Chapter 8
The ladies packed into the bathroom, the only forum in the seamstresses’s living quarters large enough for a mass audience. The barracks-style living quarters were a squat two stories—twelve rooms on each floor, four girls in each room. With girls standing in the showers and draped on the sinks, most of the seamstresses were present and accounted for. Wei Ling and Shi Shi Wong’s roommates, twin sisters from Thailand with unpronounceable names, laid out their plan and asked for volunteers. The punishment for being caught was going to be severe. Physical abuse, fines they couldn’t afford to pay, and the continued suspension of privileges that began when Wei Ling moved into the infirmary.
The women nodded. They understood.
The girls returned to their rooms and began quietly and methodically looking through their belongings for anything made of paper. The writing tablets were first to go, followed by napkins, paper towels, torn pieces of tissue boxes. Nothing was considered too outrageous and nothing was turned down. Old letters from family members, envelopes, the borders from old newspapers. They were all ripped into manageable pieces.
The girls stayed up all night. With cramping hands and watering eyes, they wrote identical sentences on every piece of paper. They shared the pens and the half dozen short golf pencils someone had brought back from a trip into town. Eyeliner worked well, and was in plentiful supply. They finished twenty minutes before the morning wake-up call, split the piles of paper among themselves, and waited for an opportunity. They didn’t have to wait long. ***
The emergency shipment of khaki shorts was nothing short of a catalogue order from God. The summer fashion season was in full swing and the popularity of the knee-length, double-pocket, Army-drab-green shorts was a surprise hit at the Republic Outfitters. Every store on the East Coast was sold out and the backorders were growing at an outstanding rate. A rush order for twenty thousand pairs sent the busy sweatshop floor into a pace of delirium rarely seen. The fabric was scheduled to arrive the following morning and the ladies were told to prepare for serious work. They had two days to complete the order. Twenty thousand pairs of shorts. Ten thousand pairs a day. Sleep was optional, dictated by Lee Chang.
The smell of oiled machinery and the acrid stench of dye filled every corner of the vast sweatshop floor. Dust hung in the air, tiny particles of fabric sent into motion by the relentless crisp snipping of scissors powered by calloused hands. Each worker hunched over her identical workspace—a sewing machine, a single drawer, and a two-square-foot chunk of smooth tabletop that was barely enough room to sew a pair of pants. Heads down, they silently ran fabric under the bobbing needles of their machines, the non-stop mechanical hum as constant as the summer heat. It was tedious, carpal-tunnel-syndrome-inducing work. Conversation was limited to work-related topics, and there wasn’t much to discuss when you are sewing fabric at a pace of one pair of shorts every five minutes.
The girls worked in teams, the sweatshop floor divided into different groups. The seamstresses were the majority of the floor’s workforce, but everyone took turns learning the ropes and honing their skills in three other areas: inspection, packing, and fabric preparation. The seamstresses passed the shorts to the finishing group who added the zippers, buttons and appropriate tags. Once they were completed, the goods went through inspection and were then packed according to the customers’ specifications. Chang Industries’ lone female henchwoman oversaw the activities in the inspection room. She grabbed a pair of shorts from the finished stack at random, yelling as necessary when she found a defect. Once the goods passed through her station, the strongest of the seamstress workforce folded and packed the goods.
Starting first thing in the morning, the girls in packing took on another responsibility. Each pair of shorts was packaged with a piece of paper. Careful not to draw the attention of the foreman, the packing team removed the pieces of paper hidden in their own pockets, socks, and sleeves, and stuffed a note into every pair of shorts that came through their hands. Beneath the plastic bag in the dirty trashcan in the bathroom, other seamstresses stashed additional notes for the girls in packing to replenish their supplies. For one full shift, the routine was the same. A note in the pocket, the shorts folded, and then placed in boxes according to their size.
The group functioned well as a team. Chang Industries, if nothing else, ran efficiently. And the girls were counting on that efficiency to get the shorts off the island before the shit hit the fan.
Chapter 9
Jake picked up the ten-foot yellow moving van from a sketchy rental lot near New York Avenue. It took one trip to move the bed, a sofa, and the dining room table set. On his second trip, he wrestled with his bike, a couple hundred books, and miscellaneous household items that hadn’t been used since the funeral.
Kate met him at his new apartment near Cleveland Park to help him move and unpack. The one-bedroom apartment was on the fourth floor of the oldest building on the block, and the lack of an elevator became a serious issue with the weight of the sofa in his arms. The narrow staircase and tighter hallways added to the nightmare of moving. Jake felt guilty for having his girlfriend of four weeks help him move the sofa, but he was a gentleman and gave her the light side of the load.
She wasn’t his first choice of moving partners. His friends were in Europe and Uncle Steve was on crutches. Besides, Kate had volunteered for moving duty, and she didn’t complain. It was another check in favor of his girlfriend in the “pros column” of his mental pros-and-cons list.
By noon, the three-room rental started to look like an apartment. Jake didn’t need much to get by and it showed. He rearranged the sofa and the TV in the living room while Kate unpacked the dishes in the kitchen. He gave her free range to put things where she saw fit. The kitchen wasn’t his forte, and as long as he could find a plate, a bowl, and a glass, he was fine.
Finished, Jake and Kate sat at the small dining room table and looked around.
“It looks good,” Kate said, pleased with herself and her interior decorating skills.
“It’ll do,” Jake replied. “All I have to do is hang a few pictures and get a bookcase or two.”
“I need to get home and take a shower,” Kate said, standing and wiping the hair from her face. “We have to be at my parents’s by three. I’ll pick you up at your mom’s house in an hour.”
Kate left and Jake watched her walk down the squeaky staircase and its many turns. She was a good woman. He was nervous about meeting her parents, but he couldn’t avoid them much longer without raising suspicions. They had only been together a month, albeit a passionate one, but her family was close-knit and they lived nearby. Besides, it was the Fourth of July and the plan was for a backyard barbecue. Jake reasoned there were few things less stressful than a cookout with burgers and hotdogs.
He threw some food in the goldfish bowl, and the two identical black bubble heads with fan-like fins fought over the flakes like it was their last supper. He grabbed his keys and locked the door on his way out. He had just enough time to return the van, get back to his mother’s house, and take a shower. ***
Kate’s Lexus pulled up to the guardhouse.
“Miss Sorrentino,” the unfriendly guard said with authority.
“Hi, Max,” Kate answered.
Jake leaned forward and waved, the guard unimpressed with Kate’s passenger and guest.
“Quite a party your parents are having today.”
“They do it every year. You’re welcome to stop by after you get off work.”
“Thank you, but I have to get home. I’m taking the kids to see the fireworks.”
“Well the invitation is there if you change your mind. You can bring your kids.”
“Have a good evening, Miss Sorrentino.”
The entrance to the private community was nothing more than a guard booth with a flimsy gate, but it made the residents feel better. As the car pushed forward, estates peeked through the heavily wooded street. The farther they drove, the larger the houses became. Jake grew nervous. He was in millionaire country—congressmen, football players, internet company cash-outs. They lived here, and they lived well.
“Nice homes,” Jake said.
“Yeah I guess they are,” Kate answered as if it were an original thought. Jake wasn’t sure whether to believe
