Last Exit to Brooklyn - Hubert Selby Jr (18 page)

Harry looked at his desk, the glass and pitcher of
beer. haha. No work tomorrow. Gotta piss. He stood, bumped against
the desk, shoved his chair back and laughed when it banged against
the wall, leaned on the desk looking at the beer then staggered to
the yard and pissed, sighing. Thats what I needed. A good piss. haha.
Nothin like a good piss. Maybe the guysll come back tomorrow, ahh . .
. thats betta. He turned off the lights and went home.

He left the house the next morning as soon as he
dressed and went to his office. He filled a pitcher with beer and sat
at his desk. He leaned back and put his feet on the desk. It was
kindda nice to sit alone and drink beer for a while. He could use the
relaxation. Hed been working hard on the strike and tomorrow would be
another busy day. It was kindda nice to sit alone in his office. He
really liked it. It really wasnt so bad. He picked up the pitcher to
refill his glass. It was empty. Didnt think hed been there that long,
but I guess maybe I have. He laughed and got up and refilled the
pitcher and then his glass. Somea the guys should be around soon.
Must be late enough. He sat back and put his feet back up on the
desk. It wasnt bad being alone though. For a while.

A car stopped in front of the Greeks and he got up
from his desk and went to the door and yelled across to the guys
going into the Greeks. They looked and strolled across the street,
Vinnie carrying a package. Harry stood at the door as they walked in
and the guys flopped around after filling glasses with beer. Vinnie
put the package on the desk and tore the paper off. Here yaare Harry.
We toldya we/d getya a radio. Hows this? pretty good, eh? If we wasnt
so desperate for loot youd never get it. Harry walked over to the
desk and looked at the radio, turned the knobs and watched the needle
move along the dial. Youre lucky we/re beat man or we/d never giveit
toya for a lousy 30 skins. Now at least we can have some music around
here. This joints like a morgue, unwinding the cord and plugging it
in. It even has short wave man, turning the dial and stopping when a
voice singing in a foreign language came from the radio. See. I wish
ta fuck I could keep the thing. Yeah, it sounds pretty good, turning
the dial again, stopping as the sound of different languages reached
them. Hey Vin, get some music, yeah? Vinnie switched it back to the
standard band and Harry reached over and started toying with the
dial. He watched the needle move slowly across the lighted numbers
and when a screeching sax wailed someone yelled, thats it man, and a
hand pushed Harrys from the knob and tuned in the sax. The volume was
turned up and someone told Harry ta fill up the pichas and someone
slapped him on the back, great set, eh man? and Harry nodded and
picked up a pitcher and refilled it and he watched and listened to
the guys snap their fingers and yell with the music and Harry felt
their friendship and felt too, again, spasms of expectation and
everything seemed sortofright and Harry felt comfortable.

When Vinnie told him to give him the money now Harry
took the thirty dollars from his wallet and handed it to him and told
the guys ta drink up, the brewery needs the barrels and laughed and
toldem theres plenty more and once more started blithering and
babbling about the union and women and the guys just ignored him and
continued to drink until they got bored and left Harry with his beer
and radio. Harry sat alone for a while listening to his radio, toying
with the dials, drinking the beer, laughing his laugh, gripping the
knobs tighter and twirling them fast then slow, moving the dial where
and as he pleased, listening to a station for a few minutes, changing
it, tuning in shortwave and feeling that he could drag the foreign
countries in as he pleased.

He stayed at his desk drinking beer and listening to
his radio until his head started to hang toward his chest. He emptied
his glass, unplugged the radio, put it under his desk, put out the
lights, locked the door and started walking the few blocks, which
would only take a few minutes and was only a short distance away,
home.

Harry was sick the next morning but dragged himself
from the house to his office. His entire body was twitching and Harry
forced down a few beers to straighten himself out before the men
came. He got a couple of glasses down and a half dozen aspirin, his
headache slowly leaving and the turmoil in his stomach subsiding, yet
he still felt a tension, an apprehension, and he cursed the bars for
not being open yet so he could get a shot and get rid of his
hangover. When the men started coming, a little before 8, their
joking and laughter, as they grabbed signs and had their books
stamped, annoyed Harry. When all the signs had been distributed and
fresh coffee made, Harry went to the bar for a couple of fast shots
and came back convinced he felt better. When he got back to the
office he turned the radio on and sat behind his desk drinking beer
and joking with the men. When one of the officials called Harry told
him he had bought a radio for the office, figured the men/d like a
little music or maybe hear a ballgame when they come off the line,
and the official told him to send a bill to the union and he would be
reimbursed. Harry hung up the phone and sat back in his chair feeling
very official and important; and although the morning passed slowly
for Harry until he got over his hangover, the afternoon passed
rapidly, especially after his phone conversation ( strike
headquarters, local 392, Brother Black talkin) with the union
official.

When the last of the men left that night Harry sat at
his desk drinking for a while then went across the street to the
Greeks. He ate slowly until a few of the guys came in and then ate
rapidly, talking and laughing. When he finished they went back to the
office and drank and listened to the radio, the guys ignoring Harry
as usual, just nodding or mumbling an occasional answer. A few more
of the guys came in but they didnt stay too long and once again Harry
was sitting behind his desk alone with a pitcher of beer and a glass.
The sun had set and the street was quiet and cool and though Harry
had been drinking beer all day, and had been feeling relaxed for
hours, the butterflies in his stomach started again as he walked
home.

The baby was asleep when he got there and Mary was
watching t v, waiting for him. She called him in the living room and
Harry sat in a chair, Mary leaning over to rub his ear, Harry too
confused and not drunk enough to shove her hand away. After rubbing
his ear for a few minutes without Harry twisting his head away Mary
sat on the arm of the chair and put an arm around his neck. A short
time later she coaxed him into the bedroom and Harry undressed and
lay beside her until she pulled him on her. Harry continued to drift,
as he had through the day, only silently and lethargically, still
experiencing the sharp depression that overcame him when the guys
left and he was alone with his radio, beer, desk and chair, the
depression of disappointment after a long wait. When Mary pulled him
over on her he allowed his body to move in the directed direction and
she put her arms around him, breathing on his neck, rolling under
him. Harry just lay on her until he became conscious of her voice
then rolled off, lit a cigarette and lay on his side smoking. Mary
rubbed his back, kissed his neck and Harry continued to smoke, still
immobile, still silent and Mary rubbed his ear and rubbed his arms
until Harry eventually shook her hands off. Mary lay on her back for
a while, mumbling and rolling slightly from side to side, Harry still
silent, until Harry finally put his cigarette out and adjusted
himself to go to sleep. Mary looked at his back for a while then
rolled over on her side, pulled her knees up toward her chin and
eventually fell asleep.

Mary told Harry tagotahell
when he told her to fix breakfast. He told her again to fix breakfast
or hed break her fuckin head. Do it yourself and dont botha me. Harry
called her a fuckin slut and left the house. Harry couldnt remember
how he had felt the night before, but he did know he felt different
this morning, the usual resentment against Mary filling his thoughts.
She was once more responsible for his misery as were the bosses for
the fact that he didnt make much money. Between them they tried to
make his life miserable; they tried ta fuckim everytime he moved; if
it wasnt for them things would be different.

* * *

Harry slowed down in his busding around the office as
the days passed until, after a few weeks, he just sat, most of the
time, behind his desk except for an occasional walk to the line to
relieve the tension of just sitting in the small office. The men too
slowed and while on the picket line moved just enough not to be
standing still. When they spoke with each other it was with
comparatively quiet voices and when they spoke with the police it was
just a word or two, or, more usually, a nod. There was no desperation
in their appearance or action, but the novelty of being on strike was
over and now it was just a job like any other job only they werent
getting paid for this. What little lightheartedness remained after
the first full week of picketing slowly vanished with the forming of
each Saturday food line and when the men went home with $10 worth of
groceries. They had to report to the meeting hall and before the food
was distributed the President gave a speech and the first Saturday he
told them what a fine job they were doing on the line and especially
praised brother Harry Black for the way in which he carried out his
duties as organizer and administrator of the strike field office. He
told the men that they had met with the companies negotiating
committee each day the past week, but they were offering starvation
wages and that their committee refused to give in to them even if
they had to stay on strike a year. When he finished speaking the
clique stamped, cheered and whisded and soon most of the men were
applauding the President as he jumped from the platform and walked
among the men slapping them on their backs and shaking their hands.
Then the men lined up for their food bags. There were many comments,
jokes and laughter as the lines slowly moved forward and each man was
handed his bag, but when they were alone the bag looked small. The
second Saturday the Presidents speech was even shorter, the applause
quieter, the men more silent as they stood on line. Only a few could
think of something funny to say. And so each week ended.

When the men first started picketing the plant they
would make jokes about the few executives who were going to work,
greeting them occasionally with jeers and boos, but soon they cursed
them each morning and each night, the police telling them to shut up
and keep moving. After the first few weeks had passed the men stood
still as the executives entered the building and started threatening
them, the police waving their clubs in their faces and telling them
to be quiet and keep the lines moving or they would pull them in.
Each day the voices, curses and threats of the men were more vehement
and after a few weeks more police were stationed at the entrance of
the building in the morning and evening; and when they told the men
to watch themselves and keep moving the men spit in front of the cops
or mumbled something about goons; and each day the routine was the
same except that it grew more intense and the men were continually
looking for an excuse to hit someone, anyone; and the police were
just waiting for someone to start something so they too could find
relief from the boredom by cracking some-ones skull. And as the
boredom increased so did the resentment: the resentment of the men
toward the cops for being there and trying to prevent them from
winning the strike; and the police toward the strikers for making it
necessary for them to stand around like this for hours each day when
they werent even allowed to go on strike if they wanted more money.
The men moved as slowly as possible, sneering at the police when they
passed them; and the police stood facing them all day swinging their
clubs by the leather thong and telling the men to keep moving if they
stopped even for a second; and the men would stand still for a
moment, staring, hoping someone would say fuckyou to one of the cops
so they could wrap their signs around their heads, but no one said
anything and as a cop took a step forward the men started moving
again and the strike and the game continued.

When the men came back to the office now they dropped
their signs on the floor, Harry telling them at first to take it easy
then, after being told to go fuckhimself a few times, said nothing
and picked the signs up when they left. Soon new signs had to be
painted and each time the men saw newly painted signs they became
more bitter and cursed the fucks in the company who were keeping them
out of work, and cursed the cops for helping those
fuckin-bellyrobbers.

The company had been preparing for the strike many
months before it started and so, when the first pickets donned their
signs and started parading jubilantly up and down in front of the
factory, the existing orders had been filled and work transferred to
other plants throughout the country or subcontracted to other firms
and the primary, and almost only, concern of the executives in the
Brooklyn factory was coordinating the transferring and shipping of
work and finished products between the various plants and
subcontractors. The first few days of the strike were hectic and, at
times, slightly chaotic for those executives responsible for
coordinating work between the various firms, but after that
everything proceeded routinely with only an occasional emergency that
would be met with long distance calls and soon enough the situation
would once more be under control.