Pete

This morning someone reported on TV that the Hollywood artists' strike has been particularly hard on gay people in the entertainment industry. For a few moments I didn't get it, and then I remembered Pete.

A year after World War II ended, my father was working as a machinist in an oil refinery. We lived out of town on four acres, and we had two horses that had cost $150 total. Pete, another refinery worker, loved horses and was a frequent visitor.  Pete was Mexican-American. 

The oil workers union, which had foregone raises during the long conflict,  went out on strike for a pay increase. They would lose the strike, and my father would end up in a different union.  

Anyway, after a month or two of striking, Pete visited us and told my father that he had to cross the picket line and return to work. He was going to scab. His family was broke, and Pete, an ethnic outsider, had been unable to find a job to tide his wife and children over during the strike. 

My father said that he understood. They shook hands, and I never saw Pete again. My father tried to retain the friendship, but Pete wouldn't have it. He said he felt ashamed. 

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