With thoughts of family on his mind, he pulled a well-worn Little League baseball card of his grandson out of his shirt pocket—Levon Jones, Little League All Star. He replaced the card and scanned the cold families. He couldn’t let them stand around fighting for the few taxicabs that might straggle by South Station in all of the confusion. Especially given the circumstances.
When Pumpsie received reports of suspicious packages along the St. Patrick’s Day pickup route and smoke billowing out of South Station, he prayed that the city hadn’t been targeted again. A terrorist attack against the overpacked station would be devastating. The illusion of an attack rapidly cleared when the drivers poured out of the terminal en masse. The “suspicious package” thing had been orchestrated to justify a union walkout. For the first time in thirty years, he felt ashamed to be an honorary member of the Boston Carmen’s Union. Playing on Boston’s fears of another terrorist attack was unforgiveable.
Pumpsie surveyed the endless rows of MBTA Transit buses and patted his pocket.
“C’mon, Levon, let’s go help some kids and their folks get home,” he mumbled.
He reached the first bus in line pointing towards Summer Street and shook his head. The driver hadn’t bothered to shut the door. Out of habit, Pumpsie walked the seats, searching for unauthorized riders. Every now and then, a vagrant would slip inside a bus and try to ride all day. Anything to get out of the cold. If they didn’t smell too bad and looked generally presentable, he might turn a blind eye to the unpaid fare. Finding the bus empty, he slid his stout frame around the safety bar and settled into the ample driver’s seat. Pumpsie caressed the oversized steering wheel like a prized relic. Just like old times.
He started the bus and let it run for a few minutes, pulling the lever to close the double doors when he was ready to roll. With his hands wrapped around the wheel, he eased forward and drove to the gated bus entry. Pumpsie activated the windshield wipers to combat the heavy snow melting against the massive front windows. It was going to be nasty out there!
Pumpsie passed Drydock Avenue, the bus rumbling over the Reserve Channel Bridge as it approached the FedEx shipping center. The road was empty, still blocked off for the fleet of buses that would never arrive.
Pumpsie wheeled the bus left onto East First Street, immediately slowing when he spotted a swarm of people headed in his direction. By the time he reached the first MBTA-designated St. Patrick’s Day pickup, less than a block away, his bus was swarmed by a sea of green-covered Bostonians. Pumpsie brought the bus to a halt, the air brakes squeaking, then exhaling air. He decided to offer seats to the elderly, children and one of their parents first. It was a start.
He opened the door, expecting to be greeted by a relieved crowd of Bostonians, but was instead treated to angry accusations of MBTA incompetence, unspeakable vulgarities and racial-charged slurs. Instead of boarding the bus in an orderly manner, the green mob jammed into the doors. The women, kids and elderly he imagined would board first were nowhere to be seen; long ago discarded by the unruly jackals squeezing onto his bus. Within a minute, the bus had swallowed far more passengers than it was authorized to carry. Pumpsie shouted at the crowd trying to enter.
“Please everyone, this is the only bus running. I can’t leave with this many people onboard!” pleaded Pumpsie.
“That’s bullshit,” yelled one man.
“Why don’t you people do your job?” shouted another.
Pumpsie stood to block the entrance, but was immediately pressed against the handrail as more people shoved their way into the bus. Shrieks filled the air as the people in the back of the bus were squeezed together in the aisle.
“That’s it! No more! No more!” yelled Pumpsie, reaching for the door lever.
“I’ll drive this fucker myself,” screamed a man, who grabbed his arm and slung him into the people trying to push up the bus steps.
The crowd ripped at him, pulling him through the tangled mass of people until he was out of the bus. Once on the sidewalk, he was shoved and punched by the drunken horde, his body bouncing back and forth like a pinball between angry, faceless hooligans. When the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke mixed with the scent of blood, Pumpsie’s survival instinct kicked into high gear. He started swinging his arms wildly, punching in every direction. The mob reacted by grabbing all of his limbs and lifting him into the air. They passed him by hand to the edge of the crowd and tossed him head first into the side of the red brick building.
Barely able to move from the jarring impact, he painfully rose up on his hands and knees—only to be kicked in the stomach by a man passing by. Flattened on his stomach, he lowered his head into a widening pool of blood and stared blankly toward the Little League fields catty-corner to the MBTA stop. Beyond the chain-link fence separating the street from the fields, he caught a glimpse of a little boy holding a green leprechaun balloon. Pumpsie’s hand dug between his chest and the cold cement, finding the Little League All Star card. He slid his hand next to his face and smiled at his beloved Levon as his vision faded.
Chapter 42
March 18, 2016
100 Beacon
Boston, Massachusetts
Steven stood and watched the continued coverage of the St. Patrick’s Day disaster on the televisions in Sarge’s living room.
“Sarge, did you want to see this?” asked Steven.
Governor Charlie Baker was about to make his first statement concerning the events from his press room at the State House.
“Yeah, hold on,” replied Sarge.
“Don’t tell me to hold on; it’s your boy Baker who’s about to speak,” said Steven.
Steven left politics to Sarge and the others. He turned up the volume as Governor Baker spoke.
“My fellow Bay Staters and Bostonians, I am speaking to you as more than just the governor of the great state of Massachusetts, but as a dejected, sorrowful human being. The senseless acts of violence in South Boston sadden me to my core. Nineteen people have died in the past twenty-four hours. Victims of the cold. Victims of violence. Victims of the Boston Carmen’s Union.
“I have spoken to many of the families who lost loved ones, to express my condolences. To express our city’s condolences.
“In particular, I spoke with young Levon Jones, the grandson of Elijah Jones, and assured him that his grandfather was a hero, and that the people responsible for his grandfather’s death would be brought to justice.”
“It’s bullshit what happened to that old man,” said Steven. “One good guy in a sea of cowards.”
“After what we saw in Las Vegas, I’m convinced that the cowards far outnumber the good guys,” said Sarge.
“I have patiently waited nearly twenty-four hours to make this statement because I wanted to have full reports from the Boston Police Department, the Massachusetts Bay Transit Authority Police—and from the special commission appointed to review the operations of the MBTA. While I recognize this investigation is still ongoing, certain facts have become abundantly clear.”
Governor Baker leaned forward onto the podium and looked directly into the single State House-provided television camera.
“I believe the walkout by the members of the Boston Carmen’s Union was orchestrated by their union representatives. Their subversive acts directly caused the events of yesterday, from the pointless death of Elijah Jones, to the resulting damage to property, and the ancillary deaths in the Roxbury and Dorchester riots.”
As Governor Baker paused for effect, Sarge reacted to this bold statement.
“Julia called it,” said Sarge. “Her source in the union said one word to her before this happened—Vegas.”
The governor continued. “Today I have executed Massachusetts Executive Order Number 596, which provides in part that all members of the Boston Carmen’s Union and the Service Employees International Union members who abandoned their shifts operating the MBTA transportation buses for yesterday’s parade are terminated for cause. Further, the executive order bars
any union officers directly under investigation from government property. Like the nearly identical walkout in Las Vegas, which killed more than a hundred people, yesterday’s walkout was taken straight out of the new union playbook. I will not tolerate it in our state, and I write the rules.”
“Can he do that?” asked Steven.
“I doubt it,” said Sarge. “The state and federal laws are very pro-union. He’ll have a fight, but it does send a message about his intentions.”
Governor Baker continued. “I know this executive action will be unpopular with the government employee unions. But I ask all Bay Staters to keep an open mind as we go through this difficult time. Lives were lost yesterday because of a knee-jerk reaction to an ongoing and publicly supported look into MBTA operations.
“I leave you with this thought. Organized labor has played an important role in the development of our nation. History has shown that organized labor was instrumental in protecting the rights of workers in private business. I want to emphasize the term private here. With respect to union activity in the operation of government, the public sector, I choose to follow the words of President Franklin Roosevelt, the patron saint of the American labor movement. FDR cautioned about the growing presence of public sector labor unions in 1937. He recognized the special relationship and obligations of public servants to the public itself and the government for which they work.
“FDR explicitly issued this warning, and I quote, ‘Militant tactics have no place in the functions of any organization of governmental employees. A strike of public employees manifests nothing less than the intent to prevent or obstruct government.’ I believe that the actions undertaken yesterday by the public service unions who owe their service to you, the taxpayers of Massachusetts, was intolerable and beyond belief. I will work diligently to assure you no public employee will ever paralyze our government’s services again. Thank you.”
“Wow,” said Sarge. “He just laid down the gauntlet. He effectively created a class war between the unions and the taxpayers. Also, he deflected blame for the deaths of the bus driver and the people during the riots squarely on the shoulders of the union management who ordered the walkout.”
“Where it should be. Sounds like we just got thrown back to the days of baseball bats and busted kneecaps,” added Steven. “I think we need to get out of Boston for a few days.”
“Why does it sound like I’d rather take my chances here?” said Sarge.
“Because you know me too well,” said Steven.
Chapter 43
March 19, 2016
The Mall at Chestnut Hill
Newton, Massachusetts
“Look at all of the beautiful coral, Mommy,” exclaimed her daughter Rebecca.
She is definitely going to be a beach girl. Susan steered the seven-year-old girl toward the entrance to Vineyard Vines. The pink whale awaited. She watched Donald’s reaction, fully expecting him to protest. He was not a fan of the mega shopping malls or going out in public at all. Donald preferred online shopping and spending time at home. Today he appeared indifferent to the “forced” experience, almost nervous.
“Yes, Becca, the coral is exquisite,” said Susan.
“Ex-quit?” repeated Rebecca.
“No, it’s exquisite, dopey,” chimed in Penny, her older sister. “C’mon, guys. I see lots of pink!”
While Rebecca might grow up to be a seafarer like many of Susan’s Lowell ancestors, Penny would be the lady of the ship, awaiting another summer cocktail.
“Don’t call me dopey, whale breath,” replied Rebecca.
“Honey, are you okay?” she asked her husband. “We might find a few things in here for you as well. I’ll show the girls around. Why don’t you check out the golf stuff?” Susan picked up a dozen Titleist golf balls, which sold for sixty-two dollars. Isn’t five dollars per golf ball a little much?
“Yes, I’m fine. Just thinking about stuff,” said Donald. “You girls shop ’til you drop, and I’ll see if I can force myself to buy a polo shirt with a pink whale on it.”
The two shared a laugh, but Susan wasn’t convinced Donald was in a joking mood.
“Okay, I love you. I need to catch up with the girls,” said Susan.
Donald gave her a squeeze and said I love you back, but she could sense he was troubled.
Susan caught up with the girls while she watched Donald wander over to the men’s side of the store. He stood staring at a large mural of a yacht making a sharp turn in choppy seas. Susan found the image ironic. We are sailing choppy seas, are we not?
“Look at this gorgeous wave print on this dress, girls,” said Susan.
She held up a pleated dress with blue waves rolling across it in all directions.
“It doesn’t have any pink, Mom,” protested Penny. Of course it doesn’t.
“I like it!” squealed Rebecca. Of course you do.
“How about this one?” asked Susan.
She held up a tunic-style dress covered in pink sailboats. Both girls squealed with delight. Compromise.
“Good work, Mom,” said Penny. How old are you?
“Now, girls, we need to find you something appropriate for Easter,” said Susan. “We can’t wear a sailboat dress to church.”
“Why not, Mommy?” asked Rebecca. Legitimate question.
“Well, honey,” started Susan, “you know how we like to put on our Sunday best for church?”
“Yes,” replied Rebecca.
“Okay. The sailboat dress is beautiful, but it’s really a little too casual. What do you think?” asked Susan.
“She’s right, Becca. Let’s keep looking,” said Penny.
The girls thumbed through the racks while Susan searched for Donald. He was still wandering through the men’s section—empty handed.
“Mommy?” said Penny, holding up a long white seersucker dress complete with a pink ribbon belt.
“That’s much better, girls,” said Susan.
“This is our Sunday better dress,” said Rebecca.
Susan heard a loud commotion from the mall concourse outside of the Vineyard Vines store and turned in Donald’s direction. She spotted him walking swiftly toward the front doors of the store. Her husband stopped next to the wide opening and peered into the mall concourse. As the voices grew louder, Donald gestured for her to stay back while the rest of the store’s customers walked toward the front of the store.
“Black lives matter! Black lives matter!” she distinguished from the angry discordance of yelling.
The girls dropped their dresses and grabbed Susan around the waist.
“Mommy, what’s happening?” asked Penny.
“I don’t know, my baby, but your daddy will find out,” said Susan.
The chanting seemed to get louder. She wrapped her arms around the girls and ushered them toward the front of the store, where they could be together as a family.
“What’s going on, Donald?” she said.
“Protesters,” he replied, never taking his eye off the approaching mob. “I was afraid something like this might happen. I could feel it somehow.”
Susan followed his gaze until she found the source of the noise. The lower level of the Chestnut Hill Mall was filled with black protestors wearing white tee shirts that featured a picture of Pumpsie Jones, the victim of the St. Patrick’s Day Parade killing. The protestors were rapidly climbing the escalators stairs, spilling onto the upper level—headed in their direction.
“What do we do?” said Susan, her voice trembling.
“This has been happening all over the country,” said Donald. “The last two days have been volatile everywhere.”
“Where are the mall police?” asked Susan.
Donald laughed. “Moving quickly in the opposite direction, I would presume. They’re not equipped for something like this.”
“Somebody has to do something,” said Susan.
She craned her neck to look further into the mall. Protestors now outnumbered shoppers twenty to one on the c
oncourse.
“Do you remember a year or so ago when the Black Lives Matter protestors invaded the first floor of the Mall of America in Minneapolis?” asked Donald.
Susan nodded.
“They staged a similar demonstration, but the Minneapolis police were ready. They anticipated trouble and uniformed officers closed off the upper floors for the benefit of the mall shoppers. The protestors were confined to the lower floors. Eventually they left without incident. Let’s just wait it out and let the police get things under control.”
“But look, they’re all running up the escalators now,” said Susan, pointing to the escalators to the right of them. “I don’t see any security or police.”
As soon as she finished her sentence, the mall’s public address system squawked.
“Attention! Attention, please! This demonstration is not authorized and is in clear violation of the Mall at Chestnut Hill policy. We expect all participants to disperse at this time. Those who continue to demonstrate will be subject to arrest. I repeat, you are ordered to disperse. The mall is now closed.”
Shouts immediately echoed off the walls and the ceiling of the mall.
“This is our freedom of speech.”
“We have a right to be here!”
“Black lives matter!”
“You will not silence us!”
The panicked order to disperse repeated itself, now barely audible over the growing crowd of chanting protesters. A man holding two shopping bags slid into view in front of Vineyard Vines and started shouting at the protestors.
The Loyal Nine Page 19
