Georgie sees my amazement. “Tongue,” he says.
“I can see that, but from what?”
“Cows, moron.”
I’m watching as the group begins working with surgical precision. Hands move fast and each huge tongue is processed in about three minutes.
Lily is complaining about how the government is too soft on crime and how she can’t even walk two blocks in her own neighborhood. She keeps at it for a few minutes. Man, she can go.
Finally, Felipe interrupts her. “The men in your neighborhood must be all over you. They can’t get enough of you.”
Georgie and the others start laughing. It’s a bit sad that they are having such a good time at Lily’s expense, but I have to admit, I’m grateful that Felipe got Lily under control. Just listening for a few minutes, I could tell she is a runaway train.
Georgie notices me and says, “Someone get the kid involved.”
“C’mon over here, hon, I’ll help you,” Lily offers.
“Quiet down, Lily, I got it. Stand over here, kid,” Felipe says.
That’s a relief; the last thing I need is to be cornered by Lily. Felipe begins to show me the ropes. He lifts one of the gigantic tongues, tosses it up a few inches and catches it again with the back facing him. Now the tongue is sticking out straight at me. I’m doing everything I can to keep down a pint of tequila and Wild Turkey.
“Okay,” Felipe begins. “Three steps, simple as that. First, you take the bone that attaches this lovely tongue to the rest of the beautiful bovine.” Felipe digs his thumb and middle finger into the back of the tongue and pulls on a four-inch bone. It gives him a bit of resistance but he finally yanks it out. “Next, you turn it over and scrape off the USDA grade that was stamped on the bottom part.” Felipe takes a short, sharp knife and begins to whittle at the stamp. Small pieces of flesh begin to drop onto the stainless steel table until the bottom of the tongue no longer has a mark. Watching him is mesmerizing. I’m staring and getting a fuzzy head.
“Here’s the fun part. This thing has a tough cover of skin that needs to be removed before it can be eaten.” I stare at him and the tongue, wondering who was the fuckin’ Einstein that came up with the concept to eat cow tongue in the first place? And who was his friend that said, “Yeah, great idea.”
Felipe continues. “Some amateurs will try to get the skin cover off by using their knife, but that’s too slow. The tongues get these blisters from boiling for hours. You have to find a blister on the tongue, pop it and work your thumb underneath. Zip up, and the skin peels right off. Just like this.” He demonstrates as I try to watch. I’m getting a bit dizzy and definitely queasy. Felipe slides a tongue at me and says, “Time to peel some tongue, kid.”
I go to pick up the repulsive thing, but nature is taking over. My stomach is heading for my throat and I have to get out. I drop the tongue and race toward the door. I have to find a bathroom. Fast. I don’t remember if it’s to the left or the right, but before I can make my decision, bam! I collide with Rabbi Silver, who is walking in. We’re both sprawled out on the floor. Now I have no shot of making it to the bathroom.
Jumping up, I quickly glance at Rabbi Silver, who is sitting up and muttering something. I don’t have time to apologize. Where can I go? I look around and spot a vat in the smokehouse room; it’ll have to do. I scramble over to the vat. I have no idea what is in there but it’s out of my hands. Then it’s out of my stomach. Violently, a yellow liquid filled with unrecognizable lumps cascades out of me. When I start getting control I realize I have heaved into a vat of cow by-products — eyeballs, spleens, bladders and some pink things that could be reproductive organs. The smell reminds me of the men’s bathroom at the bus depot, now combined with the stench of half-digested food. I’m hoping that the lunatics who eat tongues aren’t eating this stuff, too. I figure if it’s garbage I can keep my job. If it’s another ingenious delicacy, I’m toast.
My clothes are wet with perspiration; it’s like 20 below, but I’m drenched. Wow, I feel good, almost like a human being again. There are about 15 guys around me and they’re all cracking up. They got some show from me this morning, and it’s not even close to 9 a.m. yet.
It’s hard to imagine I still have a job, but until they tell me otherwise, I’m working. I pick myself up and head toward the bathroom to clean up. The guys are still laughing. Some are patting me on the back and others are making comments like, “What a loser.”
If they’re going to can me, I hope it’s sooner rather than later. I wash up and look in the mirror and say, “Let’s peel some tongue.”
Walking back to the Tongue Room I notice Bino walking toward me. His real name is Russell Binoheitzer and since there’s no time for all that, everyone calls him Bino. He’s an ornery red-haired guy with real fair skin. After working in the freezer for a few hours, he looks like he’s been dead for a week. All us grunts were given fair warning to avoid this guy and stay off his radar. As Bino passes, he nails me with his shoulder and nearly knocks me over. He says, “What a pussy. I lost 350 bucks because you couldn’t make it ‘til lunch time.”
Yup, I’m pretty stealth flying under the radar, I say to myself.
Inside the Tongue Room, life isn’t much better. I’m ripping bones and peeling off skin like a pro, but the comments keep flying at me. They’re examining my every move, and Old Ear-hair is really starting to ride me. “Let’s go, college-boy. I never finished high school, but I calculate that you’re about five tongues behind the rest of us.”
Felipe says, “You think you’re too good for this, don’t ya?”
Why did he say that? This guy was helping me before; how did I lose him? I don’t have any problems with these guys. Christ, they’re all making an honest living and trying to get by. I appreciate that. All us college interns start with two strikes because we’re getting money without paying union dues, but I always show respect to the guys. I thought I was okay with them. It’s amazing how many places I can’t fit in.
I’m trying to stay low and not get into it with anyone; but the shit just keeps coming. Felipe thinks it’s funny to call me princess and he won’t stop. “Here’s another tongue for you, princess. You missed a spot on this one, princess. Your highness, are you ready for another tongue?” I have to start defending myself.
“Shut the fuck up, Felipe.” I can see this outburst catches Georgie by surprise. “I’m working like everyone else. I’ve always done my job and never gave anyone a hard time. I got banged up last night and I fucked up. It’s not your business and it doesn’t affect you, so stay the fuck out of my face.”
“You put that face knee-deep in animal parts and you’re worried about me being in your face?”
The others start laughing, Lily the loudest. So much for trying to defend myself.
Even the tongues are copping an attitude with me. Look at that one, just dying to chime in. That’s what I need, talking cow tongues. I can see what this fat bitch is thinking. Why does every situation turn out like this? Can’t you deal? I hear it saying.
I’m thinking, Like you’re one to talk. You’re about to land on some shriveled old man’s rye bread and you’re giving me advice?
Don’t take it out on me. Live your life, don’t live someone else’s, the tongue replies. Look, you hold down like 80 jobs to get through college, but you don’t give a shit about college or your classes. You just want a piece of paper so you can make big bucks, like your friends.
And the problem is...?
I can see its smug expression. You’re too impressed with money. It’s all you think is important, and you keep chasing it, like a stupid hamster running on a wheel. Not only are you missing out on what’s important, but you keep winding up in the Tongue Room. You always end up in the Tongue Room, one way or another.
I can’t let a fucking tongue talk back to me like that. Listen up, Tongue. I’m not asking anyone to give me anything. I’m willing to do what it takes. I’m doing the work. I don’t have to just fall in line with e
veryone else. It’s not a sin to want more, to make a situation better.
Dude, when have you ever made the situation better?
I get things going. I’ve done stuff, I answer, feeling a little defensive now.
Yeah, you get things started, but that’s it. You get used or you blow a good thing and, of course, you wind up in the Tongue Room.
Maybe this time I learned, I think. It can’t get lower than the Tongue Room. Things can’t get worse. They gotta get better. This, you fat, slimy, ugly tongue, is the low point; it’s all up from here.
Bullshit! counters the tongue. It’s sneering at me; at least I think it is. All you had to do here was some simple manual labor. Just bite your tongue, pardon the expression, and do your fuckin’ job. But you want to go out with your fancy friends and whoop it up. Problem is, they have bucks a-go-go and you have squat. While you’re here peeling tongue, they’re drinking Mimosas. Was it worth it?
Hell no, but I didn’t think everything would come down like it did.
The tongue is laughing now, and it’s not a very pretty sound. Think? Kid, that’s the trouble: You don’t think You made an asshole out of yourself in front of the whole place. There isn’t a worker in Kosher World who doesn’t know who you are — Puke-Man, Rabbi-Crusher. Can’t you be anonymous anywhere?
I don’t know, I tell myself. Being anonymous is kind of over-rated.
You should try it sometime. It might fit you better.
It’s depressing to think that the tongue gets the last word.
CHAPTER 2
After the Tongue Room debacle, I hear a ton of comments all the time at work, but at least no one taps me with a pink slip. I know that’s because Jimmy Balducci brought me on.
I keep remembering something Jimmy Balducci told me once, and it makes me feel better. He said that these jobs are more about building character than about the money. Sure, some people go to Exeter, Harvard and then Goldman Sachs, but those are the dorks that got their books knocked out of their hands every day. The real successes come from the people who claw their way up, people like Jimmy. “Trust me,” he said. “Guys who are big shots today jack off to the good ol’ days when they were digging graves or selling ball bearings. You look back at the shit-work you had to do and it gives you satisfaction. Real satisfaction; it’s something you can’t get from any drug or any broad.”
Around 7 p.m. I manage to get to my mom’s house in Hempstead. Hempstead is a less-than-affluent town on Long Island. Long Island is kinda funny that way. There are some real nice areas, but I guess the people who work in the nice areas need a place to live, and Hempstead serves that purpose. Which is fine. I used to not have a problem with the thought of being a cab driver, working construction, or peeling tongues at Kosher World. It seems to be what people do, and they deal with it.
Then along came Harris North IV of the Remington Academy. What a piece of work. He brought me into a different world, and I had already done a few 180s with my other worlds, so I guess it shouldn’t have mattered. To be clearer, when I was 10 years old, my father was an up-and-coming prosecutor in the DA’s office. We didn’t have a ton of money. We had a small home in Manhasset, but we were heading places.
I’m not going to try to say life was like the Brady Bunch but fuck, it wasn’t that far off, either. My dad put in a lot of hours, as upstarts in the DA’s office tended to do. On the weekends, though, my mother wouldn’t let him get away with any of that too-busy crap. She was always booking day trips or weekend trips. Our family was always exploring some Renaissance festival or museum or paddling rafts down some white-water rapids. She kept us busy. Dad would roll his eyes when he heard her plans, but at the end of the day, he probably had a better time than anyone.
The time we spent together wasn’t enough for me. I couldn’t get enough of my father, so I badgered him to coach me before work on the weekdays. If I wanted to spend more time with him, basketball was the perfect excuse. He was a huge hoops fan and a pretty decent player himself.
“Okay, okay,” he said, finally giving in. “If you’re willing to set your alarm clock, I’ll work with you from 6:30 till 7:30, but then I’ve got to leave for work. Is that fair?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“I’m not going to wake you up and start haggling to get you out of bed. If you’re willing to meet me at 6:30, I’ll be waiting for you. Deal?”
“That’s a deal, Dad,” I enthusiastically shot back.
The waking up early thing was harder than I thought. The first morning I rolled over and shut the alarm clock off, only to snap up at 7:20. I scrambled in a panic and shot down the stairs, trying to put my sneakers on as I was stepping on the stairs. That moronic combination caused me to skip the bottom four steps. I splashed down in Superman flying style, landing spread-eagled on the floor. Still determined, I rolled onto my feet and in the same motion sprinted toward the front door. My father had just pulled his car out the driveway when I startled him with my scream, “Wait, waaaaaaait!”
He stopped the car, rolled down the window and gave a half smile. “I know, it’s tough waking up earlier in the morning.”
“But...but I’m here now,” I said in near panic. “Let’s play now!”
“Sorry pal,” he explained. “I have to get to work. We’ll give this another try tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? Tomorrow? You can’t tell a kid tomorrow. You might as well say in 15 years. “Nooooooo. Let’s play today! I’m here!” I wailed in desperation.
“Pal, I have to get to work,” he said calmly.
“Why, why now?” I demanded.
My father smiled and said, “Because I have to work on putting the bad guys away.” He was so proud to talk about that end of the job, that he was a lawyer who helped put the bad guys away.
“But you need to help me today. Won’t you play?” I pleaded.
He saw my heart was going to explode so he said, “Okay, this is what we’ll do. Fifteen minutes today — we’ll call it a warm-up. Heavy training starts tomorrow. You meet me at 6:30 a.m. sharp. Got it?”
“Really, we can play today?” I asked.
“Yeah, we can play for 15 minutes. Only if you agree there’s not a minute more than that today. The bad guys won’t mind waiting a few minutes I’m sure.”
Almost missing that opportunity to play with him put the scare in me. We did our “warm-up” that morning and I never overslept again. I was there at 6:30 sharp the next day, and my father was out in the driveway, waiting for me.
I learned that you have to be careful what you wish for. I thought I was going to be playing basketball with my dad, and my father thought this was the beginning of my NBA career. I thought I would be shooting around and maybe playing some one-on-one with him, and he had all these drills planned. I didn’t dare complain because I was just happy to be with him.
“How about we work on shooting today, Dad?” I asked.
“That will come in time, but first you need to work on your vision,” he stated.
“Vision? I can see fine. What’s up with that?”
“Kevin, I’m not talking about needing glasses. You need court vision to play this game. You need to see things other guys don’t. That’s what makes some players great. Now, you want to learn about vision?”
“I guess.”
“Well, first of all, right now, you and a lot of the guys your age dribble with the palm of your hand and your head down. But if you do that, how are you going to see the open guys?” my father asked. “How are you going to make those miracle passes?”
“I dunno.” At that point in my life, who thought about passing the ball? We all just wanted to score. Actually playing the game was a whole different level.
“Okay,” he said patiently. “You need to dribble the ball with your fingertips instead of the palm. If you use your fingertips you get much more control. And keep your head up. Wouldn’t you rather watch the game instead of your hand?”
I shrugged. “Sure, I guess.”
“Son
,” he said earnestly, “there is a whole world beyond your hand. There is a whole story developing, and things aren’t always as they appear. Always learn to see beyond your hand. When you’re confident the ball is under control with your fingertips, then you can see who is open and, equally important, who is going to be open. In this world you can’t just look at yesterday and today; you need to see tomorrow. Keep your head up and soak in the whole picture.”
I didn’t quite understand his point then, but I’m glad I always remembered it. That week we did a bunch of drills and I learned how to keep my head up and dribble with my fingertips. I got the hang of it and felt pretty good, so one day I had the balls to ask if we could do some shooting. I mean, after all, wasn’t that basketball?
“Oh, you think you have this mastered?” my father asked.
“Yeah, I’m good at dribbling and keeping my head up. C’mon, Dad, let’s do some shooting.”
“Okay, here’s what we’ll do. As soon as you master the steps, we’ll move over to shooting.” My father grabbed the ball and walked us over to the side of the house where 11 cement steps separated the front yard from the backyard. My father then instructed me to dribble down those steps with my head up, using only my fingertips. It didn’t work out too well. Anytime I bounced the ball on the corner of a step, the ball shot free like a champagne cork. My father said that when I could get up and down the steps 10 times without losing the ball, we could move on to shooting. It turned out to be no small feat, but during that long and difficult process, my dad and I had some of our best conversations.
Odd Jobs Page 2
