load we carry. But Jorge wasn’t like that. I actually think it pained him to downshift his work ethic. No, whatever happened, it wasn’t entirely his choice. Every once in a while we’d hear George say something like “he’s top of the class,” or “best investment I’ve ever made.” The other guys said Jorge was going to the university a few towns over, learning finance, management, and how to keep people under you struggling for survival. I didn’t want to believe it. Hell, I was his most outspoken defender in the locker room. My position didn’t make clocking in at dawn and clocking out at dusk any easier. But then someone saw Jorge’s pickup truck at George’s house. He was all dressed up like some Wall Street banker; slicked back hair, expensive watch, and everything. Then we all saw him in person. He walked out of the Dillard Lumber office straight-backed and arrogant, arm in arm with none other than George Dillard. A meeting was called and the whole staff gathered into the yard's largest warehouse. A makeshift podium was made with a pallet and a few stacked toolboxes. George got up there and beamed with pride like a child that's just figured out how to use the potty. I remember his words plain as day. "Gentlemen, and women, if you haven't noticed I've grown old and fat. Now, the word 'retirement' is new to my vocabulary. A few years ago it would've meant leaving a bunch of people, that I consider family, to fend for themselves. Not anymore." He pulled Jorge over and put him in a fake headlock. "I've found a man as capable as me. Hell, I've found a man as capable as my father. Of course, he'll need training. But under my tutelage, he'll make a fine boss. Let's have a round of applause for Mr. Peña!" I didn't hear much after that. Jorge got up there and read off the most scripted speech I've ever heard. I mean, hell, everyone saw the thing folded in his pocket. We'd lost a friend and gained a boss. That's when me and the guys swore to never concern ourselves with a new hire. What we didn't know was that there wouldn't be any new hires. Jorge apprenticed under George for six months, then the latter packed up and moved to the Gulf Coast. Employees dropped like flies after that. Jorge, or should I say Mr. Peña, first slimmed the office staff down to five. He made half the yard workers seasonal before letting them go the next year. Now it's just him, his secretary, and a dozen outside. What keeps me hanging on? I don't know if you've looked around but jobs are scarce. People tell me I should get a trade degree at the community college. Not one of them was reaching in their wallet to pay for it. I'll stay on until Peña fires me. That won't happen by the way. I've looked him in the eye a hundred times and all I see is shame staring back. You can dress a working man in a suit but his mind and muscles remember. I'm not going anywhere.