By the time the picketing day ended Harry was relaxed and joking with the men as they came in with their signs. When all the signs had been piled against the wall, and everyone gone, Harry stayed to have one last smoke while sitting in his chair behind his desk. The tension that made him feel as if his body was going to split was forgotten now. All the signs were back; the books were stamped; the big boys liked the way he was handling the strike and he had a nice whisky glow. Everything was going along just fine. The men kept moving like they was supposed to and everybody was really workin ta break the bosses backs. Nothin to it. Alls we gotta do is keep that picket line movin and the shop closed and theyll be on their knees beggin us please come back on our terms. The first day of the strike was over.
Harry flopped at the kitchen table and tried to ignore his wife as she served supper and asked questions about how the strike went and how long would it be . . . She put the food on the plates and sat down and started eating, still asking questions, Harry mumbling answers. He glanced at his wife from time to time and soon his body started to tighten and it continued until his body was once more one gigantic knot. He felt like rapping her across the face. He looked at her. She continued to ask questions. He dropped his fork on the plate and got up from the table. Where you going? Back to the office, I think I forget something. He rushed from the house before she could say anything and went to the bar. He went to the end of the bar and stayed there, alone, drinking, saying nothing. After an hour or so he once more started to feel better and soon became conscious of a few of the neighborhood guys standing a few feet away. Actually what attracted him to them was a high pitched feminine voice. It took a moment or two for him to realize that one of the guys standing near him was a fairy. He looked at him, trying not to be too obvious, lowering his eyes everytime somebody moved his head toward him, slowly raising them again to stare at the fairy. Harry couldnt hear everything he was saying, but he watched the delicate way in which he emphasized what he said with his hands, and the way his neck seemed to move in a hypnotic slowmotioned manner as he talked and gestured. He seemed to be telling the guys about a party, a drag ball, that had taken place last Thanksgiving at a place called Charlie Blacks. Harry continued to stare and listen, fascinated.
They stayed there for more than an hour, Harry listening and ignoring his beer. When they left he watched them leave hoping they were going across the street to the Greeks so he could follow them in a few minutes, but they got into a car and drove away. Harry continued to stare out the door after they drove away and only the sudden blaring of music from the jukebox caused him to blink his eyes and turn back to the bar. He lifted his glass automatically and finished his beer.
He stayed at the bar until about midnight, the image of the fairys face and hands still in his mind, his voice still in his ear. When he finished his last beer and left for home he was unaware of his body: partly from his preoccupation with the image and sound, partly from the beer. The fresh air clouded the image slightly, but it was still there. It was still there when he undressed and fell into bed. He lay on his side away from Mary, but soon Marys groping hand and voice forced the image to dissolve. When she first started caressing him it was still with him and excitement shocked through him. Then he became aware of her and there was nothing but her and anger, the anger keeping alive the excitement. He bolted around immediately and pounded on her trying desperately to evoke the image and sound but it was irrevocably gone for now and Mary groaned and scratched . . .
He rolled over, lay awake for a while, once more almost crying, the confusion blinding him, but he was so exhausted from all that had happened that day that he soon fell asleep.
The next morning he awoke early and left before Mary had a chance to speak to him. He went to the Greeks and had coffee and cake, glancing at the clock every now and then, but still it wasnt even 6:30 yet. He had another cup of coffee, another cake, gulping them down, still looking at the clock every few minutes feeling a need to rush, no thought from what or to where, but only a vague yet crushing pressure of time, time that seemed to wrap itself around him like a python. He dropped money on the counter and went across the street to his office. He went immediately to his desk and sat down, looking at the desk for many minutes—the serpent not loosening its grip—unable to feel the air around his body. He lit a cigarette and looked around the office. He went over to the beer keg and pumped for a while but nothing came out. Not even a hint of foam. It was empty. Theyll be here with another one soon though.
The python continued to crush him and time seemed motionless. The hands on the clock were stuck. The urgency now was not only for him to move, but for time to move too; for the men to come, to take their signs, to walk, to joke, to drink coffee and beer; for him to stamp books, to listen, to tell, to watch. They had to come soon. A cigarette only takes a certain amount of time to smoke and though this takes time it seems to take less and less with each one and you can only smoke so many, there comes a time when you have to stop, when you just cant light the next one ... at least not for a while.
He opened the rear door and looked around not really seeing anything. Nothing seemed to really exist. The objects in the office were there, they could be seen each in its place, yet still there was confusion. He knew what each object was, what it was for yet there was no real definition. He sat at his desk for a while, walked around for a while . . . sat . . . walked . . . sat . . . walked . . . looked . . . sat . . . walked . . . the only important thing was that the men get there. They had to. The day had to start. He walked . . . sat. . . smoked . . . the python still there. Were there no hands on the clock? He smoked . . . Drew a cup of coffee ... It was strong, bitter, yet it passed his mouth and throat without leaving a taste. Only a film. Dont clocks tick anymore? Is even the sun motionless. The water is boiled, poured over the coffee and it drips through and time passes . . . even if it only drips it passes . . . through. How long does it take his chair to get from the desk to the wall a few feet behind him when he pushes and the chair rolls on its little wheels? Even that takes time: time enough for a man to walk from the door to the signs, or from the urn to the door; enough time to stamp three books one right after the other: 1,2,3 . . . and yet there was not a definable thought in his mind. Only a terrifying effort to get from one side of a match box to another . . . the door opened and three men came in. Harry jumped up. The python slithered into the match box. The day had begun.
* * *
Whattayasay, bumping into the corner of the desk and stumbling toward the men. Bright and early, eh? Thats the way. Cant be too early for those bastards. Theres some coffee left. Have some new coffee soon. Gonna have some beer soon too. The men stood looking at him for a moment hearing his rambling voice, then started moving toward the urn. Guess I/ll order some cake an buns and stuff from some baker. Cant go all day without eatin, eh? and the union wants ta take care of its men. Cant hit the concrete without somethin. The men looked at the coffee, poured it out and started putting on signs. Dont forget to get ya book stamped, adjusting the sign on one of the men then rushing back to his desk, yanking open the drawer and plunging his hand in and bulldozing it back and forth until he found the stamp and ink pad. Gotta get yabook stamped. Anybody who dont have a stamp is gonna get his ass ina sling. The first crew who walked yesterday did a good job. Ya just gotta keep movin or the copsll break ya balls. The men put their books on the table, looking at each other as Harry pounded the books with the stamp, still rambling. The fuck-in copsed just love ta try and break the picket line. The men started moving toward the door. Dont stay in a mob, but stay apart and keep movin. You guys can take the front. I/ll send the other guys around back and on the sides and if anybody gives ya any trouble just yell, aint nobody gonna break this strike. The men left and started across the street to the factory, Harry yelling after them ta keep movin and make sure only the punk pencil pushers get in. The men shook their heads and continued walking. They had a little time to put in and then the day was theirs. Strikes can be o k s
ometimes. It was a nice day.
Harry hustled around the office. The beer should be there soon. He looked at the signs. They were o k. A few more men came in and Harry said ta grab a sign and he stamped their books and told them where to walk, and ta keep movin, and more men came in and grabbed signs and the day was really there now and soon the man came with the beer and Harry told him to come back with two more kegs later and Harry called for boxes of cakes and buns and signed all the bills spreading his signature across the bottom of the paper and putting his title, shop steward local 392, under it and Harry kept his glass filled with beer all through the day and the men came and went, took signs, returned them, had their books stamped; washed and polished their cars, played cards or just stood around talking and joking, enjoying the clear sky and warm weather; leaving when they finished their tour of duty and joking about the three day weekend and about this being the first Friday theyve had off since they cant remember when and not many of them took the strike seriously. Theyd have to picket for a while, a few days maybe even a week or two, but in weather like this who cares (if it gets a little warmer we can even go to the beach after walking) and theyll make the money back in no time with the raise and the unions going to give them food next Saturday so theres really nothing to worry about. It was an early vacation.
The keg of beer was empty almost an hour before the other two were delivered and Harry and a few others who had been drinking steadily were slightly drunk. When the two kegs were set up Harry told the guy to bring four more Monday morning. That should lastus, and he laughed his laugh.
During the afternoon Harry sat in the yard, in the back, drinking and talking with some of the men as they played cards or just sat around. When some one took a sign he yelled at them to come in the back and get their book stamped and they kidded him about what a hard job he had and he slapped them on the back and laughed his laugh and the men laughed and put on their signs and walked up and down around the factory, talking with the cops, kidding them about having to be there longer than they did and the cops smiled telling them they wished they could strike and maybe then theyd get a break and that they hoped the men got what they wanted without being out of work too long and occasionally one of the men would stand still for a moment and look at the cops and smile and someone else would yell, laughingly, to keep moving and the teams of pickets changed every hour or so and the conversation would start from the beginning between themselves and the cops, only an occasional word changing and then the cops too got a relief and the ones leaving waved to the men, happy that their day had ended and their weekend started and the new cops stood silent for a while, but they too, soon started talking with the pickets and everyone enjoyed the weather and the novelty and the day moved along as logically as the sun.
Harry was drunk by the time the last sign was piled against the wall. He put his stamp and pad back in the drawer and he and a couple of others stayed and finished the beer, hanging over the keg, pumping and pumping until nothing came out of the tap but a hiss. Harry put his arms around the shoulders of the two near him and told them they would show those sonsofbitches. And especially that punk Wilson. I/ll show that fuckin fairy, that queer punk. They all laughed.
Harry went across the street to the Greeks after locking his office. Some of the neighborhood guys were there, among them the ones who were in the bar last night, and Harry sat at the counter and ordered something to eat and occasionally spoke to the guys about the strike, they asking him how it was going and he telling them they hadem by the balls and they should come over and have a drink. He hung around the Greeks for a few hours until the guys left then he too left and went home.
The next day he slept late and left the house right after eating and went to the Greeks, but it was too early for any of the guys to be there. He sat around for a while then went over to his office and sat at his desk. He smoked a few cigarettes then called the Secretary of local 392 and told him that he was in the office just checkin on things and the Secretary told him he was doing a good job and Harry hung up the phone and tried to think of someone else to call but he couldnt think of another except the beer distributors number. He called them. He told them who he was and said that they might as well send over the four kegs now as wait for Monday. He sat around for a while, filled out his expense sheet then walked around the office until the beer was delivered and the kegs set up then he filled a pitcher and sat at his desk with it and a glass drinking and watching the street.
Sometime in the middle of the afternoon he saw a car park in front of the Greeks and a few of the guys get out so he locked the office and went to the Greeks. He asked the guys how they were doing and they nodded and he sat for a while with them, but no one else came in. Eventually he asked them if they would like some beer, I got four fuckin kegs in the office, and they said yeah, so they left, the guys leaving word with the counterman where they would be and went to the office. Harry got them glasses and he and Vinnie, Sal and Malfie sat around drinking beer. Harry told them how he was in charge of the office and the entire strike, but they didnt pay too much attention to him, figuring him for a creep from the first time he spoke to them, and just yeahd him and drank the beer and looked around the office. Malfie told him he should have a radio so they could listen to some music and Vinnie and Sal agreed and Harry said he didnt have one, but maybe he should get one. Yeah, sure yashould. The union oughtta give yaone so ya-wont go nuts just sittin around here doin nothin. Yeah. Why not. Harry told them he had a lot to do takin care of the strike. Ya dont know all the—if the unionll pay for the beer they should pay for a radio. Yeah. If you toldem yaneeded one they couldnt say nothin. Yeah. Yeah, they wouldnt say nothin if I got one. Yeah, and afta the strike ya could take it home. Who would know the difference. Yeah, why not? We can gettya a good one for 20, 30 bucks. Krist, thats a lotta money. A lotta money? Whats 30 bucks to the union. They got millions. We/ll getya a good radio and yacan giveus the money and get it from the union. Dont worry about it, they wont say nothin. As soon as we see a good one we/ll pick it up forya. The guys looked at each other and smiled thinking of the radio in the window of the new store on 5th avenue. We should be able ta get yaone by tomorrow. Yeah, a real nice job.
They continued drinking and talking, Harry telling them about the union and what he was doing. From time to time he picked up the empty pitcher and refilled it and set it on his desk, being sure to push his chair back and let it roll to the wall before getting up. After a few hours a few more of the guys came in and by the time the sun set Harry was getting drunk and entertaining about a dozen of the neighborhood guys, feeling like a patriarch because he was in charge of the strike. The guys drank the beer and ignored Harry, talking to him only when necessary; yet Harry was happy, enjoying having them around him and excited with anticipation. He asked Vinnie, laughing and slapping him on the shoulder, who that fruit was that was with them the othernight and Vinnie told him she was just one of the queens from uptown, onea Georgettes friends. Why, ya wanna meeter? Naw, slapping Vinnies knee, what the fuck I wanna meet a fuckin fruit for. I dont know, maybe ya go for that stuff, laughing and peering at Harry. Haha, leaning back in his chair, pushing with his hands against the desk, the chair rolling back to the wall. I was just wonderin what ya guys were doing with a fruit. I didnt think yahung around with those kindda fucks. Theyre o k sometimes. Theyre always good for loot when they got it and they getya high when yawanna. Stick around. She may be around later, smiling. Hahaha, rolling the chair back to the desk. I dont go for that shit. Im strickly a cunt man myself. I was just wonderin how come he hung around with you guys is all. I got more cunt than ya could fuck in a year. Shit, last night I had ta chase one away, a good look-in bitch too, but I promised the old lady Id throw a fuck inner, you know how it is. Ya gotta—Vinnie turned his head and started talking to Sal and some of the other guys, but Harry couldnt stop: he soliloquized about the babe who picked him up a few weeks ago and took him home and she had a new car and the blond and how many more women who dam
ned near fucked the ass offim, but they couldnt do that, he could out fuck any woman around and he never did like queers, everytime he saw one he wanted ta rapim in his mouth and whenever he throws a fuck inta the old lady she creams all over the place and Vinnie and the guys got up and walked away and Harry leaned toward a few of the other guys near by, his voice still working, the words still spilling, his laugh blurting out occasionally and he stopped for a second, drank his beer, filled the glass again and continued talking, lower, walking around telling the guys he could fixem up anytime they wanted ta get a good piece a tail and a few nodded, one or two even smiled, and soon Harry was able to stop talking and he went back to his desk and drank beer, more rapidly, keeping all the pitchers full, telling the guys ta drinkup, theres plenty more, the unions gonna keep the beer flowin, hahaha, and he emptied another glass, refilled it and soon was unable to move without staggering and he sat at his desk, pushing his chair back and forth from time to time, spilled a glass of beer on his desk and laughed as it trickled off the edge, someone yelling that it was a good strike and a few others yelled, yeah, and Harry laughed his laugh and pushed the beer off the desk with the palm of his hand and said theres plenty more and the guys laughed and soon tired of hanging around with Harry and told him goodbye, we/ll seeya, keep the beer cold, and Harry asked them not to go, hang around a while. We/ll getus some pussy later, but the guys said they had business and left.
Harry looked at his desk, the glass and pitcher of beer. haha. No work tomorrow. Gotta piss. He stood, bumped against the desk, shoved his chair back and laughed when it banged against the wall, leaned on the desk looking at the beer then staggered to the yard and pissed, sighing. Thats what I needed. A good piss. haha. Nothin like a good piss. Maybe the guysll come back tomorrow, ahh . . . thats betta. He turned off the lights and went home.
Last Exit to Brooklyn Page 12
