A Reminiscence by Joseph Stevenson Drawing by Kent Dixon In the spring of 1977 I was sent in a team of union laborers to the Trojan Nuclear Power Plant for the yearly maintenance shut-down. For a month we worked six and seven day weeks, ten to twelve hours a day, at the best wages I'd ever seen in my life. I call it a "holiday" for the simple reason that there was practically nothing for us to do there, and we filled all those hours as best we could with naps, conversation, cards, reading matter, getting high, and staring into space. Trojan. Who on earth picked that name for Oregon’s only nuclear power facility? Yes, the plant’s logo does feature an image of the head of that famous wooden horse left as an insidious gift at the gates of Troy. In 1970, like the Trojans before us, we opened the gates and ushered in this icon of modern technology. Since then, many of us have grown to mistrust this gift horse, to peer into its mouth apprehensively and lament the difficulties of removing it. You’ve heard a lot of contradictory analysis and opinion, endless statistics and projections. You’ve heard absurd arguments: “Well, eating is more dangerous than nuclear power,” said the Governor of Washington. “After all, 300 people died in the U.S. last year after choking on their food.” “We had a shark problem off our beaches a few weeks ago,” said the Governor of New Hampshire, “ and if we can handle the sharks I guess we can handle nuclear power.” But have you ever wondered what actually goes on in the belly of the beast? Rolling in Money When Portland General Electric (PGE) began construction of a nuclear plant on the banks of the Columbia River, several friends of mine in Astoria found employment there. The stories they told were hard to believe. Lots of overtime, plus Saturdays and Sundays at time-and-a-half or double-time, meant that even the lowest-paid crafts were grossing over $500 a week, with as much as $1,000 not uncommon. At the same time the work pace was at an all-time low. Scores of men with nothing to do were given brooms and told to look busy. Many sought out places to sleep, play poker, drink, smoke and bullshit. With everybody rolling in money, drugs of every description and even women were easily available in the parking lot. There are many legends that have drifted down from those construction days, including the story of the fellow who only showed up once a week—to pick up his check. After a few months of this he was discovered and disThere are many legends that have drifted down from those construction days, including the story o f the fellow who only showed up once a week-to pick up his check. charged, but he symbolized the absolute minimum effort necessary to get by on the Trojan project. And so it went for several years, but then just before the job was finished, a belated effort by environmental groups threatened to shut down the whole project. PGE’s answer, well one of them anyway, was to hire hundreds of extra men for whom there was absolutely nothing to do, and for the last few months the place was literally awash with surplus workers. According to my friends, it got so crowded that it was difficult to find a good place to sleep anymore. Apparently PGE calculated that the working man would take the cash and tell the environmentalists to bug off. This ploy seems to have characterized the company’s public relations strategy right down the line. Keep Breathing Until Quitting Time At 8 a.m. I .joined a group of about 100 new men milling around in front of the plant’s entrance building, where every worker passes in and out under the scrutiny of armed guards and metal detectors. No one is allowed inside the perimeter fence until he has been indoctrinated, photographed, checked over with a geiger counter and badged. For three days we were briefed on safety regulations and radiation control procedures, and given a rudimentary explanation of the plant’s operation. Afterwards there was a written exam. Those who passed were issued little blue cards, those who failed got little yellow cards, Clinton St. Quarterly 21
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