Last Exit to Brooklyn

by Hubert Selby Jr.

  He left the house the next morning as soon as he dressed and went to his office. He filled a pitcher with beer and sat at his desk. He leaned back and put his feet on the desk. It was kindda nice to sit alone and drink beer for a while. He could use the relaxation. Hed been working hard on the strike and tomorrow would be another busy day. It was kindda nice to sit alone in his office. He really liked it. It really wasnt so bad. He picked up the pitcher to refill his glass. It was empty. Didnt think hed been there that long, but I guess maybe I have. He laughed and got up and refilled the pitcher and then his glass. Somea the guys should be around soon. Must be late enough. He sat back and put his feet back up on the desk. It wasnt bad being alone though. For a while.

  A car stopped in front of the Greeks and he got up from his desk and went to the door and yelled across to the guys going into the Greeks. They looked and strolled across the street, Vinnie carrying a package. Harry stood at the door as they walked in and the guys flopped around after filling glasses with beer. Vinnie put the package on the desk and tore the paper off. Here yaare Harry. We toldya we/d getya a radio. Hows this? pretty good, eh? If we wasnt so desperate for loot youd never get it. Harry walked over to the desk and looked at the radio, turned the knobs and watched the needle move along the dial. Youre lucky we/re beat man or we/d never giveit toya for a lousy 30 skins. Now at least we can have some music around here. This joints like a morgue, unwinding the cord and plugging it in. It even has short wave man, turning the dial and stopping when a voice singing in a foreign language came from the radio. See. I wish ta fuck I could keep the thing. Yeah, it sounds pretty good, turning the dial again, stopping as the sound of different languages reached them. Hey Vin, get some music, yeah? Vinnie switched it back to the standard band and Harry reached over and started toying with the dial. He watched the needle move slowly across the lighted numbers and when a screeching sax wailed someone yelled, thats it man, and a hand pushed Harrys from the knob and tuned in the sax. The volume was turned up and someone told Harry ta fill up the pichas and someone slapped him on the back, great set, eh man? and Harry nodded and picked up a pitcher and refilled it and he watched and listened to the guys snap their fingers and yell with the music and Harry felt their friendship and felt too, again, spasms of expectation and everything seemed sortofright and Harry felt comfortable.

  When Vinnie told him to give him the money now Harry took the thirty dollars from his wallet and handed it to him and told the guys ta drink up, the brewery needs the barrels and laughed and toldem theres plenty more and once more started blithering and babbling about the union and women and the guys just ignored him and continued to drink until they got bored and left Harry with his beer and radio. Harry sat alone for a while listening to his radio, toying with the dials, drinking the beer, laughing his laugh, gripping the knobs tighter and twirling them fast then slow, moving the dial where and as he pleased, listening to a station for a few minutes, changing it, tuning in shortwave and feeling that he could drag the foreign countries in as he pleased.

  He stayed at his desk drinking beer and listening to his radio until his head started to hang toward his chest. He emptied his glass, unplugged the radio, put it under his desk, put out the lights, locked the door and started walking the few blocks, which would only take a few minutes and was only a short distance away, home.

  Harry was sick the next morning but dragged himself from the house to his office. His entire body was twitching and Harry forced down a few beers to straighten himself out before the men came. He got a couple of glasses down and a half dozen aspirin, his headache slowly leaving and the turmoil in his stomach subsiding, yet he still felt a tension, an apprehension, and he cursed the bars for not being open yet so he could get a shot and get rid of his hangover. When the men started coming, a little before 8, their joking and laughter, as they grabbed signs and had their books stamped, annoyed Harry. When all the signs had been distributed and fresh coffee made, Harry went to the bar for a couple of fast shots and came back convinced he felt better. When he got back to the office he turned the radio on and sat behind his desk drinking beer and joking with the men. When one of the officials called Harry told him he had bought a radio for the office, figured the men/d like a little music or maybe hear a ballgame when they come off the line, and the official told him to send a bill to the union and he would be reimbursed. Harry hung up the phone and sat back in his chair feeling very official and important; and although the morning passed slowly for Harry until he got over his hangover, the afternoon passed rapidly, especially after his phone conversation ( strike headquarters, local 392, Brother Black talkin) with the union official.

  When the last of the men left that night Harry sat at his desk drinking for a while then went across the street to the Greeks. He ate slowly until a few of the guys came in and then ate rapidly, talking and laughing. When he finished they went back to the office and drank and listened to the radio, the guys ignoring Harry as usual, just nodding or mumbling an occasional answer. A few more of the guys came in but they didnt stay too long and once again Harry was sitting behind his desk alone with a pitcher of beer and a glass. The sun had set and the street was quiet and cool and though Harry had been drinking beer all day, and had been feeling relaxed for hours, the butterflies in his stomach started again as he walked home.

  The baby was asleep when he got there and Mary was watching t v, waiting for him. She called him in the living room and Harry sat in a chair, Mary leaning over to rub his ear, Harry too confused and not drunk enough to shove her hand away. After rubbing his ear for a few minutes without Harry twisting his head away Mary sat on the arm of the chair and put an arm around his neck. A short time later she coaxed him into the bedroom and Harry undressed and lay beside her until she pulled him on her. Harry continued to drift, as he had through the day, only silently and lethargically, still experiencing the sharp depression that overcame him when the guys left and he was alone with his radio, beer, desk and chair, the depression of disappointment after a long wait. When Mary pulled him over on her he allowed his body to move in the directed direction and she put her arms around him, breathing on his neck, rolling under him. Harry just lay on her until he became conscious of her voice then rolled off, lit a cigarette and lay on his side smoking. Mary rubbed his back, kissed his neck and Harry continued to smoke, still immobile, still silent and Mary rubbed his ear and rubbed his arms until Harry eventually shook her hands off. Mary lay on her back for a while, mumbling and rolling slightly from side to side, Harry still silent, until Harry finally put his cigarette out and adjusted himself to go to sleep. Mary looked at his back for a while then rolled over on her side, pulled her knees up toward her chin and eventually fell asleep.

  Mary told Harry tagotahell when he told her to fix breakfast. He told her again to fix breakfast or hed break her fuckin head. Do it yourself and dont botha me. Harry called her a fuckin slut and left the house. Harry couldnt remember how he had felt the night before, but he did know he felt different this morning, the usual resentment against Mary filling his thoughts. She was once more responsible for his misery as were the bosses for the fact that he didnt make much money. Between them they tried to make his life miserable; they tried ta fuckim everytime he moved; if it wasnt for them things would be different.

  * * *

  Harry slowed down in his busding around the office as the days passed until, after a few weeks, he just sat, most of the time, behind his desk except for an occasional walk to the line to relieve the tension of just sitting in the small office. The men too slowed and while on the picket line moved just enough not to be standing still. When they spoke with each other it was with comparatively quiet voices and when they spoke with the police it was just a word or two, or, more usually, a nod. There was no desperation in their appearance or action, but the novelty of being on strike was over and now it was just a job like any other job only they werent getting paid for this. What little lightheartedness remained after the first full week of picketing slo
wly vanished with the forming of each Saturday food line and when the men went home with $10 worth of groceries. They had to report to the meeting hall and before the food was distributed the President gave a speech and the first Saturday he told them what a fine job they were doing on the line and especially praised brother Harry Black for the way in which he carried out his duties as organizer and administrator of the strike field office. He told the men that they had met with the companies negotiating committee each day the past week, but they were offering starvation wages and that their committee refused to give in to them even if they had to stay on strike a year. When he finished speaking the clique stamped, cheered and whisded and soon most of the men were applauding the President as he jumped from the platform and walked among the men slapping them on their backs and shaking their hands. Then the men lined up for their food bags. There were many comments, jokes and laughter as the lines slowly moved forward and each man was handed his bag, but when they were alone the bag looked small. The second Saturday the Presidents speech was even shorter, the applause quieter, the men more silent as they stood on line. Only a few could think of something funny to say. And so each week ended.

  When the men first started picketing the plant they would make jokes about the few executives who were going to work, greeting them occasionally with jeers and boos, but soon they cursed them each morning and each night, the police telling them to shut up and keep moving. After the first few weeks had passed the men stood still as the executives entered the building and started threatening them, the police waving their clubs in their faces and telling them to be quiet and keep the lines moving or they would pull them in. Each day the voices, curses and threats of the men were more vehement and after a few weeks more police were stationed at the entrance of the building in the morning and evening; and when they told the men to watch themselves and keep moving the men spit in front of the cops or mumbled something about goons; and each day the routine was the same except that it grew more intense and the men were continually looking for an excuse to hit someone, anyone; and the police were just waiting for someone to start something so they too could find relief from the boredom by cracking some-ones skull. And as the boredom increased so did the resentment: the resentment of the men toward the cops for being there and trying to prevent them from winning the strike; and the police toward the strikers for making it necessary for them to stand around like this for hours each day when they werent even allowed to go on strike if they wanted more money. The men moved as slowly as possible, sneering at the police when they passed them; and the police stood facing them all day swinging their clubs by the leather thong and telling the men to keep moving if they stopped even for a second; and the men would stand still for a moment, staring, hoping someone would say fuckyou to one of the cops so they could wrap their signs around their heads, but no one said anything and as a cop took a step forward the men started moving again and the strike and the game continued.

  When the men came back to the office now they dropped their signs on the floor, Harry telling them at first to take it easy then, after being told to go fuckhimself a few times, said nothing and picked the signs up when they left. Soon new signs had to be painted and each time the men saw newly painted signs they became more bitter and cursed the fucks in the company who were keeping them out of work, and cursed the cops for helping those fuckin-bellyrobbers.

  The company had been preparing for the strike many months before it started and so, when the first pickets donned their signs and started parading jubilantly up and down in front of the factory, the existing orders had been filled and work transferred to other plants throughout the country or subcontracted to other firms and the primary, and almost only, concern of the executives in the Brooklyn factory was coordinating the transferring and shipping of work and finished products between the various plants and subcontractors. The first few days of the strike were hectic and, at times, slightly chaotic for those executives responsible for coordinating work between the various firms, but after that everything proceeded routinely with only an occasional emergency that would be met with long distance calls and soon enough the situation would once more be under control.

  When the strike was months old a call came from one of the factories located in the northern part of New York State where the final assembling of large units was being done. The contract was a time penalizing one and if all the units werent delivered by the specified date a $1,000 per day, for each day over the time, would have to be defaulted by the company. The work had already been delayed for three days because of various failures and breakdowns, but the assembly line had finally been set up and half the factory and personnel were geared to complete the work by the specified time. The work had proceeded smoothly, and it was determined that the work would be completed on time, when it was discovered that one of the final elements, made in the Brooklyn plant, was missing. A call went in immediately to the Brooklyn plant and a quick check of the records indicated that the entire lot had been finished the day before the strike started but, for some reason, had never been shipped. The shipping department was almost empty so the crates containing the needed parts were found quickly. A call was made to the upstate plant and the information relayed along with a promise that they would go out tonight.

  Mr. Harrington cursed the men with him, but only for a moment, then started calling small neighborhood trucking firms to find one that would cross the picket line and deliver the material. He finally found one who said he would do it and quoted a fantastic price, but the manager had no choice but to agree and made out a check for half the amount, the other half to be paid when the delivery was made.

  The men on the picket line were startled when the trucks turned into the runway leading to the loading platform, but only for a second. They yelled at the drivers of the trucks that they were on strike and the drivers yelled fuck you. A few of the men tried to jump on the hoods of the trucks, but fell; a few others picked up stones and tin cans and threw them at the drivers but they just bounced off the cabs. When the men tried to follow the trucks to the platform the police grabbed them and held them back. The yelling of the men on the picket line was heard by the others hanging around the office and they came running; and a call was made from one of the police cars for additional men. Some of the police formed a line across the runway while others pushed the men back. Soon there were hundreds of men yelling and pushing; those in the rear shouting to shove the fuckin cops outta the way and get those fuck-inscabs; the men in front screaming in the faces of the cops and being shoved by the mob behind them into the line of police that was slowly weakening. For many minutes the amoeba like mass flowed forward, backward and around, arms and signs bobbing up and down over heads; white gloves and clubs raised; red infuriated faces almost pressed together, words and spit bouncing off faces; anger clouding and watering eyes. Then more police arrived by the carsful. Then a firetruck. Men leaped from the cars and were assimilated by the mass. A fire hose was quickly unraveled and connected; a loudspeaker screeched and told the men to breakitup. FUCKYOU FLATFOOT GO AND FUCKYA-SELF YASONOFABITCH IF YOU MEN DONT BREAKITUP WE/LL RUN YOU ALL IN NOW GET BACK FROM THAT RUNWAY YEAH, SURE, AFTA WE BREAK THOSE FUCKINSCABSHEADS DERE TAKIN THE BREAD FROM OUR MOUTHS IM TELLING YOU FOR THE LAST TIME, BREAKITUP OR I/LL TURN THE HOSE ON YOU WHO PAID YAOFF YASONOFABITCH The line of police had been extended and was pushing as hard as it could against the mob, but the men became more incensed as more cops fought them and the voice threatened them and they felt the power of their numbers and the frustration and lost hope of fruitless months on the picket and food lines finally found the release it had been looking for. Now there was something tangible to strike at. And the police who had been standing, bored, for months as the men walked up and down, telling them to keep moving, envying them because they at least could do something tangible to get more money while all they could do was put in a request to the mayor and be turned down by the rotten politicians, finally found the outlet they too had been waitin
g for and soon the line became absorbed by the mass and two and three went down to their knees and then others too, strikers and cops, and a sign swooped through the air and thudded against a head and a white gloved hand went up and then a club thudded and hands, clubs, signs, rocks, bottles were lifted and thrown as if governed by a runaway eccentric rod and the mass spread out, some falling over others and heads popped out of windows and doorways and peered and a few cars parked cautiously or slowed and observed for a moment and the mass continued to wallow along and across 2nd avenue as a galaxy through the heavens with the swooshing of comets and meteors and the voice that screeched now directed itself to the firemen and they walked slowly toward the grinding mass and a white glove clutched at a head and the glove turned red and occasionally a bloody body would be exuded from the mass and roll a foot or two and just lie there or perhaps wriggle slightly and four or five beaten and bloodied cops managed to work their way free from the gravity of the mass and stood side by side and walked back to the mass swinging their clubs and screaming and a sign was broken over one of their heads but the cop only screamed louder and continued to swing, still walking, until his club was broken over a head and he picked up the broken sign without breaking rank and continued and the thudding of the clubs on heads was only slightly audible and the sound not at all unpleasant as it was muted by the screams and curses and they stepped over a few bodies until a line of strikers was somehow formed and they charged the cops not stopping as the clubs were methodically pounded on their heads and the two lines formed a whirling heated nebula that spun off from the galaxy to disintegrate as the strikers overwhelmed them and kicked the cops as they tried to regain their feet or roll away and sirens screeched but were unheard and more police jumped from cars and trucks and another fire hose was unraveled and aimed the order given to open the hydrants and not wait until the police who were whirling with the strikers could extricate themselves and a few of the strikers noticed the second hose being readied and then noticed the first hose and charged the firemen but the water leaped forth in an overpowering gush and one of the men took the full force in his abdomen and his mouth jutted open but if a sound came out it was unheard and he doubled over and spun like a gyroscope runamuck bouncing off the men behind him and bouncing to the curb and those who were behind him were knocked and spun and a few policemen ran frantically to the various street corners trying to direct and divert traffic but all of the cars moved slowly no matter how urgently the police waved them on not wanting to miss any of the excitement and the voice screeched again giving directions and the two powered battering rams were directed with knowledge and precision and soon the mass was a chaos of colliding particles that bounced tumbled and whirled around against and over each other and soon it was quiet enough to hear the ambulance sirens and the louder moans that spewed from the mass and soon too the street was clear of the smaller debris and even the blood had been washed away.