Last Exit to Brooklyn (20 page)

Ginger strolled around the room, gulping at her drink, talking with the guys and looking at Harry occasionally and smiling. Harry made his way back to his chair, filled his glass and sat, rubbing his hand, wondering just what had happened, slowly becoming conscious of the noise from the guys and the radio. Somebody slapped him on the back, whattayasay Harry, laughed and staggered away, Harry looking
at him dumbly and nodding. Ginger came up behind him and twirled his hair with her fingers and slowly moved around in front of him and leaned against the desk. I like your party. I hope the strike lasts for a while, we can have a ball. Harry nodded his head as he weaved back and forth in his chair, almost falling off again. Ginger patted his cheek, Youre cute. I like you, smiling and giggling inside as Harrys eyes once more showed his bewilderment. Its too bad we cant be alone, we would have such fun. Harry put his hand on her leg and Ginger lifted it gently. Fresh. My, but you get a girl all aquiver, crossing her arms against her breast. Harry leaned toward her, licking his lips, mumbling something, and Ginger patted his cheek, then turned away, tired of her little game, turned the radio off and announced that they should go back uptown. I find staying in Brooklyn too long very oppressive. Yeah, letsgo. Maybe therell be some action tanight. Harry tried to grab Gingers arm as she picked up the gin bottle, but she twirled away from him and strutted out of the office. Harry leaned forward in his chair holding onto the edge of the desk and watched her leave, not noticing the guys as they picked up the other gin bottles and food and left.

Harry leaned against the desk staring at the door in a semicatatonic state, his head slowly drooping to one side until his head finally bumped against the desk. He jerked it up, blinked his eyes then stared again at the door, slowly sliding from his chair until he was on the floor. Harry curled up under the desk and slept.

Harry slept, curled cosily under his desk, until late morning. The sun was bright and shone through the office window, lighting the entire office except for Harrys snug little cove. Harry sat in the darkness under his desk with his knees under his chin fighting to squint his eyes open, peering up at his chair, and its barred shadow on the wall, conscious only of the pain in his eyes. He attempted nothing, not even closing his eyes against the brightness of the sun shining on the wall, a brightness that reflected only on his eyes and not into the darkness of his cubicle. He sat there for hours not thinking of challenging his lethargy until the demand to urinate became so intense he was forced to crawl from his niche. After he urinated he leaned over the sink and let cold water pour on his head for many minutes
then found his way back to his chair and sat smoking and staring until the pain in his head prodded him from his chair and he locked the office and went next door to the bar. He sat alone and silent at the end of the bar drinking, not thinking or glowing over the fact that he could spend as much as he wanted then get it back from the union as he had been doing since the strike started; not even aware that his head stopped aching after an hour or so. For a short time, after drinking for a few hours, he started thinking of the previous day and he felt an excitement in his body but he could not fight through the haze that obscured the night and soon he was just drunk. It was still early evening when he left the bar and stumbled home and into bed, still fully clothed, and curled up in a corner and slept.

Monday morning the men had regained some of their former enthusiasm with the possibility of another truck trying to cross the picket line, a truck that they would be prepared to stop. The incident of the trucks took on added importance to the men during the weekend. They had talked about it continually on Friday and by the time they drank their last beer Sunday night they were convinced that the fact that the company had to break the line with trucks meant that they were hardup to fill orders and that soon they couldnt afford to keep the shop closed. Some even thought, briefly, of going down to the office Sunday night or early Monday morning to see if the company would try to sneak trucks in before the men started picketing, but soon convinced themselves that it wasnt necessary. So, Monday they were slightly elated as they knew the strike would soon be over and they could stop haggling with the wife about money. They were convinced too that the company would try again to break the line before giving in to the strikers and so everyone, even those who stayed in the office drinking, were ready to run down 2nd avenue when the word was given that more trucks were coming and when they did and were stopped, then the company would have to accept the unions demands. And so they waited and hoped.

Everytime Harry stamped a book during the morning he asked the men if they saw the picture in the paper of the trucks burning, and intimated in every way that he was completely responsible for
burning the trucks. By late morning even Harry was a little tired of hearing the same thing for hours so he stopped talking about the trucks and soon, after a pitcher of beer or so, a few memories and images of Saturday night returned and he remembered the guys coming in the office, he remembered the music, the gin and Ginger dancing. He had felt good Saturday night, that he definitely remembered, and too he remembered how the guys seemed to respect him because of his position in the union and because he could order any thing he wanted and have the union pay for it; and he remembered how Ginger admired him for his strength and how she liked to talk with him and feel the muscles in his arms and legs. There were still a few things he could not remember, but they must have been unimportant and soon the thought that they existed was absorbed and they had never happened.

The men rejuvenated their hope through the day, but as the picketing day approached an end, the effect of all the hopeful efforts was almost negligible. The trucks that were to prelude the ending of the strike never arrived and though they tried at first to think that they would not come until later and that it was natural that the company should wait a day or so before trying again, the men could not accept these explanations no matter how hard they tried. They had started the day expecting a deus ex machina and with its appearance their troubles and the strike would be over; and though they tried to convince themselves, and each other, with many arguments, that the company would have to give in soon they found it impossible to maintain any optimism and when the day came to an end they put their signs away quietly, nodded to each other and left. The day had been long and hot. It had been many hours since anyone had looked up at the clear blue sky. It was still summertime and there were many more hot days to come.

The union and management met regularly to arbitrate their dispute. Each side was more arrogant and noisy than usual the first meeting after the incident of the trucks, but the result of the meeting was the same as all the previous ones. The union could not allow anyone to administer the welfare plan but, even if their books had been in order it was far too late now for them to concede to the companys demands.
After being on strike this long they could not settle for the same contract that had been offered before they started the strike. There was still ample money in the strike fund, enough to continue to give the men their 10 dollars bag of food each week, to last a year if necessary; and other unions throughout the country had pledged assistance any time it was needed. The union officials were indignant about the companys attitude in being so rigid and in sending trucks through the line and left Mondays meeting declaring they would not meet with them for a few weeks, not until the company reconsidered its arbitrary stand and realized that the men were willing to stay on strike for a year if necessary in order to get a decent contract. The recording secretary remained in the city and the other officials went to Canada for a rest. They needed a rest from the pressures of the strike and the oppressive heat.

Mr Harrington told the other company representatives that they had to remain firm. Except for the oversight that necessitated their hiring a freight forwarding firm to cross the picket line and deliver the much needed parts to the upstate plant, everything had been running smoothly. Their other plants, and subcontractors, throughout the country had been geared in ample time to handle all existing orders and any that might come in during the immediate future. All their government contracts were being fulfilled and no new ones would be forthcoming before February of the following year. At least none of any quantity. And too, the manner in which the contracts had been distributed to other plants, and the manner in which the transfers had been noted on the books, meant a substantial tax saving would be effected. Of course a few of the younger executives had a burdensome amount of work to do because of the strike, but a substantial bonus at Christmas and a pat on the back would not only satisfy them but would encourage them to work even harder in the future. And the cost of the bonuses would only amount to a minute percentage of the money saved in unpaid wages. Perhaps they would be prevented from taking a vacation now, but Mr Harrington did not care if no one went on vacation for years, he was determined to try and get rid of Harry Black. After all, what did he have to lose.

Harry did not notice the change in the men as they carefully leaned their signs against the wall and left. A few minutes after five he was the only one in the office so he just hung around for a while, drinking beer, his mind wandering over what had happened lately, and he remembered Ginger mentioning Marys on 72nd street. He thought about it for a while then decided to go. He got a cab and when they got to 72nd street he told the driver to go down the street and when he saw Marys he told the driver to stop at the next corner and he walked back.

It wasnt until he approached the door that he started to feel uneasy, that he became conscious of being in a strange neighborhood, outside a strange bar. He went in and moved immediately to the side and tried to melt in with the others standing at the bar. There were so many people in Marys and so much noise – the jukebox in the rear clashing with the one at the bar – that Harry was able to lose himself in the chaos and his selfconsciousness faded before he finished his first drink. Eventually he was able to work his way into a spot at the bar where he could see the rest of the bar and most of the back room. At first he was surprised at the way in which the women acted, but after listening to them talk and watching them move he eventually realized that most of them were men dressed as women. He stared at everyone as they moved and talked, never certain of their sex, but enjoying watching them and enjoying too the thrill and excitement he felt at being in such a weird place. The people in the back room fascinated him more than the others as he imagined what they were doing with their hands under the table, and was particularly amazed when he saw a big, muscled, truckdriverlooking guy lean over and kiss the guy sitting next to him. The kiss seemed to last for many minutes and Harry could almost feel their tongues touching. He stared. He noticed the tattoos on the big guys arms. He looked quickly at his own dirty fingernails then back at the lovers in the booth. Their mouths slowly separated and they looked at each other for a moment then reached for their drinks, the big guys arms still around his lovers shoulder. Harry continued to stare until his uneasiness forced him to lower his eyes and he picked up his drink and gulped it down. He ordered another, sipped at it, lit a cigarette and continued to lookaround.

Occasionally someone smiled at Harry, brushed against him or spoke to him and a few times he smiled his smile but it ended the scene rather than continued it, so Harry stayed alone drinking and looking until he noticed Ginger come in. She walked quickly to the back and was out of sight before Harry could move. He stared after her for a moment wanting to go after her, but he knew if he did that the guys from the Greeks would find out so he finally decided to finish his drink and leave before she saw him.

The next morning Mary wanted to know where Harry went last night and where he was last Saturday night and if he was going to be home tonight and if he thought this was a flophouse and he could come home any fuckin time he felt like it and ever since the strike started he was goin around like he thought who he was and she wasnt gonna stand for any shit like this …

Harry continued to throw water on his face as she talked and ignored her as he walked past her into the bedroom and got dressed and when he finished and was ready to leave he told her ta shutthefuckup or hed raper in the mouth. Mary stared at him determined not to tolerate his complete indifference. She looked Harry in the eye, expecting, waiting, for him to lower his eyes or turn his head and told him she wasnt going to stand for any more of his shit. Harry stood where he was, still staring at her, but becoming more and more conscious of her eyes, of her, and starting to waver inside, starting to think of spitting in her face, of walking out of the house, becoming more conscious of his thoughts and indecision and almost starting to fear her when her voice pushed these things down in his mind. It wasnt what she said – her words undefined, only one long penetrating sound heard – but just the movement of her lips and the sound providing something tangible to stop his faltering. She had just stopped talking and was still staring at him when he slapped her across the face. Go fuck yaself. Mary continued staring at Harry, her mouth open, touching her cheek with the tips of her fingers. Harry left the house and walked quickly, smiling his smile, to the office ready to start another day of the strike.

The men picked up their signs and gave their books to Harry to be stamped; or filled a cup with coffee, a glass with beer, with a certain
amount of resignation and a large degree of silence. They were not completely humorless, but were in no mood for jokes. Harry felt good, free, but was in an introverted mood thinking about Marys and so he sat quietly, nodding, speaking occasionally, and not slapping backs and roaring, but seeming to share the uneasiness and concern of the men.

Harry did not go back to Marys until Friday night. He filled out his expense voucher as usual, talked to the guys who had come over from the Greeks as usual to drink beer, stayed in the office for a while after they left, then went to Marys. He walked right in and went to the corner of the bar, looked around to see if Ginger was there, then ordered a drink. Marys was even more crowded than it had been the other night and there was so much noise from the jukeboxes and people screeching that he could not hear the bartender when he asked him if he wanted his drink mixed. He leaned over the bar to hear, nodded, then jerked his head back when he heard a whistle. A pretty young fairy was looking at him, smiling and shaking his head, saying something, but Harry could not hear him. Harry turned his head but glanced occasionally at him from the corner of his eye. He leaned a little more heavily against the bar, looking around the bar, into the backroom, occasionally at the pretty young one still standing in the same place at the bar. Harry tried to imagine what was being done with hands under the tables in the backroom, and what was being done at the tables out of his sight.