A Lost King: A Novel (11 page)

“And there's another thing,” said my father. “I'm getting sick and tired of these letters. Do you understand?”

“What letters?”

“These letters offering me this and that. I don't want to paint pictures in my spare time. I don't want to repair television sets. I don't want to sharpen my wits or develop my muscles. I don't want to grow flowers on the window sills. And I don't want pills to get my juices flowing. My juices flowed away years ago.”

“I didn't send for all of those. I guess they pass your name on. Wait a minute then. Maybe I shouldn't send this other letter. Be honest now. Do you feel rhumba lessons would be wasted on you?”

“Listen to me. Tomorrow morning you start looking for another job. I want you to look all day every day. Do you hear me? I mean it!”

Next morning I started out in search of work. It was the same old story. Those employers were interested in everything but the fact that I was ready and willing to work. Once again I wasted whole days filling out long applications. To put fun in it I made each one a little bit different. I kept changing my middle name. It was Randolph and Chester and Sebastian. It was Ferdinand and Sherman and Oliver. Within a week my grandmother had been born in Ireland, Greece, Russia, Turkey, Spain and Wales. I had hobbies like chess and badminton, whittling and fencing and archery. Those interviewers seemed troubled by the fact that I was single and so I said I was engaged and would be married in the fall.

In the end it went wrong. I was hired by John C. Cook of Central Chemicals Company. I didn't want that job. John C. Cook was excited about it. He was tapping his fingers and feet. He was telling me I would start on the night shift and he made the work sound like dancing in the dark until certain details lodged in my ears like pebbles. I sat there crossing my legs tighter and tighter as though to crack a walnut. I turned shy. He was even more eager to have me. It would be a grand opportunity for me. I would start by handling bags of potash.

“You'll handle two kinds,” he said. “There's sulphate of potash and muriate of potash.”

“Handle them? How much do they weigh?”

“Eighty pounds. Hold on a minute.”

“I just let go.”

“That's pretty funny,” he said, slapping me on the knee. “I was going to say you don't handle the bags by yourself. You work in a team with another man. You swing the bags to a two-wheeler and then load them on trucks for shipment. You don't really lift the bags.”

“You mean the other half of the team does the lifting?”

“You've got a good sense of humor, Paul. I like that. What I'm saying is that you swing the bags. You're only moving about forty pounds at a time. There's a rhythm to it. Your body swings back and forth. It develops your muscles.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let me tell you something in confidence,” he said. “On a job like this we get a lot of drifters. I hired four men today and I'll bet they don't last a week. They'll work a few days for a paycheck and then quit. We can't find good steady men. There's a special program here. We're looking for pushers and foremen. From there you can move into the office or sales. How's that?”

“It seems all right.”

“I'll set up an appointment for you with Doctor Fowler. Pass the physical and you start work on Monday night. Good luck, Paul.”

I thanked him. It was mostly for saying my name. I went home and told my father about the job. I said they were putting me on a training program. Any change would have satisfied him. We ate together and then talked for a while.

“By the way,” I said. “You can have all the potash you want.”

“Good, good. Bring all you can carry.”

After taking a nap I walked over to the coffee house. I sipped black coffee and watched a pinochle game. The gamblers were teasing Theodore. Marko was laughing in the corner. Nothing had changed.

I left there. I strolled up to Lincoln Park and sat on a bench. It was a night without stars. The leaves were whispering above me. I thought about Peggy. Suddenly I was overwhelmed by this need to tell and tell of the deep sweet love inside me. I went back to the alley. I slipped into her yard and moved quietly along the wall of the house. I sat down on the ground right under her upstairs bedroom window. The room was dark. I whispered her name. There was no answer. I felt the harmonica in my pocket. I took it out and turned it in my hands. I started to play. I played a song for Peggy. It was a song unknown to me. I played it again. A kind of peace was flooding through me.

The corner window opened. Her mother was there.

“Peggy's not home, Paul,” she said.

“Thank you, Mrs. Haley.”

“The music was nice.”

“I didn't mean to wake you.”

“I'm sorry about things, Paul.”

“Good night, Mrs. Haley.”

I went home. The screen door slammed behind me.

“Is that you?” said my father, from the bedroom.

His voice was like a slap in the face.

“Who is it?” he said.

I said nothing.

“Goddam it,” he said. “Who's out there?”

“It's Michael!” I cried, hoarsely.

“Who?”

“Michael Christopher! Not your third cousin! Not your second cousin! It's your first cousin! I was sitting there, Carl, and I was wondering where it all started! And where it will end! And then I heard the song, Carl, I heard the song! I came all the way from Vandergrift! Come out, Carl! Come out wherever you are and give your first cousin a big kiss!”

My father turned over in bed to turn away from me. I started to laugh. I couldn't stop laughing. I sat there doubled up with laughter until tears came into my eyes.

Late Monday night I sat with nine colored men on the dock of the Central Chemicals Company. All around us were brown paper bags of potash in stacks of eight. Three trucks to be loaded were backed against the dock. I sat watching and listening to those men.

“Stopped in at Larry's Lounge Bar,” one was saying. “No loungin' there. Walls painted red. Place smokes like a chimney. What dancin'. Like everybody's clothes on fire.”

“This work's too heavy,” said another. “I applied for a postman job. They'll be callin' me soon.”

“How's it pay?”

“Side benefits. Sick pay and vacation. Pension. Other things, too. Look at Feef Carter. Feef's got a street he can't get through in the mornin'. Women call him in for cake and pie. Feef's cuttin' deep. He says the job changed his life. He went on like a light.”

Two other men were talking off to my left.

“Hear you went up to the veteran hospital.”

“My back ain't right, Dan.”

“That so?”

“Can't go like before. Hate to see weekends come.”

“What the doctor say?”

“Lay off the heavy stuff. Call that a doctor? Can't move and he tell me to hold still.”

“Ask about that veteran pension?”

“Always do. Says you got to have a history of disorder.”

“That was
you
.”

“Said it all but my name. Got the longest history of disorder on Woodland Avenue.”

Dan turned to me.

“You lost, boy?” he said.

“No. I think I belong here.”

“You the only one,” he said. “We all lost.”

There was a whistling in the night. The foreman arrived. All eyes went to him. He was whistling and moving around as though stalking us. Pale blue eyes watched us from a round battered face. He was tapping the bulge of his belly in a loving way as though all his power had sagged there from the loosened swells of his chest and shoulders.

“Call me Greevy,” he said, softly.

“Greevy,” said a voice in the group, following orders.

“Greevy,” said another.

“Greevy,” said a third.

“Now what?” said the first.

“Now all together,” said the second.

Several of them sang the name out.

“Thanks,” said Greevy. “Call again some time.”

“When's the best time?”

“When you feel like singing,” said Greevy. “After you finish a good night's work. I see some new men here.”

“Stamped and ready, Greevy. Wound up tight like toys.”

“Let's have your O.K. slips from the doctor,” said Greevy. “Any questions about the work?”

“This the place?”

“That's right,” said Greevy. “You report on this dock.”

“This the time?”

“Be ready for work at eleven,” said Greevy.

“Where's the music?”

“What music?” said Greevy.

“Man said we'd be swingin' here.”

“I'll furnish the music,” said Greevy.

“Now what? Now what the hell? Now what the hell's with this potash? Now what the hell, Greevy, the hell with this potash?”

“They use potash to fertilize the soil,” said Greevy. “Potash helps things grow.”

“Don't need it. I'm the biggest thing on Scovill Avenue.”

“You're about medium size around here,” said Greevy. “And you're getting smaller every minute.”

“When we get paid?”

“Once a week,” said Greevy. “Friday.”

“Be back Thursday.”

“That's it,” said Greevy. “Let's get to it.”

“Now what? Now what the hell?”

Greevy divided us into five teams. My partner was over six feet tall. He loomed like a tree. Moving together, we started to swing those eighty-pound bags of potash. We loaded them eight high on a two-wheeler and took turns wheeling it to the trucks backed against the dock.

“What's your name?” he said.

“Paul, Paul.”

“Mine's James, James.”

“It's only one Paul.”

“So I see. It's only one James. One's too much.”

His laughter spilled forth rich and sweet as cream.

“Listen, baby,” he said. “This job's a one-way ticket.”

“How do you mean?”

“To the rupture wards. Bend your knees. Move when I move.”

“All right.”

“Slow down. Save yourself. Save me.”

He was laughing again and bowing. Suddenly he was laughing uproariously as though there were no reason for it.

The high and low bags in those piles were hardest to handle. It was necessary to reach up and swing the top one down exactly right on the steel tongue of the two-wheeler. We had to be in control of that bag all through the lower half of the swing. Already there were sudden long pulls in the muscles of my arms and shoulders. The following bags were easier. We would swing them across and drop them before feeling their full dead weight. The last bag was hardest. We had to lean over and swing it up on top of the other seven.

Greevy had gone away.

After a while he returned. He was whistling to warn us. He stood there under a naked white bulb. His pale eyes were a little wild now as he looked around the dock. He was tapping his belly.

“Where's the guy in the yellow cap?” he said.

“Thrasher?”

“That's right,” said Greevy. “Where's Thrasher?”

“What you want with Thrasher?”

“Where the hell is he?” said Greevy.

“Right here,” said another, stepping forward and saluting.

“Not you,” said Greevy. “Your partner. The yellow cap.”

“He means Luther.”

“What you want with Luther?”

Greevy hurried behind the dock where he found Luther smoking a cigarette. They came back talking.

“You know better than that,” said Greevy.

“I do, Greevy.”

“We break for a smoke at one and five. You know that.”

“I do, Greevy.”

“Well, what's the idea?”

“It's that rock, Greevy ”

“What rock?”

“It's that sharp rock back there, Greevy. Had to sit on that rock awhile. Been on a sharp rock thirty years. Born on one.”

Greevy went away. He was whistling when he came back.

“Where's the guy in the sailor hat?” he said.

“Wheeler?”

“I mean the guy in the sailor hat,” said Greevy.

“Sailed off, man. Went down with the ship.”

“Wheeler was a sport, Greevy.”

Greevy went behind the dock. He marched the smoker to work and then drifted away. Half an hour later he turned up. He was weaving.

“Where's the guy in the undershirt?” he said.

“Went to the doctor. Broke his hump.”

Greevy kept everyone under control while losing control of himself. By now it was clear that he stopped whistling only to take a drink in some hidden place. He would go away whistling and then there would be silence. The men called out to him in the night.

“You gonna buy or be, Greevy?”

“Drown your sorrow! Drown mine!”

“Now what the hell is this, Greevy? Is it the whistlin' make you drink or the drinkin' make you whistle?”

“The man whistles clear and so he drinks,” said Luther. “But he drinks to whistle clear. So he drinks to whistle clear so he drinks to whistle clear.”

Those bags of potash were getting heavy for me. Each one seemed to weigh a pound more. I was doing less and less of the lifting. I tried to save my strength for the last bag. I would lean down to lift and all the muscles would stretch deep into my back. James had longer arms. He started to swing before I did and for an instant he was swinging me up along with the bag. He gave me mournful looks.

“You liftin' there?” he said.

“I think so.”

“I don't know.”

“Neither do I.”

I was aching through the shoulders. My fingers dangled. James told me to go behind the dock and rest. I went back there. I sat on the big sharp rock with my arms hanging down. I felt dizzy. Suddenly I heard Greevy asking about me.

“Where's the little guy with the curly hair?”

“Had a cramp.”

“Shipped out with the last load.”

I sat on that rock trying to make myself disappear. Greevy came around the corner.

“How are you?” he said, bobbing and weaving.

“All right. Thank you.”

“You're welcome, I'm sure. Let's go.”

“Yes, sir.”

“One man doesn't work and two won't work.”

“I'm sorry. I had to rest a little.”

“It's O.K. Get moving. But be careful.”

As we came around one side of the dock my partner James went laughing around the other side. Greevy followed him. They came back talking.

“Too much turnover here,” said James. “They come and go like it was a liquor store.”

“You're right,” said Greevy. “The company's got a labor problem. And you're part of it. So what?”

“Got a solution for you, Greevy. You buy eight baby gorillas. Train them up. No pay problem. You hang big bunches of bananas from the ceiling.”

“I'll put it in the suggestion box,” said Greevy.

I could hardly straighten up when we stopped to eat at three in the morning. I staggered into the locker room and sat down on a bench. One bite of my ham sandwich was enough. I was too tired to chew it. I leaned back and watched the other men. They were having a picnic in the dark. They ate chicken and pork chops. They ate ham and cheese sandwiches with lettuce and tomato and pickles. They lifted slabs of layer cake and cream pie. They washed everything down with milk or coffee. Finally they lit cigarettes and cigars. They stretched out on benches or melted away in corners. They puffed and dreamed and dozed.

Greevy was whistling in the doorway.

“Cork that man,” someone said.

“Now what the hell?”

Greevy marched us to the dock. We started to swing those gigantic bags again. There was no breeze at all and the air was powdered through with white potash dust. I lost control of my muscles. Everything in me went soft as though I had been stuffed with cotton. The ends of those bags would slip through my fingers and hit the floor. James would be left holding his end up and waiting for me to lift again.

“You there?” he said.

“I'm here.”

“Thought you left.”

“I'm trying, James.”

“You just pretendin'.”

“I'm really trying my best.”

“All right.”

Greevy watched awhile and then he left. All work stopped. The men turned into statues in the dark. Faces were powdered with potash dust. I was watching the sky for traces of light. It was black and black. Morning would never come again. We were sinking to the bottom of the night.

There was whistling. Everyone stirred. Greevy reeled into our midst. His shirt ballooned at the waist. He was bobbing around. James and I were swinging a bag when he turned away. James returned that bag to the pile on the dock though it would have been just as easy to follow through on the swing and lay it on the two-wheeler.

“You a company man?” he said.

He was laughing and bowing again.

Greevy returned at dawn. It was my turn to push the two-wheeler to the truck. I stood on tiptoe to grip the swollen black handles. I gathered my remaining strength and snapped the two-wheeler back off the floor toward me. It was coming down on me. I caught it with my whole body and stood there dancing under it.

“O, God,” I said, softly.

Greevy was interested. He was watching me as I started to push the two-wheeler. There was a slight ridge where the floor of the truck met the floor of the dock. I needed a good start to get over it. I closed my eyes and prayed for strength. I started to move faster. I was going well. Suddenly I heard a cry of warning. The truck was pulling away and that two-wheeler dropped clean through my hands and off the dock. I stood looking down at those spilled bags with my hands frozen in midair as though still holding the two-wheeler.

“O, God,” I said.

“Never mind,” said Greevy.

I turned to him.

“Put your hands in your pockets,” he said. “Go back and sit down till I send for you.”

I went back and sat on that sharp rock. Morning had come. Storm clouds moved across the sky like a herd of elephants. They massed over a bridge that swooped and soared in merry-go-round leaps across the Cuyahoga River. I fell asleep.

Greevy woke me.

“How you feeling?” he said.

“Not so bad now. Thank you.”

“You're welcome, I'm sure. You look like you were turned every which way but loose.”

“I guess you're going to fire me.”

“Don't put it that way. This work's too heavy for you.”

“I'll do better tomorrow.”

“Maybe so. You'll either build up to the job or hurt yourself. I can't take a chance on you. You're a bad insurance risk for the company. I don't know what the hell's the matter with that Cook. Couldn't he see you're too small?”

“Is it all right if I take some potash?” I said.

“Help yourself. I'll mail you a check for the night.”

“Do you know what? I was thinking about your job.”

“Were you?”

“I wish I had a job like yours. I wish I had your job.”

“Your ambition will carry you far,” he said.