My Specifications

The sound of the loom becomes intoxicating. It's clattering rhythm becomes a salve to my mind. I sit at my desk and go over figures. I am a black man with medium brown skin named Skyler Saunders. Tall and straight. I have an angular face with a short, cropped Afro. It is 1881 in Wilmington, Delaware and the rest of the country is still reeling from the ravages of the Civil War. I don a crisp white shirt with cufflinks and a black suit, tailor made to my specifications.

I use this time period to get up and go around the clothing factory called Saunders Clothing Company where we process clothes for children. This is business, my business. It is Everything that happens here is because I have put it in motion. That wouldn’t be much to say but as a man of color living in America just being emancipated, it carries weight. Speaking of weight, I see a young man with rolls of cloth, biceps bulging, trying to keep all of it together.

“Hinkman! Do you have all of that?”

“Yes, sir!” He flashes a grin. He makes six cents an hour. I try to feed my employees as much as I can. The going rate for his job is three cents an hour. I think it’s important to keep in mind the benefits that those who work for me have earned.

Now, comes the love of my life…Floressa. She is petite with long legs, soft facial features and ample bosom. Her skin looks like cinnamon.

“Good morning, Mr. Saunders,” she calls to me.

“Didn’t you already say that to me earlier at home?”

“Yes, but I just thought I should remind you.”

We embrace for just a moment. The time for us to be more than cordial with each other passes. We break from our hug and continue. She’s a saleswoman and I met her when I bought this company from her father. We have three children, Frankson, Melia, and Gardenia. I think of them as I see a ribbon of deep blue that looks like blood oozing before my feet. The indigo dye!

I burst through the doors and see that the entire room is saturated with the purplish dye, about ankle high. Some of my employees have passed out. Others slosh through it as the vats spill out the precious substance. I see Floressa running towards me. She whips out a whistle and blows with sudden, exact blasts.

I try to use some of the linen to sop up the mess. We had just installed a telephone in the office. She lifts her dress, but it is to no avail. Her starch white clothing at the bottom looks like the ocean. She continues on with her journey to this new device. I don’t even think I’ve used it ten times.

“Operator! Operator! We have an emergency!” Her voice sounds sure and clear, despite the events going on around her.

“What is your location, ma’am?”

“We are located on West Fifth Street. Please send someone.”

“It will be a few moments, ma’am, but we will send a fire engine to that location,” the operator said.

In time, I’m trying to keep other heads cool. I see Hinkman with a determined look on his face. He looks like John Henry fighting a machine on the railroad. I can see his dark skin tense up, his teeth clench as he tries to stop the flow of the indigo.

“Sir! I Think I almost have it!” He shouts. The source issues even more of the liquid and washes Hinkman away into a wall. He is unconscious. I run to him, concerned with his safety. I carry him into an adjacent office and get him breathing again.

“I’ve got to go back out there, sir!”

“No, Hinkman. You stay here and rest up. You’re going to die out there with this stuff reaching past our knees, now!” I hear sloshing. There are firemen rushing towards the vats with sealant to keep the dye from further spilling out onto the ground.

Floressa stands right behind the final fireman. She looks at me. Her face is somehow not worried. She appears to be intrepid in her demeanor. Hinkman loses consciousness and regains it again. He looks as if he just lifted a railroad engine and all the cars by himself. It seems to me that we can wade through the dye which has risen up to our waists already. He is on my shoulder and I bring him out of the inky stuff.

Floressa rushes past the fireman.

“You can’t stand there, ma’am. We’ve got a job on our hands to keep everyone safe,” said the black fireman, Tayman Tuttle, of the only black firehouse which would receive our call. Floressa backs away and lifts the bottom of her dress where the indigo had rushed out into the halls. I’m still busy trying to get Hinkman out of there before he expires in front of my eyes. The firemen all close in and lift him out of the purple fluid.

Floressa runs to me. We embrace again. She kisses my face.

“You worked like a champion back there,” I declare to her.

“You didn’t do so bad yourself,” she announces.

We run out of the factory and see the other employees waving their hands in the summer heat. The earthy, smokey and grassy odor from the dye covers the workers. Their clothes look like they have been splashed with blueberry juice. The looks on all their faces paint a portrait of the resilience against the stuff that could have drowned them. I go out to them and address the matter.

“What we have just experienced is a momentary lapse in order and everyday business. I am glad that no one was seriously hurt. That is the most important issue in all of this. We will recover from this miniature disaster. I thank you all for your bravery and courage and good sense. We will be cleaning this mess up just as soon. I know you want to get out of this hot sun, so I’m ensuring you all to go to the ice house to cool down a bit. There will be carriages available to offer you safe travel. It’s all on my tablet. Try to relax and be prepared for when we open this place once more.” I get a few claps and I see sincere looks on all of their faces. Not one of them shows a sneer or a look of resentment. Floressa stands next to me and holds my hand. We walk down the steps of the factory.

“They’re saying it was the summer heat that popped the seals off the vats. They're putting safety valves on them, now. This should never happen again,” she said.

“Let’s make sure it doesn’t.”