“Fine. It’s a great job. I can’t thank you enough for getting me in here,” I say.
“Are the guys treating you well?” Balducci asks.
“Yeah, perfect. It’s really been great.”
“Shut the fuck up. I heard all about it.”
“Everything?” I ask.
“Yeah, I really know everything. Including how you kicked ass in the Industrial Road bouts. Nice job. Look, I’ve been watching, and you’re not just a line worker. On your own you managed to get in with management and union leaders. You’re a smart kid, always were. You were great to my boy at Remington Academy, and I’m not sure how he would have done there if you didn’t look after him. Why not start toning down the macho crap and start relying more on your brain? Let your head start carrying the load.”
“You always make a lot of sense. I’m trying.”
“Try a little harder, except tomorrow. I know you’re fighting again tomorrow, and I’m putting a lot of cash on you. I can’t be there, because I can’t know about it. But I figure since I got you in here, I might as well make a few bucks.”
We shake hands again and say goodbye. When I get outside I notice Sal, Frank and Sev talking. Wally must be back in Wally-World. Sal and Frank are trying to talk Sev into stopping by H’s place for a quick lunch and a few “rinses” to make the day go a little better. Sev’s not really in the mood, though. A meeting like we just had must be hard for Sev to swallow. It’s like this place is draining and stealing souls. Balducci wants more production before he’ll fork over benefits. Yet there is more production than they’re seeing. Every single day so many boxes just up and disappear. That extra nut would add a lot to both company profits and ammo for union benefits. I imagine Sev can’t help caring. For Sev, professionally and personally, that lost potential must make him feel helpless. A meeting like we just had will magnify that feeling.
CHAPTER 8
The next match goes real well. My opponent telegraphs his punches. He’s shorter, lighter, slower and dumber than Butch. Maybe I have delusions of grandeur, but this guy is easy. I see his punches from a mile away. Whenever you start a match, there’s always a “feeling out” period, you know, a little testing. I’m flinging out some test jabs to get going, and they’re actually landing. Christ, has anyone ever taught this guy to block?
My trainer for the club fights in college, Tagasumi Wui, always preached “brocking.” “You must brock punch. Concentrate on the four B’s. No booze, no broad, no bongs and always brock. I get girl call me up: ‘my boyfriend so upset you no teach him to brock. He no make love to me anymore.’ I get mother call me up: ‘You bad trainer. My son so ugly now. Why you no teach him to brock?’ But that is what I teach you here, and you must listen to how to brock, so I get no bad phone call!”
It made sense to me then and would have made sense to this clown I’m fighting. I drop him in under four minutes. I spent all that time getting in shape and getting some wind back and it didn’t even matter. I hardly have a sweat going.
I’m surprised how short this lasted and I’m actually a little disappointed, which is strange. I always say I do this kinda stuff just for the money, but clearly I’ve got some other issues driving me.
At least I can enjoy my win tonight. The last time I fought I was too freakin’ exhausted. There’s a pretty good crowd at the Locomotive Breath. Plenty of guys are buying me drinks, even some guys from some of the other factories. I’m having a damn good time. I’m even starting to like the classic rock blaring through the place.
A bunch of guys from Kosher World with their arms around each other’s shoulders are singing Van Morrison’s Brown-Eyed Girl. They are really lit. It’s all good, but something’s very weird about hard-ass factory workers belting out the chorus, going “Sha-na-na-na-na lah-tee-da.”
H calls to me from the bar and offers me a brew on the house. He hands me the beer and looks at the factory workers, still singing. He says, “You want to know why this song is so righteous, Kevin?”
“Lay it on me, H. Give me something from the rock ‘n’ roll pulpit.”
“Listen up, son.” H has obviously been having a few himself tonight. “Everyone has that brown-eyed girl in his past. Everyone’s got one. She don’t have to have brown eyes, mind you. It could be blue eyes or bloodshot eyes, but you know, she’s the girl that got away, the one you miss. She makes you think of another place, and for some reason, you like that place better.”
With that profound thought, H lets out a huge belch. The man might look like a wet dog, and that burp certainly smells worse than any wet dog, but I have to admit the guy makes sense. Hell, I’m only 21 and I got one of those girls already. I guess C.W. Wellington is my brown-eyed girl. It’s a good thing the song is ending; I kinda feel like joining the fellas in singing now.
I leave the bar at around 10 p.m. I might be on the gravy shift but I still have to get some sleep. I left my important crap like my keys and wallet in the Kosher World locker room. I grab my stuff from the locker and head toward the back exit to the car. I didn’t want to deal with the bus after the fight tonight, so I borrowed my mother’s car today. Then I see some guys moving something. It’s a strange time of night to see things being loaded on a truck. That is, unless it’s the merchandise that’s always being separated. In that case, it makes perfect sense.
As I watch, a ton of stuff is loaded onto independent trucks. It’s taking a while and these guys are moving like it’s broad daylight, nothing sinister, just business as usual. I even recognize some of them as guys from Kosher World. Nobody I know personally, but guys I’ve seen around.
When they finish, the supervisor takes out a wad of cash and begins dispensing it among the workers. I go out to my car unnoticed, pull out of the lot and wait. After waiting for 15 minutes, I notice the independent trucks pull out and head for the Long Island Expressway. I’m following them.
The trucks are on the L.I.E. for just a few minutes. I’m behind a few cars. The trucks get off at the Springfield exit and so do I. We start making some quick turns. I don’t really know the streets; I just know I am somewhere in Bayside, Queens, or maybe Flushing. We pull into a neighborhood strip mall that is empty at this time of night.
I don’t want to follow them into the parking lot; it would be obvious, as the place is deserted. I park on the street by a meter. I slowly walk around the back to get a view but I’m careful not to be spotted.
They don’t waste any time. When I get back there, the stuff’s already being unloaded. There are two guys, one wearing a hooded sweatshirt and the other a pullover sweatshirt and a wool hat. The meat is going into a freezer here. This isn’t that big a store; it looks like a normal-size local meat market. They’ve been at this awhile. Are there more stops for this truck? The independent truck is packed with enough food for 20 of these stores. I need to get closer to see what’s going on. I am amazed that they are cleaning this truck out, all for this store.
“Yo,” a voice from behind says.
I turn around and take a punch square in my nose. Blood spurts and my eyes start tearing. Before I have any chance to react, two more punches hit my face. Christ, I go a whole fight at the Industrial Road bouts without a scratch tonight and this guy starts pounding me. Actually, there is more than one. As I lie on the ground I feel some kicks in my ribs and I know it’s got to be more than two feet hitting me. They are barking something at me but I’m not all here right now; I can’t make out what they’re saying.
They drag me toward the meat market. When I struggle and try to break free, I get punched in the head and kneed in my stomach. This is bad.
They bring me inside. Two guys are holding me down while the guy in the hooded sweatshirt starts taping my hands together with packaging tape. Then he begins taping my ankles together. I am lying here helpless. I got to get my shit together. I feel myself start blacking out. I got to hold on.
I am so uncomfortable from the cold. I can taste my blood. I see the Kosher World logo all around me.
This is the freezer inside the meat market. Shit, can I feel any worse than this? I’m blacking out again.
I’m not in the freezer anymore. This is the back of the meat market. I hear someone talking to me; but what’s he saying? I recognize him. It’s the same guy who was staring at me outside Kosher World a couple of weeks back. He’s wearing the same light blue baggy warm-up suit and big gold chains. He still has a scraggly, blondish beard. I can’t understand this guy because his English sucks. He’s got some sort of Russian accent. But he’s trying to sound like a hip-hop guy.
“What up, Dawg? You not happy with your cut from the bout tonight? Looking to get in on some of my action?”
I look at him and try to shrug like I don’t understand. I’m not even sure I can shrug. I’m starting to wake up a bit, though I can’t fuckin’ move.
Blue Warm-up Suit stares at me for a minute and looks over at one of the guys that worked me over and says, “Yo, Hammer, you didn’t have to wait for me to get here. You know what we got to do here. Hey, you got any ground beef?”
Hooded Sweatshirt says, “Yeah, plenty, you want some?”
“For sure, Dawg, and a few T-bones,” says Warm-up Suit.
Hooded Sweatshirt heads toward the front of the store and disappears. I have enough sense right now to be scared shitless. What the fuck was I thinking? Why was this so important to me? It’s just a damn summer job.
Hooded Sweatshirt returns with two trays. One has some T-bone steaks and the other some hamburger meat.
“Thanks, Dawg,” Warm-up Suit says. I guess everybody is Dawg to him. “Now go wrap him up,” he says as he points at me.
I’m on my back. Wool Cap sits on my hands and stares at me with this intense, demonic look. Hooded Sweatshirt starts wrapping my forehead with the cellophane. He circles around my forehead and continues over my eyes. I am trying to struggle but I don’t have enough in me. He continues circling the cellophane over my nose. He keeps going. Now over my mouth. I am already having trouble breathing. He continues wrapping all the way down my neck.
My vision is blurred from the cellophane. I can’t make out their faces anymore but I can see them laughing at me. They’re not bluffing. This isn’t a scare. This can’t be it. Not like this. I am trying to breathe. I open my mouth wide and suck, but all I am doing is creating suction, the plastic is getting tighter. I can taste blood. I am losing air. I try not to breathe, but soon my body won’t let me resist and involuntarily, my mouth opens and I suck for air. There is no air. I feel my eyes beginning to bulge. Oh God, not like this. Please, I don’t want to end up in Lily’s locker.
The more worked up I get, the harder it is to breathe. But how the fuck do I not get worked up? My heart is throbbing; it’s ready to burst out of my shirt. They’re all just laughing at me; their voices are muted, but I can hear them pretty well.
It won’t be long now.
Another figure walks over to Hooded Sweatshirt, Wool Cap and Warm-up Suit and says, “What’s taking you guys so long tonight? You should have been outta here an hour and a half ago.”
I recognize the voice. It’s Jimmy Balducci. Thank God, please save me! I’m starting to black out.
“Zorry, Mr. Ball-du-zi,” says Warm-up Suit. “Some ash-hole broke in on us and was watching us.”
Balducci looks down at me squirming and says. “Pretty fuckin’ cool, the fuckin’ guy is turning purple. How long he been like this?”
“I dunno, pretty long time. He’s a stubborn son of a bitch,” says Hooded Sweatshirt.
Balducci puts his face right up to mine. Balducci starts laughing. “What the fuck you fighting for? Are you waiting for a miracle?”
“That is what he does, Mr. Ball-du-zi, he fights. You know, at the fights in the courtyard. He fights for Kosher World in the bouts this night. Tomorrow he becomes hotdog meat.” Warm-up Suit laughs.
Balducci stops laughing and puts his face down to mine again. He’s in on this. I can’t believe it. “Are you out of your fuckin’ mind? Get him some air, pronto. Shit, I’ll kill you, Zog!” Balducci shouts.
My mouth is wide open from my futile attempt to get air. Balducci takes a pen, holds my head steady and tries to puncture a hole for me to breath through. There are too many layers of plastic and he can’t break through. On the third try he comes down hard and finally a pop fills the room. The others come over with a knife and start cutting through all the cellophane.
I’m gasping so hard for air they are having trouble cutting through. I can’t help it. I am making honking sounds. There’s not enough air for me. It’s too late. I need more air. I am making sounds I’ve never heard from any human being or animal. So much pain and it won’t stop.
“Kevin, can you hear me?”
Nothing but gasps and coughs. I can’t say anything. All the cellophane is finally unwrapped. I am lying on my back trying to breathe as my body spasms wildly for a fix of air. The spasms start slowing down and my breathing starts to regulate.
Hooded Sweatshirt comes over with a cup of water. I can’t drink it, but I wish I could. I should fuck this guy up, but I’m so grateful to get air that my head is calm. I’m not sure if I’m holding back tears from when my nose got whomped or if I’m just appreciating being alive. Either way, I don’t have enough strength to get him back. I take the water and figure I’ll be able to drink it soon enough.
Balducci is sitting next to me and watching. He doesn’t really look too connected, like his mind is elsewhere. Here’s a guy I’ve known for six years. Donates money to the school, nice to his kids and treats me great. I’m thinking, Lucy, you got some splainin’ to do. Then again, is there any reason he needs to explain anything to me? If he doesn’t want me to know anything, then he could just repackage me in cellophane. That’s probably what’s going through his mind right now.
Once my breathing is almost normal again, Balducci informs me that we need to talk and instructs me to follow him in his car. I’m not sure if I am happy about this, but I know that pretending this thing never happened is probably not an option.
Driving isn’t easy but I manage somehow. We stop at a diner in Bayside. Balducci orders a cup of coffee and a mushroom-and-cheese omelet. I’m not that hungry so I just order some waffles, sausage and juice. Balducci isn’t saying much. I’m not sure if he feels the need to explain the situation or if he’s just going to tear me a new asshole. The expression on his face isn’t giving anything away. I wish he would talk.
Here we are, just two friends enjoying their meals. Balducci must be pushing 55, but he looks good. His hair is thin on top. In one sense that makes him look better, almost approachable. But that’s consistent with him. He seems to walk the line real well. He has a tough but smooth style. It’s like, who would screw with him? Then again, nobody has the desire to screw with him.
Balducci finally breaks the silence. “Anyone fuckin’ else, I mean anyone else and it’s Sayonara Sammy. I got no choice. I got people to answer to also.” It’s funny, Jimmy is usually a lot smoother than this. I seem to be bringing out a side of him I’ve never seen. It’s probably a side he keeps at bay, especially in front of Remington Academy people. Balducci continues. “You really helped me with my son when he was at school. He was getting eaten alive there before you started helping him out. Go figure. It’s embarrassing having a kid at a fag school, let alone being pushed around. Imagine what would happen to him if he was doing work around a place like this. Forget it. He’s not made like you or me, and I can’t make him be that way. Either you got it inside or you don’t. I got him hooked up in a Wall Street firm. He’s got an internship, doing high-yield bonds. I got a few connections with some companies, so it’s going to work out nicely. Now Kevin, about you...you ready to do some real work?”
I don’t know how to respond. The question was kind a vague. The last thing I want to do is give the wrong answer.
“Look Kevin, I was going to talk with you when you got done with school. You know, let you wallow in the real world a little bit and t
hen bring you in with our group. I guess your stunt today kinda accelerated the process a bit. It’s not like we can pretend nothing went on here. I always liked you, and you handle yourself real well. Don’t get me wrong, you got a lot to learn and you got a knack for getting fucked up. But on the other hand, man, you got so much potential.”
“Jimmy, what can I do for you?”
“Well, there’s some serious money out there, and I’ve found plenty of ways of getting it. The better people I have, the more I can get. It’s that simple. You got the balls and the desire. I think you got the smarts, but you need some seasoning. It’s like you’re smart and you’re a moron at the same time. You followed the merchandise; you figured something out, good for you. But you followed the merchandise, you fucking moron!”
I look at Jimmy and nod.
“Kevin, what do you think you saw here tonight?”
“I don’t know. I saw where all the boxes that were being separated got transferred to, that’s it. I thought I was helping out. You know, finding out where the stuff was going. I thought you and Sev would be psyched.”
“What you saw is a beautiful thing, an original. I own that store you were stalking, that meat market. It’s just a typical store where moms get the shit to make meatloaf. There’s nothing glamorous, nothing sexy. I do have one edge. I get my stuff at a really good price. Which is zero.” Jimmy gets so excited that some omelet falls from his mouth. “It’s hard for me to imagine how anybody can pay for shit when they can get it for free. But some poor slob a couple of blocks away is waking up at sunrise and selling a glob of chopped meat for six bucks that he paid five bucks for. Throw in rent and electricity and that dumb asshole can’t even afford to eat at his own store.”
“Jimmy, not to be a wiseass, but haven’t people been selling hot stuff since stuff was invented?”
Jimmy looks a little annoyed. “That’s the beauty; this ain’t hot. I pay for it. I just pay zero for it. If you get something hot, it’s stolen. Then you got to sell it fast and cheap. Not me. I take my time and sell it full retail. I love the markup,” he says.
Odd Jobs Page 7
