Rich and Bossy (Rich Boys)

8. Hazel

CHAPTER 8

Hazel

What to do, what to do?

How many hours have I spent staring up at this ceiling? All the time I’ve spent planning and dreaming, tracing the faint cracks in the plaster. I know them by heart, every single one. I could probably draw a map of my bedroom ceiling from memory, though I can’t imagine why that would ever need to be done. A party trick? I doubt it would impress anyone.

I thought I’d take on problems like these someday, but I never thought I’d do it before I even have my degree.

It never felt this heavy, this consequential, when I was planning my life out.

I know I always had a tendency to crush on the unattainable guys in school. The star football player, who always ended up with the head cheerleader, then they’d be elected homecoming king and queen. That was definitely not me.

Which makes my current predicament even more ironic.

He almost kissed me, right? Am I misremembering that moment?

I can’t quit thinking about Paxton. I guess I’m doomed to be that person the rest of my life, because Paxton Briggs is certainly the most unattainable of unattainables. I thought it was bad when the pool was limited to high school. Now, my brain is aiming at one of the most powerful men in the world, who happened to be a national football star before he got hurt.

I keep staring at the ceiling, hoping my next move will come to me. I have tried my best to balance work, studies, and this new passion I got myself into, trying to organize a union at one of the largest companies of all time.

You really go for it, don’t you!

I know part of it is my competitive side. It was just that day in the elevator, he made me so damn mad and frustrated. I just wanted to give him a headache, make him feel some of what my coworkers are feeling. A sense of danger, a sense that things might just get out of control.

I have plenty of interest at the warehouse, but it’s not enough. Not if we want to effect real change. Organizing laws say we’ll have to have a vote at some point. Even if I got every person I’ve talked to so far, which are the people who are most pissed at the company, we’ll need way more. There are probably thousands that just want to get their paycheck and stay off the radar. They’re afraid of rattling cages and I can’t blame them. Their families depend on that paycheck, even if they’re treated unfairly to get it.

I set up some social media pages, did everything I can think of. I had to filter the crap out of it to watch for spies and only add people I know and trust right now. I’ll have to make some new fliers. I want to be pissed at Paxton for stealing them, but I know the second I put them up, management will walk by and rip them down.

Funny, how that will never get caught on camera. No, that digital proof would somehow vanish if I asked to see it. Or I wouldn’t be privy to security footage, for safety reasons. Like they would suddenly care about safety when it affects the company. Everything is rigged against me. I know this.

I created a group on social media, and it has a few members in it. I try to post something every day to keep them engaged. I mean, it’s only been a few days, but still. It’s only the people I already talked to, plus a few people they’ve brought in there and vouched for.

I can hear my parents downstairs, having a conversation about something. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve heard them raise their voices at each other—not that I’m na?ve. I’m sure they have disagreements. But they kept it to themselves, most of the time. And they almost never let me know about it.

Dad’s advice plays in my memory. You have a big heart, but you can’t save everyone .

He dropped that little gem on me when I was designing the first batch of fliers. He admires my dedication, but when push comes to shove, he shares the opinion that there’s only so much one person can do. And I can’t heap everybody’s pain on my shoulders.

Sometimes the world just sucks, and you have to adapt to it. It’s never going to be fair.

I find that to be an excuse to just accept things. I think you have to fight for anything you want in this world, or it’ll consume you whole.

Maybe I’m a bright-eyed optimist who’s absolutely insane. But every single movement in history, that did a little good in the world, must have started with someone doing what I’m doing right now. Right? Why can’t it be me too? One person with the balls to stand up and say what everybody else only thinks behind closed doors. Why shouldn’t that be me? I’m the perfect person for it, because they can fire me, talk crap, make me out to be a horrible person. I won’t end up homeless. I don’t have kids and a family depending on my paycheck. I can survive whatever they throw at me.

If I’m serious about this, I need to dedicate myself. I need to get after it, and that means no more little drinks with Paxton or anybody else who wants to throw me off course. Who have a vested interest in sabotaging what I’m trying to do.

It’s not like I could get fired for it. Paxton is the CEO. If it gets out, he’ll be the one answering questions. I’ll be like, “Look, I was trying to get him to make some changes so we wouldn’t have to do all this.”

There’s something though. Something more I can do, and I know it, I just can’t figure out what it is. It won’t come to me.

I guess I could talk to some of my professors and see what they think. After all, they’ve taught me everything I know about labor practices and movements for workers. Maybe they could point me in a direction I haven’t thought of.

I glance up at my computer, and I see one of Campbell Page’s articles pulled up.

If ever there was an “aha” moment, it’s this one. It’s so bad I almost smack myself in the forehead, but that would be too cliché. That is the thing that’s been eating at me that I couldn’t figure out. It’s insane, yeah, but so is everything I’m doing.

She’ll be way too busy to respond. She probably won’t even see it.

But it’s worth a shot. It’s always worth a shot to try something, no matter how insane it sounds. You just never know.

Just the thought of doing it makes my stomach tighten. If she even sees a message, she’ll probably laugh. A twenty-one-year-old with no degree is going to go up against Rapid. Unionize their warehouse, in their home city of corporate.

I mean, how many people must reach out to her on a daily basis? She’s got something like half a million followers on Facebook alone. She’s the largest pro-union voice in the country, maybe the world.

Even if she does notice, there’s no guarantee she’d have the time to take out of her day to answer me or point me in the right direction. I don’t know her. I’ve met her once at a conference and it was for thirty seconds. She won’t even remember, I bet.

You done psyching yourself out yet?

To hell with it. What’s the worst that can happen? I never hear back from her? I can still go to my professors and ask for help if she doesn’t get back to me.

I get up and go to my desk, where my laptop waits. “You can do this,” I whisper to myself as I go to her page, where there’s a list of upcoming speaking engagements and pictures from conferences she’s recently appeared at.

What should I say? I guess short, sweet, and to the point will do. But it has to be punchy. It has to be something that can get her attention.

It’s safer to type it out in a Word doc, then copy and paste. I don’t want to accidentally send something before I’m absolutely sure it’s what I want her to read.

I start typing out my thoughts.

Mrs. Page.

Is she a Mrs? I guess I should look that up. I’ll fix it when I’m done, I can’t lose my train of thought right now, so I keep typing.

I work for a very large company based out of Minneapolis, with offices and fulfillment centers all over the country.

Hey, I didn’t name drop anything. I’m sure she can figure it out, though. I’m not going to struggle to try to hide who I’m talking about.

Working conditions in the warehouses, fulfillment centers and among the delivery drivers have deteriorated to the point where employees have become concerned for their safety. This is due to increasing demands from management. We’ve addressed these grievances through appropriate channels, and have received no feedback, after months of waiting.

I’ve already spoken to a number of my coworkers, and all of them showed interest in organizing a union. I’m confident we could have a shot at this warehouse.

Are you really?

With Campbell on the team helping, yes!

But with so many locations across the entire country, and so many people affected, I don’t know where to go from here. I’ve tried to learn everything I can about the legal process, but I’m overwhelmed with information and how to make decisions from here. I know it’s a long shot, reaching out to you, but I figured if anybody could point me in the right direction, it would be you. Thank you in advance for taking the time to read this, and I hope to hear from you.

I read it back a few times. Hmm. Not bad. It’s not super formal, which I think makes it more human. Makes me sound more like a real worker experiencing these things with my coworkers.

Still, I spend a half-hour refining that short message, trying to get each sentence perfect and to the point. No rambling, where there would be time for her to space out. No repetition. This feels so heavy, like there’s so much riding on it. Probably because there is. I read, then reread, before finally pasting the text into the DM box.

Also, yes, she did get married to Penn Hargrove, but she has kept her maiden name in her professional life, so that is what I used.

I take a deep breath and hit send.

Terrific. I can’t take it back now.

I start to minimize the browser when Campbell’s avatar appears beside my message. “Holy hell.” My heart starts thumping in my chest. She’s reading it, or at least somebody is. Probably an assistant. I imagine she has some kind of PA who monitors these things for her.

And now I hate every word I wrote.

My brain is going nuts scrutinizing everything. You should’ve changed this. You should’ve said that.

Still, I wait with my heart in my throat—especially when an ellipsis appears under my message, telling me somebody’s typing a response.

“Oh, no. I didn’t prepare for this. Not this second. I was supposed to wake up and maybe there was a message, not instantly.” I hold my head in my hands for fear it might fall off my neck. This is all happening so fast, I don’t know what to do.

Calm down, it’s an assistant or something automated. Thanking you for the message and promising to pass it on to Campbell at the first opportunity.

I really need to chill out, or else Mom and Dad will find me slumped over my desk, dead from a heart attack.

Campbell: Hi, Hazel. Thanks for reaching out. Can I give you a call? There may be a lot to discuss here.

This can’t be real.

Is this real?

Am I awake? Am I dreaming?

I know most people’s heroes are pop singers, or actors, or authors, or something like that.

Not me, I’m staring down the barrel of a message from my idol.

I’d pinch myself, but I’m afraid I might wake up. Campbell Page wants to talk to me. Me! She knows I exist.

Compose yourself, please.

Right. Right.

It takes serious effort to keep my hands from shaking too hard to type out my phone number and some non-embarrassing words that make sense to go with it.

I really need a life. Campbell is well-known and all, but she’s a labor leader. Nobody in my life would know who she is.

Then, after I send the message, I have to stop myself from squealing when the phone rings.

“Ho. Lee. Crap.” I press the green phone button and my voice shakes when I answer. “H-hello?”

“Hi, is this Hazel? It’s Campbell Page.”

Yes, it is, I recognize her voice. The confidence in it. She’s so sure of herself. But she’s warm, too. She gives you the sense that you can trust her. At least, that’s how I feel.

“This is Hazel.”

“Hi.”

“Hi, I honestly can’t believe you even read my message, much less that you’re calling.” I’m going to hyperventilate. I’m going to pass out here and now. Mom will come up later and find me flat on the floor.

She laughs softly. “You caught me at a good time. I’m not always that easy to find, but we’re talking about Rapid, right?”

“Yes. I didn’t want to put it out there in the message.”

“That’s smart. You have good instincts. And if this is something you and your coworkers are serious about, you need that level of caution in everything you do.”

Oh, my God, I could die right here and now. I’m so glad she can’t see me—I’m sure my face is bright pink.

“Can you give me some additional information than what I got in the message? More specifics? Why you’re thinking about organizing there?”

“How much time do you have?” I joke, then instantly regret it. Could I be any more lame?

“I have all the time in the world, don’t leave anything out.” Her response is dead serious. “I’ve heard a lot of things in my life, but there’s always something new that surprises me. So lay it all out there.”

Well, she asked for it. I tell her everything, every last detail I can think of.

“Wow.” Even she sounds surprised.

“There was a twenty-car pileup on the Pennsylvania Turnpike last month. Did you hear about that?”

“I saw pics online. The story went national. It looked really bad.”

“One of our trucks was there. The driver came from our facility. Do you know they actually wrote him up for being late on his deliveries and getting back for his next pick up? The wreck was a national story, all over the news. You could see his truck on the camera shots. His GPS proved it.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. They really make you wear wrist trackers? Are you allowed to opt out of that?”

“I mean, maybe in the fine print, if you have some kind of medical excuse. But the way they presented it, was that it was not an option. They made it sound like it was so they could safely tell where everyone was. But they use it to write people up for not being productive and meeting quotas.”

“Oh, I’m sure they would say it’s for safety.”

“Which is crap. Safety is the worst it’s ever been. The equipment needs updated. Now you have to dodge automated robot arms everywhere if you walk through the floor. Old equipment goes down all the time, but we’re blamed for running slow. The trackers were the thing that got me the most, though. I think we’re a pilot program, to work the bugs out, then they’re rolling it out to all warehouses before we get into the holiday season.”

“Someone has lost their mind over there.”

“It even manages our vitals. I know for a fact, I’ve taken rests where my heartrate will slow, and suddenly there’s a manager behind me, staring. I can’t prove that, because they’d never let me see it, but other people have said the same things. It vibrates on our wrists too, if our hands stop moving. I guess it tracks it like a smart watch. They don’t tell us how any of it works, just that we have to wear them.”

“Absolutely ridiculous.”

“I think so, but anytime we push back, we’re told it’s all normal. This is just to help the company. Help make us better at our jobs.” It’s so nice to finally have someone listen who understands how insane this is, what they’re doing to people.

I tell her about Jim getting hurt the other day, and how they tried to keep him at the company medical facility and not have him go to a hospital. I keep thinking how it could’ve been a whole lot worse than him cutting his finger badly. Now my voice is trembling for another reason, full of emotion. So what if she’s my idol? I can’t help it. “Someone’s going to get killed in that place. I feel like I need to do something. Anything.”

We go over all the paperwork I and my coworkers have submitted to HR. Every meeting raising our concerns with Paul and the management staff. How they’re always looking into it, then nothing ever changes.

Silence stretches out between us for so long, I have to check the screen to make sure we’re still connected. I think she’s just making notes and reading all of them.

Finally, Campbell clears her throat. “Would it be okay if I fly out there this weekend?”

Wait what?

The force of my surprise slams me back into my chair. I always thought this was a pipe dream. Like something to threaten the company with, scare them a little to get some of these demands met.

With Campbell Page on our side, we may actually get a union formed. Like it feels like it could really happen.

“Really? You’re serious?” This still doesn’t feel real. “Like to help us?”

“Absolutely. This is what I do, and it would be a huge win if we could get a Rapid warehouse organized. It’s bigger than just that company, Hazel. If we can pull this off, it inspires others. They see Rapid employees putting up a fight, and the company giving in, and they say hey, we can do that too. None of you should be forced to work like this.” Anger practically drips from her voice, bringing to mind some of the impassioned speeches I’ve heard her deliver. I never thought she’d be delivering one directly to me, though.

“Yes, well, yes, whatever you think we should do.” Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, this is really happening. I can’t believe it. I’m kicking myself for almost talking myself out of sending that message now.

“So, could you pick me up at the airport? I can send you my information once I get a ticket. I can snag a car and a hotel room after I get settled in, but I want to hit the ground running.”

“Of course. I can do that.” I clamp a hand over my mouth, horrified that I’ve pretty much screamed at her. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get so loud.”

“That’s okay.” For the first time, it sounds like she laughs a little. “I know how it feels when somebody finally takes your concerns seriously. What a relief it is. Tells you you’re not crazy.” Her laughter fades fast. “But listen. There’s something serious you need to consider before we get started.”

“Okay.”

“If we move forward with this, you will be the face of it. Do you understand what I’m saying? You’ll be the one standing in front of the room, talking to people. You’ll be the one giving interviews. It’ll be your face, your voice, your name attached to this. And if you’re worried about your age, and being taken seriously, then you need to get the most seasoned, well-respected veterans of that warehouse on your side, immediately. And it might sound easy to do, but it’s not. When the company finds out what we’re doing, they will go after those people first, the same way we will. And we don’t have anything to offer them other than they’d be doing the right thing.”

“Wow.” This got so heavy, so fast. “I didn’t…”

“Are you comfortable with that?” Her voice gets hard. “I have to be firm about this, Hazel. This is one of the largest companies in the world. We’re talking about real consequences here. Big ones. And once we open this door, there’s no closing it again. You hear what I’m saying? Are you sure you want to move forward with this?”

“Well, I mean, we’re protected by union laws and all that, right?”

“Hazel, listen to me…”

I lean in a little, even though she’s not in the room. “Yeah?”

“They will not play by the rules, and it will get worse if we make progress. It will be an ugly fight. The laws mean nothing to these people. They find ways around it. Sometimes they take risks if they think they can string it out long enough for people to forget and pay a small fine. They will buy off anyone they possibly can. They will smear you up and down, then back and forth. You have to be willing to be destroyed, if it comes to that.”

I gulp. I knew all of that already, but to hear her confirm it is something else. “Yes.” I nod a little. “I’ll do whatever it takes, for my friends.”

“I believe you.” She laughs a little. “I don’t know why, but you’re very convincing. I can hear the sincerity in your voice. You’re dedicated to this, aren’t you?”

“I really am.”

“Okay good, I just had to be sure.”

It’s the simplest decision I’ve ever made in my life. I don’t care how many interviews I have to give. How many hands I need to shake. I don’t even care that they might paint me as an absolutely horrible person. This is bigger than me and it always has been—and this sort of opportunity doesn’t come around more than once. “Thank you. For helping me.”

“Thank you for reaching out. We’ll get to work, soon.”