Odd Jobs (9 page)

It feels good to be talking to Sev about all this personal shit. I have to admit I like him. I admire the way he always has control of the place. People do what he says because they respect him, not because he’s the boss. In some warped way I think I’m helping him not be invisible. I wish I could have that effect on my mother.

CHAPTER 6

The next few hours at H’s place are pretty interesting. There’s a lot to Sev and this whole industry row. It’s more than a summer job, and there’s something to be gained here although that’s what Georgie probably thought, and he ended up losing his head. These boys are playing for high stakes. It’s hard to know how to proceed.

At some point in my drunken stupor, I agree to participate in the last two fights of the summer. Sev offers me two things. First, I can use some time during the day to work out and train. Second, Sev offers to take me under his wing, teach me the business. Learn stuff inside the factory and the union. That’s the part I can’t refuse.

The way I see it, any situation can be my ticket. Some might look at this as a shitty summer job, but maybe it’s more than that. Maybe there’s a ton of money to be made here somewhere. I saw an infomercial once about some starving junior high science teacher who invented Savage Tan suntan oil. Now he’s driving something with 600 horsepower. This guy Balducci who got me the job here is pretty fucking loaded too, and I don’t see him as the type to split atoms or invent a new artificial heart. The point is that I could be sitting on something huge. You never know. If I’m here, why not make the most of it?

Eventually I stumble out of the bar and make it to the bus stop. The sun is down now, but it’s still north of 90 degrees. Maybe it is really 50 degrees but it feels like 90 because my damn stomach is burning from that crap I was drinking with Sev. Still, I feel kinda good, too, like I am finally going somewhere worth going.

So now I’m getting paid to get in shape and learn the business. It seems reasonable to me. If I avoid getting my head kicked in, then it’s win-win.

This week is the best yet. I’m on a pretty good system. My hours are 9 to five (the gravy shift) with an occasional hour of overtime. No more Industrial Road sunrises. I’m always rotating around to different areas, helping in some and just observing in others. In preparation for the upcoming fights, I work out between 10 a.m. to 11:30 a.m. everyday. I do a bunch of pushups and sit-ups and a ton of punching with 3-pound tongues in my hand. On Tuesday and Thursday I do a lot of leg work. You know, squats and lunges.

The guys get a kick out of helping me. While I’m doing pushups, sometimes they give me target numbers to shoot for and count out as I am going. Felipe brings in his stopwatch and times me while I am punching with the cow tongues in my hands. Since Georgie was killed, Felipe runs the Tongue Room.

Some of the guys from the Tongue Room even train with me. They want to get into better shape, so these six or sometimes seven guys get in a row and we just start going. Johnny’s boombox blasts some hard-core rap, and we grab some cow tongues and launch punches: left, right, left, right, left. All in unison, all to the beat. Just like in the hip health clubs. Maybe they should put Cardio-Cow-Tongue-Boxing on their program list. Yeah, I think I’ll drop that idea in the suggestion box.

When I finish my fight training for the day, it’s back to work. Home base today is the Pastrami Room. These big square slices of beef the size of bedroom pillows are soaking in a vat filled with some kind of solution. I’m watching Miguel at the first station stab at them with a pitchfork, lift the beef out of the solution and then drop it on a large metal tray that can hold about 10 of these slabs of beef neatly spread out to cover all the space on the tray. The eight people at Station One start flinging a bunch of spices on the beef. When all 10 pieces are spiced, another metal tray is locked into the 6-foot guardrails and dropped down on the 10 slabs of beef that were just spiced. Ten more slabs are spiced up and another tray is put on top. This is how a Pastrami Tower is built at Station One, and there are 12 stations in the Pastrami Room. Throughout the day, thousands of towers are created. It looks like a fucking medieval city or something.

The guy at Pastrami Station Two lets out a big sneeze. He’s courteous enough to his co-workers to catch all the spray in his hands but goes on flinging the spices on the beef. Remind me not to eat Reuben sandwiches anymore. As I look closer, I notice the sneezer is Hector Pinto. He must have been trans
f
erred here for a while since his injury on the Butcher Block.

I watch as the Pastrami Towers are sent to be cooked. They are then packaged in airtight plastic packages and boxed. I even follow them to the warehouse. I watch the merchandise go to the warehouse because every time I’m there, I notice a portion being taken out and separated; some packages never actually make it into the warehouse. For every ten boxes, one box gets separated. No one seems to mind or ask and I’m not going to, either. But I know something really crooked is going on here.

I’ve burned enough brain cells on pastrami allotment, so it’s basketball time. I’m back to playing hoops at Hempstead Park, and my knee seems to be holding up pretty good. Maybe one day I should put basketball behind me, but I just can’t seem to get it out of my system. I even rationalize that playing b-ball will help me train for the boxing matches. Nothing beats basketball for a real cardio workout.

What’s really amazing is that Loot and Carey get all three of us onto a pretty hot team for the South Shore Classic. It is a big deal. The tournament lasts three weeks, and I remember as a kid I never missed a game. But the Classic isn’t for just anyone. It draws some of the best talent around, including college players from some big-time programs. All the teams have sponsors, and you have to be invited to play.

I’m joining our team for the South Shore Classic in the quarterfinals. Rosters can add and subtract players at any time because the organizers know the really big-time talent is not going to commit for an entire three-week clip. So you never know who could show up for the finals. That’s why Loot can add me to the roster on such late notice. Besides being the captain of the team, he’s basically the Mayor of Hempstead Park. It’s all he’s ever aspired to do, and in a way I’m jealous. Loot is probably the happiest guy I ever met.

Loot’s real name is Jordan Hightower, but “Loot” works great for the South Shore Classic. Hightower gave himself the name Loot because as one of the all-time great trash talkers, he claims to be the “money player.” The guy who announces all the game’s action over the PA system loves nicknames like Loot. This guy is nuts. If you don’t have a nickname like Loot does, odds are you will by the end of the game. The announcer rarely sits and it’s not at all out of the ordinary for him to do his play-by-play standing on top of the scorer’s table, sometimes even on the court. The crowd loves him. They call him the Mouth of the South, Mouth for short.

I’m glad Mouth likes Loot, because he tends to help us out. Today we need the help. Our team, the Buzzards (named for our sponsor, Buzzard’s Bay Bar and Grill on Fulton Avenue), has a particularly tough match-up. Their team has a 6’10”, 285-pound player that the Mouth has simply dubbed “The Building.” The team’s good, but pretty much it’s The Building and everyone else.

Mouth is in his glory tonight. He is drawing on every street-ball taunt he has accumulated over his illustrious career, My other great friend, Carey, who Mouth has nicknamed Turbo, has two guys on him and is forced to make a bad shot that clanks hard against the front rim. Mouth, with his cordless microphone, jumps up on the scorer’s table and yells, “C’mon, Turbo, you got to give up the rock! Man, you got Loot filling the lane and you throw up that gunk. Damn, the only way to get a pass from Turbo is to put a damn net around your neck so he’ll think you’re the basket.”

Howls erupt from the crowd. It’s pretty funny but encouraging. Loot threads a beautiful pass right into my hands on a fast break; when I lay this in, we’ll only be down eight. I cross the foul line and start my last step. Before my knee injury, I would slam this bitch, but I better just lay it in. As I roll it off my hand, The Building blasts in from nowhere and swats my shot 12 feet into the crowd. The Mouth must be drooling now.

The crowd simultaneously lets out an “Ahhhhhh!” Mouth runs on the court and actually smacks me on the butt. “Get that shit out of my kitchen! Damn, The Building just fell on you. He blocked that garbage with his elbow.” There’s no end in sight; he’s on my case now. Mouth calls me The White Knight because there aren’t many white guys playing at this event, or even in the audience. Mouth says, “Damn, Knight, how you gonna get over that? The Building just took your manhood!”

I hate to admit it, but Mouth might be right. I hit a few outside shots, but I can’t do any slashing. Any time I’m inside, the big ugly Building is there. We’re gonna lose this game. The Building is too dominating, and it’s going to kill Loot. He lives for this. For me, I’m just happy to be here. It’s a perfect summer night and I’m doing something
I
always wanted to do. There are some faces in the crowd that
I
recognize, people I haven’t seen in a while.

Loot is pushing the ball up court. There’s a minute and a half left in the game, and we’re down nine points now. Loot pulls up at the arc and lets a three-pointer go. It’s a nice-looking shot, but it has a bit too much spin on it and bounces off the back part of the rim. The Building leaps over us mere mortals and pulls down yet another rebound. Loot is screaming for us to intentionally foul in an attempt to stop the clock. But it’s too late: the ball flies up court and the other team spreads out to run the clock down. Carey finally catches one of their guys and fouls him, but we are down nine with one minute and 10 seconds to go. Their player is on the foul line, but I’m not concentrating on him. Like a fucking idiot, I’m scanning the faces in the crowd again, hoping against hope that C.W., for old time’s sake, has shown up to watch me play.

“C’mon, Kevin! Get your head out your ass! We can still pull this off,” Loot shouts. I wonder if they hit that foul shot; I was really spacing out. No, we’re still down nine points, but he makes the second shot. Loot inbounds to me, I push it up court and pass it to Carey, who lets go with another three pointer that splashes in, nothing but net, but we have only 45 seconds left and we’re down seven. Everything now is more or less for show. The final score is 98-91. The Building scored 40 points and blocked 11 shots.

The spectators leave the bleachers and head onto the court. Both teams meet in the center and shake hands. A couple of hugs are exchanged. Everyone’s leaving now, but I barely notice; I’m still thinking of C.W. and wishing that, if it had to end, that I had left her. That seems more natural than her leaving me. And less painful.

CHAPTER 7

I pull into Kosher World and immediately start taking some heat. I’m in a jacket and tie and some of the guys find this quite amusing. Bino is not one of them. I’m sure he’s a bit jealous because Sev’s asking me to join in on the union meeting today. It surprises me that they’ll let someone like me into the meeting, but Sev told me if he wants someone there, no one’s gonna say anything. He says, “The meeting is a joke anyway, so who gives a crap if anyone has something to say about it?”

The Kosher World management will be at the meeting, along with Sev, Sal, Frank and Wally Strewgats, the shop steward. The shop steward is supposed to make sure the union is being looked after. You know, fight for some rights. Wally doesn’t really do any championing for union causes, though. I haven’t found a Kosher World worker that likes or respects him, but he manages to win the election each year. I know it’s not his talent or work ethic that gets him elected. It must be something to do with the fact that no one will run against him. Bucking the system in place is not really a viable option. I’m going to find out why, but it’s pretty clear there are health problems involved.

It seems Sev has some freedom to do things just because everyone knows what a shit show this would be without him. Sev makes the place run, but we all know it could be much better. There’s a ton of frustration. Management is not getting the profit margins and the union is not getting raises and benefits, yet all the tools are here for a successful operation. All the other crooked crap that’s going on behind the scenes is handcuffing everyone from making money and even gaining
benefits.

Sev tells me how much he hates this particular meeting. It’s supposed to deal with the same issues that have been raised for the last 20 years, yet nothing will get resolved. Everyone in the room knows what the problems are, but no one will address them. So the company and union will carry on, status quo.