Unexpected Gifts (15 page)

Sometimes it was just too dangerous to hop back on at a particular spot. Maybe we'd see the flash of chains during the day, or the swing of bull lanterns at night, so after we heard the shoosh shoosh shoosh shoosh shooshshooshshoosh of the train starting up at the station again, we had to scavenge for food, praying that the farmers nearby would be true Christians. It was then that we'd depend on the Hobo Codes, written in charcoal on water towers, signs, buildings, or on pavements in front of houses, all signaling the owners’ leanings.

After three weeks of the hop-on's, hop-off's, we managed to roll into the Big Apple. Steve's cousin Bill turned out to be as good as his word, feeding me such large quantities of food, you'd think there wasn't a Depression going on at all.

When I commented on these feasts, Bill simply laughed. “Jest you wait, Tony. You'll be living high off the hog, too!”

I couldn't wait.

Passing one breadline after another, we arrived at the site Monday morning. No longer an old-fashioned wall-bearing construction, the steel framework had already reached at least twenty stories up towards the skies. As I walked through the latticed beams, I could see each huge foundational steel column sitting on top of a concrete base, pitted deep into Manhattan's bedrock. Attached horizontally to these columns, were hundreds and hundreds of beams, riveted together to form three-dimensional grids.

The noise from the hammers and rivet guns was deafening, but I was so excited, I didn't care until we reached the foreman, who was about to be hoisted up on a derrick lift to the top floor.

“Sure,” he said, taking a sharp look at my tight, masculine frame. “I can always use a good man. You do have experience, right?”

“Of course,” I lied.

“What's your specialty?” he questioned. My brain suddenly blanked.

“He can do a little of everything,” Bill quickly intervened, “but mostly he's a good, fast bolt man.”

The foreman squinted his eyes as a vice was squeezing my heart. What the hell was a bolt man?

“Okay, bolt man he is. For now. He can meet the rivet gang tomorrow.”

That night, Bill gave me a quick course in bolt bagging, explaining that being a bolt man was about the safest job you could have and by the way, I had no trouble with heights, right? Because I was going to work higher than anyone could imagine.

The rivet gang was headed up by John Peterson, a slave driver who never stopped shouting orders or warnings. Then there was Syly Marks, the Heater, Willy Hawson, the Catcher, Eddie Smith, the Bucker-up, and Joe Connaugh, a Mohawk from Canada, the Riveter.

Riveting had its structure, its own rhythm. My first task was to carry all these mushroom-shaped metal bolts in a big sack over my shoulder up to whatever scaffold Syly Marks was on. There he would be, standing over an orange-hot iron furnace, stirring and resetting the coals, his face covered in a sheath of sweat. His signal for me to pour the rivets on top of the coals came in the form of a grunt, then he would quickly stir and stir until the rivets softened and glowed red. Next, he would reach for a pair of nearby tongs, grab a sizzling rivet, and toss it up a story to Willy Hawson, who would catch it in his bucket with the same skill as a baseball player.

Pete's job was to snatch the hot rivet from his bucket with his tongs and slip its thin end through the holes of two beams, joined together. Eddie Smith would then push a Dolly Bar tool against the round head of the rivet so hard you'd think he was defending his family, while Joe the Mohawk would switch on his air hammer, and slam it against the rivet, mashing the soft steel. Up close, the noise from the rivet hammer shook your insides, but after the rivet cooled, it would stiffen, interlocking the beams and columns together forever. That's what made you proud.

Throw, bag, thread, rivet. Throw, bag, thread, rivet they went, again and again, like well-trained dancers sensing each other's beat. Not a man got out of tempo, not if they were going to build this great skyscraper in time to meet the investors’ demands.

Lunch on top of the cross beams was like we were a flock of pigeons perched on a telephone wire, stretched out in a row, gently shifting our legs as we had our beef sandwiches and high voltage coffee, jawing about this or that. For the first couple of weeks, I made sure I was the closest one to the cross column end so if need be, I could scramble to safety. Those men in the middle would do a complete free fall if they lost their balance, but nobody ever seemed to and after a while, I got as smug as the rest of them.

I got a hearty “Attaboy!” the first week out from Joe the Mohawk when I was feeling not worth a plugged nickel. He was different than the rest, both in his attitude and his caramel skin, part-white features, bulky, he-man frame, and long, shiny black hair. After work, when the rest of us got half-seas over from some coffin varnish at The Moonlight, gabbing about getting some cuzzy with this sheba or that dish, his mouth stayed shut, just one tiny muscle flexing in his right cheek. I guess he was the kind that wouldn't ever talk dirty about the ladies.

Although his work reputation was solid, I sensed he wasn't completely accepted as part of the team, particularly by Syly, who seemed to have it in for Joe, being Indian and all. Nevertheless, he was like a graceful cougar—lean, watchful. And talk about a sure-footed Indian. He was helpful, too. If he saw I was lagging behind, he'd mutter, “Pick it up a little Tony, pick it up.” And when I got it right, he'd say loud enough for all to hear, “Now you're the trolley!”

One evening, it was just the two of us at The Moonlight. That was okay by me. Sitting on our barstools, shoulder to shoulder, pie-eyed from the growing collection of Dead Soldiers in front of us, he told me his story, how he came from the Caughnawaga Reservation along the St. Lawrence River, where the Mohawk Indians were extra good with heights as they riveted and hauled beams. I could tell he was very proud of his coming from such a long line of high-steelers, adding how his grandfather had been part of the infamous Quebec Bridge collapse of 1907 and lived to tell the tale.

Months later, Steve turned serious. “Tony, it's time you brought your family here and get your own place. It's…well, it's time, my friend.”

In my mind's eye, the apartment I rented on the Lower East Side seemed decent enough, but after one look at Daria's and Adriana's horrified faces four weeks later, I saw it for what it really was; a five flights up tenement, with one small, doorless bedroom, a paint-peeled living room barely large enough to house a stove and ice-box off in one corner, and a stained sink and filthy pull-chain toilet twenty feet down the outside hall, shared with five other families.

The bedroom was ours, the living room partitioned off with a hanging quilt for Adriana and Rose. I could see Adriana's lips tighten as she threw the sheets and blankets Daria had brought over the wobbly sofa for her and onto the floor for Rose, and in the small hours of the morning, after my wife and I had made quiet, self-conscious love, I noticed Daria made no effort to hide two or three sniffles before she dropped off.

The next night I put on the ritz for them, taking them all out on the town. They needed to see life wasn't so bad here in the Big Apple. I showed them my favorite restaurant, where the portions and service overflowed and the atmosphere made you believe you were a Rockefeller. It sure was a classy joint, with mahogany paneled walls, white tablecloths, fine china plates, and the kind of silverware that had little raised emblems on them—the real McCoy.

Adriana and Rose were obviously in Seventh Heaven, oohing and aahing every couple of minutes as they dove into their food, but Daria stayed quiet in her own little world. I could just feel the same itchiness that had brought me here in the first place wash over me.

I leaned over towards her and whispered, “What's wrong now, Daria?”

She was concentrating on the white napkin resting on her lap. “Tis a crime to spend so much, Tony, a true crime,” she muttered.

I was sorry they had come.

1933 ushered in the New Deal with promises from President Roosevelt and his wife Eleanor,
Happy Days are Here Again
promises that gave people hope and Adriana a position in the First Lady's Special Girls Club, where only women journalists were allowed. Thrilled, my older sister was out of the apartment from dawn until dusk, happy as a clam, and when she did return, Rose complained that she couldn't sleep because her aunt was burning the oil lamp until one in the morning, scribbling away on her assignments.

Then there was Daria, begging me to let her work at least part time. After all, she pointed out, she had been trained as a secretary. But no wife of
mine
was ever gonna work, no matter what! She kept dropping hints about where was all this money I was earning going by the end of the week? But I was having too much fun buying smart clothes and getting me some to pay her too much attention. Nothing steady, mind you, just a once-a-week shack up with one of those dames from the speakeasies after a well-oiled night out on the town.

On those occasions, I'd slip back home before the crack of dawn, my shirt and jacket off and onto a chair so Daria couldn't smell the booze or perfume when I crawled into bed beside her for a fast, one-hour snooze. She never said anything. Maybe she really didn't know, but I suspect it was more that she just didn't care.

That spring, Joe showed me his neighborhood, the North Gowanus section of Brooklyn, and leading me up a steep staircase into the apartment he shared with another Mohawk family, I learned something about their customs, through souvenirs they made from out of their home: dolls, handbags, belts, and brightly beaded ornaments.

The next week I figured it was my turn to return the favor so I did the socially unthinkable. I invited Joe to dinner the following Sunday and when he appeared, flowers in one hand and a box of chocolate in the other, it was more like he was courting us than sitting down to a fine Irish stew and a side of soda bread.

He stayed put just outside of our threshold smiling and I had to admit, all spruced up in a jacket and tie, he was a very striking fella. When he entered our living room Rose immediately ran up to him and instead of paying her no mind, he squatted down to her level and gently handed her the chocolates. She squealed with delight, curtsied, and ran to her favorite hideaway corner as I heard Daria next to me do a quick breath intake. Then he stood up, all six foot four of him, and handed the flowers to Daria. But he was no longer smiling, just staring at her like he had seen a ghost or something.

Beaming, she outstretched a trembling hand. “’Ach, tis a fine thing having you in our home, Mr. Connaugh. I'm—I'm Daria.”

I indicated he should sit down on our sofa next to me, but he did the strangest thing. He turned to Daria with a look as if to say
Do I have your permission?
She gave a tiny nod, and fidgeting with her apron ties, scurried off towards the stove to make supper, Rose in tow. They left us men alone to talk as we competed with the clanging of pots and pans and the oven door opening and shutting.

Our Sunday meal together soon turned into a regular affair, with Joe showing up at our door armed with gifts and good cheer. He sure was no piker, generous to a fault he was, as Daria would say. A real doozy. Once he even came with a shamrock! I'd never seen her face look so shiny. I looked forward to seeing Rose and Daria come so alive when he was in the apartment, talking and laughing like never before. Even Adriana, whenever home from her travels, joined in the fun.

One Saturday night I even went uptown to Harlem with Joe and Daria, to the Apollo Theater, although I must say I wasn't too keen on it. I mean, who wants to go see a bunch of brown skinned jitterbugs like Cab Calloway and The Nicolas Brothers, jiving all over the place and making fools out of themselves? But I managed a great put-on and let Joe lead us down the garden path that night. Maybe if Daria got some attention from a friend of mine and got to leave her kitchen, she might take me out of the doghouse and give me some later, ‘cause I sure wasn't getting any, that's for damn sure!

But after we laughed our goodbyes to Joe and closed our front door, I could tell it just wasn't gonna happen. Oh, I gave plenty of hints, a pat on her shoulder, unbuttoning my shirt in plain view, but if anything she got even more distant, showing me her back as soon as we climbed into bed. So I went back to the ready and willing dames. After all, I had my needs. And my pride.