On this one balmy night, Corey Trammel feels the heat not just from the weather but from all these buzzing phones and email alerts cutting into his son’s baseball moment. Now, imagine yourself leaning back in those rickety bleachers, watching an 11-year-old pitch a fastball while trying to dodge an avalanche of existential union panic. Right there is Corey, a counselor and a man trying to juggle too many flaming bowling pins at once at the Oakdale Federal Correctional clime. It’s as if the universe handed him a script too wild to be fiction, but here we are.
Corey’s the head honcho of Local 3957, part of the massive American Federation of Government Employees. They’re supposed to have some clout, right? Over 800,000 pairs of hardworking hands across a slew of federal shadows, doing all the unseen heavy lifting that’d make Atlas shrug. But out here, in central Louisiana’s heartbeat, the truth is slippery, and the union that once boasted near 200 soldiering alongside Corey, has shrunk to… well, less confidence-inspiring numbers. It’s hard keeping the band together when the powers-that-be slyly swipe at you, step by sinister step.
Now, here’s the kicker: Most of these folks had a soft spot for Trump in ’24. So when his newest game plan to give federal organizations a facelift rolled around, it was the kind of gut punch that leaves you winded and questioning your choices. Corey’s a card-carrying Republican himself, a peculiar kind of irony not lost on him as he navigates this political labyrinth. Picture this: him making this realization while watching his son — too young to realize the weight his dad carries — hurl strike after strike on that mound.
The union once thrived like a chaotic orchestra with a federal trombone. But with the new orchestra conductor deciding to pull the plug on automatic dues deductions, the melody got real quiet, real fast. People like Corey? Forum moderators at best, with a war chest collected nickel by nickel, $19.40 at a time. “They keep kicking us when we are down,” he grits out, resonating a universal human sigh.
Beyond the local jazz, the sobering reality splatters across union faces from North Dakota to Texas. Folks are fighting battles on turf that shifts beneath them — feeling the threat of this massive existential bogeyman looming over, turning livelihoods into marshmallow fluff, precariously close to the fire.
Politics? Politics tastes bitter these days. It’s the feeling of a friend ghosting, even when that friend wore the same team jacket once. Corey left messages for Mike Johnson, the House’s new maestro — they go unheard, leaving the plot as unsatisfying as a cliffhanger in a soap opera.
Feel the burn of contradiction? It’s singing harmony with the choir of ‘buyer’s remorse’. In the thick of it, you get this sense that this ain’t a quaint little comedy. Folks remain glued to their seats on the wild ride, wondering if taking a stand is just a wild stallion they need to tame or an untameable force leading to nowhere.
And here it is, raw as it gets — the crux of being part of something bigger but not always brighter. Chaos blooming under streetlights, stuck between hope’s whispers and despair’s echoes, with Corey lifting the torch as best he can.
