Special Smashwords Edition
ODD JOBS
by
Ben Lieberman
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ODD JOBS
Special Smashwords Edition
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Copyright © 2011 by Ben Lieberman. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
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Originally published by: SterlingHouse Publisher, Inc.
ISBN: 978-1-935670-61-2 (eBook)
ISBN: 978-1-935670-62-9 (Paperback)
Version: 2012.02.21
To Debbie — My wife, best friend and a great editor as well. Evan, Jamie and Rachel — I’m so grateful for all your encouragement.
CHAPTER 1
Just when I thought I could pull it off, I let out a double tequila burp. I can’t stop tasting the shit. I’m in the ultimate purgatory: that place simultaneously blending being hungover and being drunk. What seemed pretty manageable last night has a whole different view from this bus. Man, I just went out to meet Ray and Cindy for a few Margaritas at Rio Bravo and just like that, it’s two in the morning and I’m doing shots of Wild Turkey in the Blarney Stone, arguing politics with some toothless 80-year-old guy.
The sun is coming up, and somewhere someone is thinking how beautiful this is and what a great day it’s going to be. That’s not me. The bus turns left onto Industrial Road and passes a huge cemetery that is jam-packed with acres and acres of tombstones all on top of each other. It’s fuckin’ packed tighter than the six-train. Some low budget tombstones are actually outside the metal fence. I guess they got a discount. A guy is walking his dog and the dog is taking a leak on one of the exterior tombstones. This gives me a degree of satisfaction, as someone is having a worse day than me.
When I graduate from State and get a real job, I’m buying a Maserati GranCabrio. That’s what I tell my friend Cliff Tsan sometimes. He keeps me down to earth and tells me to start liking buses, because I’ll never have any job but odd jobs, like the one I have now, carrying beef carcasses. “You know why they’re called odd jobs?” he says.
“Because they’re really strange?” I answer.
“No, asswipe,” Cliff says solemnly. “Odd comes from an Old Norse word meaning the tip of a spear. Therefore, an odd job is a job that makes you feel like you’re being stabbed with a spear.” Cliff is an English major whose father is a famous novelist, so maybe he’s right; then again, maybe he’s just busting my balls.
The bus hits a pothole, and my neck goes right through my brain. That’s what it feels like, anyway. I don’t know why I go out drinking with my friends on a work night, but sometimes I do. Like last night. It’s not like I can even afford it; I’m supposed to be saving money for school. But I don’t want the guys to think I’m an asshole.
Through a red haze of pain I see the dairy factory on the left, pink and gold in the light of the rising sun. I wish I had a job there. I could run the machine that separates the milk from the cream, or drive a tanker truck. Nice clean jobs. But no, the part of Maspeth, Queens, that I claim as my little piece of heaven is staring right at me. In front is a honkin’ big sign in hemoglobin red and raw bone white reading Kosher World Meat Factory: The highest standards in this world and beyond.
I don’t belong on this bus, and I don’t belong at Kosher World. But I don’t belong with the hard-drinking, money-hemorrhaging crowd either, like Cliff and his friends. So where do I belong? That is the million-dollar question, Regis. But first I’ve got to try to do something about my current situation.
My watch reads 6:15 a.m. as I enter the building and get struck in the face with the stench of blood, tripe and oozing intestines. Miraculously, my stomach stays where it’s supposed to be. Better yet, I’m on time. It’s June 23rd and I’m bundled in long underwear, flannels and a thick orange jumpsuit, the uniform of the serious meat handler. I’m sweating like a racehorse. Christ, this is so unnatural. But the money’s good, real good. There’s no one back at college making this kind of money, at least not legally. Cliff and Mike Katz have internships at a swanky law firm, but you can’t eat prestige. I’m pulling down $18 an hour, plus time-and-a-half for each hour of overtime and double time for Saturday nights and holidays. I know if I bust my ass and stay focused this summer, I can cover a decent nut on my school expenses for a semester or so. Finish my last year of school and start making some real money. Hell, I’ve handled this crap for a whole month so far. Now, if I just get through the day without getting fired, and hopefully without puking, I’ll be golden.
A couple of guys pass by and mutter ‘hi’ under their breath. I say ‘hi’ back, still trying to hold down the contents of my gut. There’s a lot of noise — men yelling, trucks roaring into the yard, the thumping of the packing machines. My head feels like a boiler under way too much pressure. I shuffle off in the direction of my workstation, but I’m taking my time, trying to ignore the damn smells and noises.
The essence of my job is twofold. I am a grunt. I unload sides of beef off trucks in the mornings and in the afternoons take huge racks of hotdogs off a washing apparatus and load them onto a conveyer belt for wrapping.
I got this job through a connection and basically get paid as a union guy but don’t belong to the union. The union, by the way, is poetry. They have negotiated time off, vacations, breaks and benefits out the wazoo. You don’t want to work too hard or you can hear it, “Hey fuckin’ college boy, are you getting paid by the box or the hour?” You see, all the nice gentlemen here would like to work at least one hour of overtime a day. At time-and-a-half, working one hour extra a day means getting paid six days for five days of work. Seems pretty slimy to me, but I don’t have a wife and kids to support. Plus, management ain’t exactly angels either.
My stomach gurgles menacingly. I know for a fact that I am so sick that I’m not going to make it today unless I get away from the stench that’s weaving its way into my nostrils and into my digestive tract. Maybe I should have called in and taken my chances, but they just don’t take that weak stuff from grunts. I’d be gone and I need this job. But if I get sick on the meat, I won’t have much of a future either.
I decide to face up to my problem. I see Severan Reynard giving directions to two guys carrying a crate of ribs. Sev calls the shots on the floor. Sev doesn’t say much and he really doesn’t have to. He’s 5’11” but seems bigger. He’s got a body as wide as a truck with a decent size gut and skin so dark it actually looks black. His goatee is black and so are his eyes. His eyes are what do the commanding. When he wants something done, he opens those black eyes wide and points. The whites of his eyes are such a contrast to his other features that it shakes people. It’s fuckin’ freaky.
The funny thing is, Sev runs the place but he’s not the real boss. Supposedly, there’s a foreman. I haven’t seen him yet but I heard he’s some lazy sack of shit that got “put” in the job. Sev doesn’t have the title, but I guess running the place beats taking orders from someone else. Everyone, including the foreman, knows Sev’s the best guy, so it just works. Word is he did some wild stuff in the Marines like 15 or 20 years ago. Obviously the guy has been around. Supposedly he’s a pretty straight shooter; I figure that if I go and talk to him and let him know how sick I am, maybe I can pull some other duty today.
Sev is talking to Sal and Frank in the doorway of the employee lounge. The lounge is a large room with 20 foldout cafeteria tables. In the corner there is a soda machine, a candy machine and a table with a microwave. It doesn’t look like the guys are saying anything monumental, so I figure this is as good a time as any to talk to Sev.
“Sev, can I grab you for a minute?” I ask.
Sev shoots me a glance and then quickly turns back to Sal and Frank. Frank is telling Sev that we are behind in June production. But this is good news for Sev because being behind schedule means overtime and some double time. The boys in the trenches are going to be happy.
A minute or two later, Sev looks over and says, “What’s up?”
“Sorry to hassle you,” I answer. “Uh, look, I’m having a little trouble today. I’m uh, kinda sick. Is there any other area I can work today?”
Sev is staring straight at me and his mustang eyes are getting pretty wide. He’s not saying anything, but something is going on. Frank looks surprised and Sal grins. Immediately I know that I’m making a mistake.
“Motha-fucka!” Sev says in the loudest voice I have ever heard him use. “What the fuck do you think you’re pullin’ here?”
“Really Sev, I’m not trying to pull anything,” I answer, trying to avoid those eyes.
“You think I’m a moron? You think I don’t smell the liquor on you? You think I’m blind and I don’t see you stumbling like a fool?”
I don’t answer him. Even if I were on my game, he is pretty much right.
Sev is really going now. “What? You think this is a damn joke?”
I try to recover. “I’m really sorry, I made a mistake. I’m not looking for any.... ”
Sev interrupts. “Look, you want to go out late, fine. But don’t go out at night barkin’ like a dog if you’re gonna be pissin’ like a puppy in the morning. It don’t happen like that in my house. Now get the fuck outta here, you’re done.”
I look around. It’s pretty quiet now. I seem to be the center of attention, and everyone seems to know what just went down.
“Get the fuck outta here,” Sev barks.
Sal steps up and says, “Sev, maybe we should wait a minute.” Sev’s eyes close just a little. “The kid got the job through Jimmy Balducci,” Sal reminds him. “Why piss him off if we don’t have to?”
“I got a floor to run and this little snot deserves to be canned.”
“No doubt,” Sal agrees. “But the kid’s actually been doing all right. He’s a hard worker.”
“So I’m suppose’ to put him on the line where he can kill himself or, more importantly, one of my guys?” Sev growls, “Look at ‘im! He can barely stand up!”
“Why don’t we give the kid a break from the hard labor and give him a nice, easy job today?” Sal says. “I got a great place to nurse a hangover that always needs a few more workers.”
Sal pulls Sev to the side and mutters something. I can’t hear what they say, but whatever Sal says causes Sev to do something I haven’t seen since I began working here. Sev smiles.
Sal and Sev talk for a few more minutes while I just stand there like an asshole. Eventually Sal walks past me and says, “C’mon kid.”
He’s walking pretty fast — at least it feels like he’s walking fast — but eventually I catch up to him. “Thanks a lot for saving my job back there,” I say.
Sal laughs. “You are so fucked up, you have no idea what you’re in for. Don’t be thankin’ me, kid. I’d ask your name but it doesn’t matter. It’s just a matter of time before you quit.”
“I’m not going to quit, and you know my name is Kevin.”
“Whatever.”
“Why do you think I’ll quit?”
“You, young stallion, are on Sev’s shit list. You are past the point of no return. You can’t possibly imagine the shit detail you are going to be pulling. I’ve been working here 12 years, I know exactly what’s going on, and all you are right now is sport.”
“What do you mean?”
Sal tells me that the guys are making book on my estimated time of departure; lots of money changing hands as we speak. In here, he says, they bet on anything they can think of; it helps the day pass quicker. “And today we got you.”
“Just great,” I mumble to myself. A small man in a black outfit and a long dark beard bumps into me. Or maybe I bump into him. “Sorry,” I say. He just mutters something to himself and walks on. I can see he’s wearing a skullcap.
“What’s up with him?” I ask Sal.
“Rabbi,” he tells me. “You’ve never seen him before, wandering around? I wonder if he has any action on you yet.”
We continue to walk past different huge refrigeration and freezer rooms. They all have names, like pickle box and curing room. We are walking in areas I’ve never been before.
“Why is there a rabbi here?” I ask.
“It’s his job. This is what he does.” Sal pauses. “He blesses the meat.”
“Really?”
I’m not sure if Sal is starting to like me or, he just likes the sound of his voice, but for whatever reason, he explains the situation to me. “Kid, it’s Kosher World, right? Someone has to make the meat kosher. Now, you have your all-star rabbis that lead congregations and save souls. Your B-team rabbis do other stuff like performing a bris on baby boys. I think they’re called moguls. Then you have guys like our Rabbi Silver. He spends his day blessing meat. He has a congregation of dead carcasses.”
Sal and I pass the smokehouse and finally get to the last room on the floor. Sal opens the door and immediately I’m engulfed by a strange smell. It’s a cooked smell, almost like sanitary cleanser, but definitely cooked. It actually seems a lot tamer in here than the loading dock and the sides of beef I usually haul. I can pull this off.
Sal and I are the only ones in the room. He looks at his watch and informs me the gang will be here in less than two minutes. They start at 7 a.m. today. I ask what they’ll be coming in to do, exactly.
“Kid, you are going to help in bringing a popular and special Jewish delicacy to your local restaurant and delicatessen. You should feel very honored.”
“What delicacy?”
Three people walk into the room, all wearing big white smocks over their orange jumpsuits. “Heya Sal, what brings you to our corner of the world?” one of them asks.
“Morning, Georgie; wanted to bring you a little help today. You’re always looking for a little help, aren’t you?”
Georgie starts looking me over. Georgie is maybe 5’5” tall and could possibly be 5’5” wide as well, but his most noticeable characteristic has to be his ears. They are the hairiest ears I have ever seen; there’s a forest coming out the sides of his face. I stare at him dully.
“What’s the matter with him?” Georgie asks.
Sal tells him I am a college intern who just wasn’t up to the heavy labor today, so he thought Georgie’s line of work might be a better match for me. Then Sal excuses himself, leaving me in the capable hands of Georgie Skolinsky, who introduces me to Felipe Cortez, Ramon Pizzaro and Lily. They are talking and getting ready for what must be the task at hand, but the whole thing has a weird feel to it. After all, Sal did say something about a shit detail. I look around and notice that everyone is a little...odd. There’s Georgie with his hairy ears, and Felipe, who walks with a bad limp, as if one leg was 12 inches shorter than the other. Ramon isn’t talking at all and I’m not sure if he doesn’t want to be part of this group or just can’t follow the chatter. And then there is Lily, who is extremely heavy and has the most god-awful dyed red hair ever. It’s more orange than red. She has on orange lipstick that perfectly matches her hair, but there’s more lipstick on her teeth than on her mouth. What is this, the detail of the damned?
Georgie barks, “Let’s get started.”
Ramon wheels in a huge, tall vat while the others circle around a stainless steel table. There is steam coming from the vat and something is obviously boiling. Between the boiling vat and the cold of the refrigerated room it looks as though the vat is on fire and smoking up a storm. Felipe has a ponytail, and it looks pretty funny when he puts on the plastic sanitary hat that they all begin pulling on. Everyone looks pretty silly; it’s like an operating room.
“Here you go, sweetie,” Lily says as she gives me a hat.
“Don’t try too hard, Lily. I don’t think he’s ready to marry you yet,” Georgie says with a yellow-toothed grin.
I put on my hat and watch as Ramon wheels the vat next to the table. He gets on a step stool and, wielding a huge spoon the size of a shovel, begins scooping something from the vat. The water strains from the holes in the gigantic spoon and he dumps these slimy things on the table. They just slide toward the middle. Within about three minutes there are dozens of huge pink blobs on the table, roughly the size of an NBA basketball player’s foot. Then I recognize them. They are rock-solid huge tongues. I might still be a bit buzzed, but it looks like these tongues are aimed at me, taunting me.
Georgie sees my amazement. “Tongue,” he says.
“I can see that, but from what?”
“Cows, moron.”
I’m watching as the group begins working with surgical precision. Hands move fast and each huge tongue is processed in about three minutes.
Lily is complaining about how the government is too soft on crime and how she can’t even walk two blocks in her own neighborhood. She keeps at it for a few minutes. Man, she can go.
Finally, Felipe interrupts her. “The men in your neighborhood must be all over you. They can’t get enough of you.”
Georgie and the others start laughing. It’s a bit sad that they are having such a good time at Lily’s expense, but I have to admit, I’m grateful that Felipe got Lily under control. Just listening for a few minutes, I could tell she is a runaway train.
Georgie notices me and says, “Someone get the kid involved.”
“C’mon over here, hon, I’ll help you,” Lily offers.
“Quiet down, Lily, I got it. Stand over here, kid,” Felipe says.
That’s a relief; the last thing I need is to be cornered by Lily. Felipe begins to show me the ropes. He lifts one of the gigantic tongues, tosses it up a few inches and catches it again with the back facing him. Now the tongue is sticking out straight at me. I’m doing everything I can to keep down a pint of tequila and Wild Turkey.
“Okay,” Felipe begins. “Three steps, simple as that. First, you take the bone that attaches this lovely tongue to the rest of the beautiful bovine.” Felipe digs his thumb and middle finger into the back of the tongue and pulls on a four-inch bone. It gives him a bit of resistance but he finally yanks it out. “Next, you turn it over and scrape off the USDA grade that was stamped on the bottom part.” Felipe takes a short, sharp knife and begins to whittle at the stamp. Small pieces of flesh begin to drop onto the stainless steel table until the bottom of the tongue no longer has a mark. Watching him is mesmerizing. I’m staring and getting a fuzzy head.
“Here’s the fun part. This thing has a tough cover of skin that needs to be removed before it can be eaten.” I stare at him and the tongue, wondering who was the fuckin’ Einstein that came up with the concept to eat cow tongue in the first place? And who was his friend that said, “Yeah, great idea.”
Felipe continues. “Some amateurs will try to get the skin cover off by using their knife, but that’s too slow. The tongues get these blisters from boiling for hours. You have to find a blister on the tongue, pop it and work your thumb underneath. Zip up, and the skin peels right off. Just like this.” He demonstrates as I try to watch. I’m getting a bit dizzy and definitely queasy. Felipe slides a tongue at me and says, “Time to peel some tongue, kid.”
I go to pick up the repulsive thing, but nature is taking over. My stomach is heading for my throat and I have to get out. I drop the tongue and race toward the door. I have to find a bathroom. Fast. I don’t remember if it’s to the left or the right, but before I can make my decision, bam! I collide with Rabbi Silver, who is walking in. We’re both sprawled out on the floor. Now I have no shot of making it to the bathroom.
Jumping up, I quickly glance at Rabbi Silver, who is sitting up and muttering something. I don’t have time to apologize. Where can I go? I look around and spot a vat in the smokehouse room; it’ll have to do. I scramble over to the vat. I have no idea what is in there but it’s out of my hands. Then it’s out of my stomach. Violently, a yellow liquid filled with unrecognizable lumps cascades out of me. When I start getting control I realize I have heaved into a vat of cow by-products — eyeballs, spleens, bladders and some pink things that could be reproductive organs. The smell reminds me of the men’s bathroom at the bus depot, now combined with the stench of half-digested food. I’m hoping that the lunatics who eat tongues aren’t eating this stuff, too. I figure if it’s garbage I can keep my job. If it’s another ingenious delicacy, I’m toast.
My clothes are wet with perspiration; it’s like 20 below, but I’m drenched. Wow, I feel good, almost like a human being again. There are about 15 guys around me and they’re all cracking up. They got some show from me this morning, and it’s not even close to 9 a.m. yet.
It’s hard to imagine I still have a job, but until they tell me otherwise, I’m working. I pick myself up and head toward the bathroom to clean up. The guys are still laughing. Some are patting me on the back and others are making comments like, “What a loser.”
If they’re going to can me, I hope it’s sooner rather than later. I wash up and look in the mirror and say, “Let’s peel some tongue.”
Walking back to the Tongue Room I notice Bino walking toward me. His real name is Russell Binoheitzer and since there’s no time for all that, everyone calls him Bino. He’s an ornery red-haired guy with real fair skin. After working in the freezer for a few hours, he looks like he’s been dead for a week. All us grunts were given fair warning to avoid this guy and stay off his radar. As Bino passes, he nails me with his shoulder and nearly knocks me over. He says, “What a pussy. I lost 350 bucks because you couldn’t make it ‘til lunch time.”
Yup, I’m pretty stealth flying under the radar, I say to myself.
Inside the Tongue Room, life isn’t much better. I’m ripping bones and peeling off skin like a pro, but the comments keep flying at me. They’re examining my every move, and Old Ear-hair is really starting to ride me. “Let’s go, college-boy. I never finished high school, but I calculate that you’re about five tongues behind the rest of us.”
Felipe says, “You think you’re too good for this, don’t ya?”
Why did he say that? This guy was helping me before; how did I lose him? I don’t have any problems with these guys. Christ, they’re all making an honest living and trying to get by. I appreciate that. All us college interns start with two strikes because we’re getting money without paying union dues, but I always show respect to the guys. I thought I was okay with them. It’s amazing how many places I can’t fit in.
I’m trying to stay low and not get into it with anyone; but the shit just keeps coming. Felipe thinks it’s funny to call me princess and he won’t stop. “Here’s another tongue for you, princess. You missed a spot on this one, princess. Your highness, are you ready for another tongue?” I have to start defending myself.
“Shut the fuck up, Felipe.” I can see this outburst catches Georgie by surprise. “I’m working like everyone else. I’ve always done my job and never gave anyone a hard time. I got banged up last night and I fucked up. It’s not your business and it doesn’t affect you, so stay the fuck out of my face.”
“You put that face knee-deep in animal parts and you’re worried about me being in your face?”
The others start laughing, Lily the loudest. So much for trying to defend myself.
Even the tongues are copping an attitude with me. Look at that one, just dying to chime in. That’s what I need, talking cow tongues. I can see what this fat bitch is thinking. Why does every situation turn out like this? Can’t you deal? I hear it saying.
I’m thinking, Like you’re one to talk. You’re about to land on some shriveled old man’s rye bread and you’re giving me advice?
Don’t take it out on me. Live your life, don’t live someone else’s, the tongue replies. Look, you hold down like 80 jobs to get through college, but you don’t give a shit about college or your classes. You just want a piece of paper so you can make big bucks, like your friends.
And the problem is...?
I can see its smug expression. You’re too impressed with money. It’s all you think is important, and you keep chasing it, like a stupid hamster running on a wheel. Not only are you missing out on what’s important, but you keep winding up in the Tongue Room. You always end up in the Tongue Room, one way or another.
I can’t let a fucking tongue talk back to me like that. Listen up, Tongue. I’m not asking anyone to give me anything. I’m willing to do what it takes. I’m doing the work. I don’t have to just fall in line with everyone else. It’s not a sin to want more, to make a situation better.
Dude, when have you ever made the situation better?
I get things going. I’ve done stuff, I answer, feeling a little defensive now.
Yeah, you get things started, but that’s it. You get used or you blow a good thing and, of course, you wind up in the Tongue Room.
Maybe this time I learned, I think. It can’t get lower than the Tongue Room. Things can’t get worse. They gotta get better. This, you fat, slimy, ugly tongue, is the low point; it’s all up from here.
Bullshit! counters the tongue. It’s sneering at me; at least I think it is. All you had to do here was some simple manual labor. Just bite your tongue, pardon the expression, and do your fuckin’ job. But you want to go out with your fancy friends and whoop it up. Problem is, they have bucks a-go-go and you have squat. While you’re here peeling tongue, they’re drinking Mimosas. Was it worth it?
Hell no, but I didn’t think everything would come down like it did.
The tongue is laughing now, and it’s not a very pretty sound. Think? Kid, that’s the trouble: You don’t think You made an asshole out of yourself in front of the whole place. There isn’t a worker in Kosher World who doesn’t know who you are — Puke-Man, Rabbi-Crusher. Can’t you be anonymous anywhere?
I don’t know, I tell myself. Being anonymous is kind of over-rated.
You should try it sometime. It might fit you better.
It’s depressing to think that the tongue gets the last word.
CHAPTER 2
After the Tongue Room debacle, I hear a ton of comments all the time at work, but at least no one taps me with a pink slip. I know that’s because Jimmy Balducci brought me on.
I keep remembering something Jimmy Balducci told me once, and it makes me feel better. He said that these jobs are more about building character than about the money. Sure, some people go to Exeter, Harvard and then Goldman Sachs, but those are the dorks that got their books knocked out of their hands every day. The real successes come from the people who claw their way up, people like Jimmy. “Trust me,” he said. “Guys who are big shots today jack off to the good ol’ days when they were digging graves or selling ball bearings. You look back at the shit-work you had to do and it gives you satisfaction. Real satisfaction; it’s something you can’t get from any drug or any broad.”
Around 7 p.m. I manage to get to my mom’s house in Hempstead. Hempstead is a less-than-affluent town on Long Island. Long Island is kinda funny that way. There are some real nice areas, but I guess the people who work in the nice areas need a place to live, and Hempstead serves that purpose. Which is fine. I used to not have a problem with the thought of being a cab driver, working construction, or peeling tongues at Kosher World. It seems to be what people do, and they deal with it.
Then along came Harris North IV of the Remington Academy. What a piece of work. He brought me into a different world, and I had already done a few 180s with my other worlds, so I guess it shouldn’t have mattered. To be clearer, when I was 10 years old, my father was an up-and-coming prosecutor in the DA’s office. We didn’t have a ton of money. We had a small home in Manhasset, but we were heading places.
I’m not going to try to say life was like the Brady Bunch but fuck, it wasn’t that far off, either. My dad put in a lot of hours, as upstarts in the DA’s office tended to do. On the weekends, though, my mother wouldn’t let him get away with any of that too-busy crap. She was always booking day trips or weekend trips. Our family was always exploring some Renaissance festival or museum or paddling rafts down some white-water rapids. She kept us busy. Dad would roll his eyes when he heard her plans, but at the end of the day, he probably had a better time than anyone.
The time we spent together wasn’t enough for me. I couldn’t get enough of my father, so I badgered him to coach me before work on the weekdays. If I wanted to spend more time with him, basketball was the perfect excuse. He was a huge hoops fan and a pretty decent player himself.
“Okay, okay,” he said, finally giving in. “If you’re willing to set your alarm clock, I’ll work with you from 6:30 till 7:30, but then I’ve got to leave for work. Is that fair?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“I’m not going to wake you up and start haggling to get you out of bed. If you’re willing to meet me at 6:30, I’ll be waiting for you. Deal?”
“That’s a deal, Dad,” I enthusiastically shot back.
The waking up early thing was harder than I thought. The first morning I rolled over and shut the alarm clock off, only to snap up at 7:20. I scrambled in a panic and shot down the stairs, trying to put my sneakers on as I was stepping on the stairs. That moronic combination caused me to skip the bottom four steps. I splashed down in Superman flying style, landing spread-eagled on the floor. Still determined, I rolled onto my feet and in the same motion sprinted toward the front door. My father had just pulled his car out the driveway when I startled him with my scream, “Wait, waaaaaaait!”
He stopped the car, rolled down the window and gave a half smile. “I know, it’s tough waking up earlier in the morning.”
“But...but I’m here now,” I said in near panic. “Let’s play now!”
“Sorry pal,” he explained. “I have to get to work. We’ll give this another try tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? Tomorrow? You can’t tell a kid tomorrow. You might as well say in 15 years. “Nooooooo. Let’s play today! I’m here!” I wailed in desperation.
“Pal, I have to get to work,” he said calmly.
“Why, why now?” I demanded.
My father smiled and said, “Because I have to work on putting the bad guys away.” He was so proud to talk about that end of the job, that he was a lawyer who helped put the bad guys away.
“But you need to help me today. Won’t you play?” I pleaded.
He saw my heart was going to explode so he said, “Okay, this is what we’ll do. Fifteen minutes today — we’ll call it a warm-up. Heavy training starts tomorrow. You meet me at 6:30 a.m. sharp. Got it?”
“Really, we can play today?” I asked.
“Yeah, we can play for 15 minutes. Only if you agree there’s not a minute more than that today. The bad guys won’t mind waiting a few minutes I’m sure.”
Almost missing that opportunity to play with him put the scare in me. We did our “warm-up” that morning and I never overslept again. I was there at 6:30 sharp the next day, and my father was out in the driveway, waiting for me.
I learned that you have to be careful what you wish for. I thought I was going to be playing basketball with my dad, and my father thought this was the beginning of my NBA career. I thought I would be shooting around and maybe playing some one-on-one with him, and he had all these drills planned. I didn’t dare complain because I was just happy to be with him.
“How about we work on shooting today, Dad?” I asked.
“That will come in time, but first you need to work on your vision,” he stated.
“Vision? I can see fine. What’s up with that?”
“Kevin, I’m not talking about needing glasses. You need court vision to play this game. You need to see things other guys don’t. That’s what makes some players great. Now, you want to learn about vision?”
“I guess.”
“Well, first of all, right now, you and a lot of the guys your age dribble with the palm of your hand and your head down. But if you do that, how are you going to see the open guys?” my father asked. “How are you going to make those miracle passes?”
“I dunno.” At that point in my life, who thought about passing the ball? We all just wanted to score. Actually playing the game was a whole different level.
“Okay,” he said patiently. “You need to dribble the ball with your fingertips instead of the palm. If you use your fingertips you get much more control. And keep your head up. Wouldn’t you rather watch the game instead of your hand?”
I shrugged. “Sure, I guess.”
“Son,” he said earnestly, “there is a whole world beyond your hand. There is a whole story developing, and things aren’t always as they appear. Always learn to see beyond your hand. When you’re confident the ball is under control with your fingertips, then you can see who is open and, equally important, who is going to be open. In this world you can’t just look at yesterday and today; you need to see tomorrow. Keep your head up and soak in the whole picture.”
I didn’t quite understand his point then, but I’m glad I always remembered it. That week we did a bunch of drills and I learned how to keep my head up and dribble with my fingertips. I got the hang of it and felt pretty good, so one day I had the balls to ask if we could do some shooting. I mean, after all, wasn’t that basketball?
“Oh, you think you have this mastered?” my father asked.
“Yeah, I’m good at dribbling and keeping my head up. C’mon, Dad, let’s do some shooting.”
“Okay, here’s what we’ll do. As soon as you master the steps, we’ll move over to shooting.” My father grabbed the ball and walked us over to the side of the house where 11 cement steps separated the front yard from the backyard. My father then instructed me to dribble down those steps with my head up, using only my fingertips. It didn’t work out too well. Anytime I bounced the ball on the corner of a step, the ball shot free like a champagne cork. My father said that when I could get up and down the steps 10 times without losing the ball, we could move on to shooting. It turned out to be no small feat, but during that long and difficult process, my dad and I had some of our best conversations.
“Dad?” I asked.
“Yeah, pal.”
“You said the great players have vision, right?” I asked as I dribbled up the steps for my third lap in my attempt to get to l0.
“Yup.”
“Well, who was the best? Who had the most vision?”
“Oscar Robertson, maybe Jerry West,” he said.
“I never heard of them. Were they the best ever?” I asked.
“Maybe; they sure had the vision, and it made them great.”
I bounced the ball carefully and felt like this would be the winning lap. Still, I wanted to keep the conversation going, so I asked, “Does that mean they were the best basketball players of all time?”
My father thought for a moment. “Michael Jordan had the vision and everything else you can imagine.”
I finished the fourth and fifth laps and my rhythm was great; I knew I was going to do the 10 laps. “Michael Jordan?” I challenged. “He’s not better than T-Mac.”
“Better,” my father answered.
“Not better than Dirk Nowitzki?” I shot back.
“Much better,” my father said, smiling.
“Okay, okay not better than Shaq!” Because that I wouldn’t hear of. Shaquille O’Neal has always been my idol.
Now, my father knew he was sharing idol status with Shaq, so maybe this was his opportunity to get an edge. “Please, not even close.”
“Not even close? How could that be?”
“Shaq might be twice the size of Michael Jordan, but he’s half the player.”
“C’mon,” I whined. “Half the player?”
“Keep dribbling,” my father encouraged me. “I’m telling you, Shaq is half of Michael Jordan in his prime.”
I couldn’t help but imagine what half a player actually looked like. I started my seventh lap dribbling up the steps. “So if Michael Jordan in his prime is missing his arms, who wins? Michael Jordan or Shaq?”
My father laughs at this imagery. “Lessee ... Michael Jordan with no arms versus Shaq. Michael Jordan wins.”
“Dad!”
“Kid, you’re talking about Michael Jordan.”
“How about if Michael Jordan didn’t have his arms or his legs?”
“He’d still win,” my father said quietly.
“Get out of here, you’re crazy!” I said.
“Son, I know it’s hard to believe because you’ve never seen him play, but if Michael Jordan played against Jerry West, Oscar Robertson, Dirk Nowitzki and your beloved Shaq, all would lose to Michael Jordan, even if Michael Jordon was just a nose on a table. That’s how great he was.”
The sight of a nose on a table beating all those basketball greats was too much for my 10-year-old brain to take. I laughed so hard that the ball I was dribbling hit the corner of the step and shot away. I only made it to my ninth lap and the stair torture test had to continue.
“Ha!” my father said with a snort. “That’s why you need the vision. There are always distractions that can stop you. You’ve got to fight through and keep your eye on the ball. Keep your eye on the ball in your mind and watch the court. See it develop. I’m going to work now. Keep working on the stairs, and maybe tomorrow will be your day.”
It wasn’t the next day that I won the stair challenge, nor was it the day after that. Looking back now I can’t remember how long after the Michael Jordan’s nose debacle that my accomplishment came, but I do remember when it happened I kept my mouth shut and took care of business.
There was that time in life when things fell into place. When if you worked hard you beat the stairs. It was a great theory, that is, if you worked hard you got what you needed. Then there came the time that no matter what happened and how hard you tried, the stairs beat you. Looking back, I can’t remember the day I beat the stairs, but I can point to the minute in time when all the stairs of the world started beating me, when everything changed and never went back, no matter how hard I tried.
My mother was running some errands and my father took my little sister Katie and I into town to get a few things to start the new school year. I needed a haircut and Katie needed shin guards for her first season playing soccer. While I was getting a haircut, my sister was combing her doll’s hair. The doll, Karen, was wearing the same pink skirt and white shirt as my sister. The doll also had the same blonde curly hair that Katie and my mother shared.
As I sat in that chair getting my haircut, in the mirror I could see Katie grooming her doll and I saw my father staring at the newspaper in his lap. I don’t think he turned one page. His eyes were on the New York Times but his mind was back in his office, working. We caught his mind there all the time.
After my haircut, Dad bought Katie’s shin guards and she and I conned him into getting us some big sloppy ice cream cones. Then we were ready to go home. We went back across the plaza, and when we were about to cross the street to our car, my father warned Katie to be careful not to get any ice cream on her doll. But Katie had left Karen in the ice cream shop. When she realized her loss, Katie let loose a shriek that I swear could have melted our ice cream faster than this unusually hot late August day.
I told them both, “It’s no problem. I’ll get Karen and meet you back at the car.”
“Thanks, Kevin,” Dad said. “We’ll wait for you right here.”
“Naw, you don’t have to do that,” I insisted. “You guys wait in the car and get the air conditioner cranking,” I suggested.
Katie screamed. “No, I want to see Karen.” Her face was red and her eyes glistened with tears. She was past the point of no return, so there wouldn’t be any reasoning with her.
“Okay,” I said to them both. “I’ll get the doll and wave to you from the ice cream store and then you guys get the AC going.”
“That sounds like a plan,” my father agreed. “Hey,” he added, “make sure you’re careful crossing the street.”
“C’mon, Dad, I’m almost 11. I know how to cross a street.”
“Of course you do,” he said and smiled. “I’m just saying it because I care about you.”
I sprinted over to Chico’s Ice Cream and saw Karen perched on the counter. I grabbed the doll and stepped outside. I waved it in the air back and forth and my father and Katie waved back. I couldn’t see Katie’s face but I try to remember how relieved she must have felt. She knew Karen was safe and she could enjoy her sloppy ice cream cone. I also always remember what my father said about caring about me.
A black car zoomed around the corner faster than any I had ever seen. Oddly enough, everything happened in slow motion. The windows on the car were smoked dark, but one window wasn’t completely closed and you could see long red brittle hair in contrast to the dark car. There was screaming and hollering coming from that open window. The car swerved in all directions, and then it veered right toward my father and sister. It lifted my father clear in the air and rolled over Katie. The car never slowed down and careened out of sight. Katie’s cone was still intact on the pavement but the ice cream had been separated and was unrecognizable amid the crimson mess. How could it be? I thought, unable to process what I had just seen. Dad and Katie lay on the sidewalk like broken mannequins, but the ice cream cone was still intact.
A hit-and-run accident. They never found the guy. Drunk driver, they hypothesized. Broad daylight and everyone could see it but no one saw it but me. The whole process was only a few freak seconds. Did the delay waiting for the doll cause a bizarre juxtaposition that couldn’t be reversed? It was just a few seconds. Yet those few seconds caused a disruption that ended two lives and sent two others spiraling in a completely different direction than they were headed before.
I guess every minute is a defining moment somewhere in the world. Ten minutes ago, Billy Bob Buttfuck in Ohio just bought a winning lottery ticket and the next minute Igor Roganovich got hit by lightning in Croatia. Good or bad, is the new direction permanent? For me, every day since those brutal moments has been a fight to get back to where I was. Where I want to be.
For the next few years, my mother was a virtual zombie. She barely had the desire to get out of bed to go to her bookkeeping job. Mom was there and I was grateful, but damn, I missed her. If I weren’t around, my mother would have offed herself long ago, I’m sure.
Any extra money I made after the accident went to maintaining our shoebox of a house in Hempstead and buying her medication, but there was rarely enough money for both. Then, when there was some extra cash, instead of putting it away for a rainy day like I should have, I’d be too tempted to go out with my friends and see a movie or grab a burger, anything to squeeze in some “normal.” And those little things add up. The extra pressure of a stupid thing like money was killing us.
Harris North IV changed all that, though.
I remember the first day I saw him. I was in my last year of middle school and Harris North IV was watching me play basketball at Hempstead Park, a hotbed for street basketball. There were 30 or so shirtless basketball players wearing long shorts and high-top sneakers. Along the tall brick wall were another 20 hand-ballers wearing long pants and wife-beaters. Also lounging around in the vicinity was an assortment of old-timers with scraggly beards and dental issues. Then there was this one guy sporting khaki slacks, a pink golf shirt and Gucci loafers sans socks. Yeah, he was some chameleon. Fit right in.