My time working on the waterfront is over. It has been an experience of extremes of which I have written in previous blogs. But much was not written or, if so, not posted, so that I might continue to work unencumbered(and unscathed ) among the men on the docks whom I have grown to admire and who's friendship I value.
I kept notes in my trusty note pad of the goings-on over the summer and fall, a rich record of the experience, and hope to find a quiet place over the coming months to write the stories. My intention is not to, in any way, exploit these experiences. God knows these men have been, and continue to be, exploited by the system and hammered upon by society. They hold my deepest respect. I am proud to have worked among them.
Early in the summer, I wrote this short story and shared it with a number of friends and family.
The New Guy
He showed up at the bait shop at 4:00 AM looking cautious, on guard, as if he expected to be sucker punched at any moment. And a sucker punch is probably the only way anyone would ever get the draw him. New Guy was a brawler, six foot, solid with scared square fists and jaw. He spoke between tight lips, perhaps self conscious of his mouth of broken, missing teeth, an occupational hazard of a previous job as a waterfront bar manager/bouncer.
Three weeks had passed since my turn as the new guy. As the bosses’ cousin, I had been held at arms length by the seven man crew for the first few days. They watched and waited to see what the hell I was. At 58, I was the oldest man among them; Skully, the fork truck driver, with his tattoos, his off duty, black leather vest and dew rag was the only other 50 something on the crew, the rest in their 20’s and 30’s, maybe early 40’s. It was hard to tell. The working waterfront in Maine is a harsh environment and men don’t age well in it.
I shamelessly bought coffee and after work beers to crack the ice with these guys. That, and worked my ass off… silently. There was no job too wet and slimy that I didn’t jump into. And these guys do an incredible amount of hard, dirty work. Shoveling dead fish, spraying out totes of guts and blood, rolling 300 pound barrels of bait, slime and viscera pouring down your skins and boots, immersed in lobster bait, smelling like something only a codfish could love.
After a few days, they began to open up a bit. The first questions were “What do you think about legalizing marijuana?’ and “What do you drink?” They laughed when I told them I rode the “Silver Bullet” (Coors Light) and enjoyed an occasional medicinal brownie. The real test was whether I would keep my mouth shut when they lit up out back on the loading dock at 6:30 AM or found twisted tea in a coffee cup. In full skins and boots, I doubted I would float long off the end of the dock. Keeping my mouth shut was more than just wanting to be “one of the guys”.
By the second week, they worked me into their system. My primary value to them was to do the paperwork filling out bait slips tracking the barrels and totes of poggies, herring, redfish and mackerel winched down onto the decks of the boats, collecting the money. And in between shoveling fish off the floor, reefing on barrels and forking bait into totes.
By the third week, I watched in fascination as the waist of my pants became loose and the flab in my neck and face dissolved. My hands, soft from two years of driving around the country, calloused and toughened from daily exposure to the salt brine and manual labor. The pain in my muscles dullened; constant but tolerable as I cut back on the tylenol. Every now and then, I would tell a story from the road or from my years in the paper industry, another difficult work place. They listened, laughed, added another piece to the puzzle of the “old guy” in their midst.
Only 2 in 7 had a drivers license. Most make a choice at some point to give up driving.. and to continue to drink. At 4:00 AM the smell of alcohol is strong on their breath, even among the all pervasive stink of fish. Bleary eyed and hacking, the crew ramped up slowly as the boats and trucks lined up for loading and unloading. These early hours were the most onerous where the potential for getting hurt was most present. Conveyors clanging, people cussing, weaving their way across the shop floor dodging fork trucks carrying over-filled pallets of blue and white plastic barrels, a dangerous ballet of orange slickers in the morning dawn.
The “boss” is a yeller. It’s how he is heard above the clamor. And it’s how he runs the job. All those lectures at the MIT business school about participative management and an empowered workforce go right out the window here. From long years, the boss has learned how to keep this crew on their toes and as safe as possible. And in spite of the verbal barrage, they take ownership of their work, anticipating, backfilling, keeping things running at a frantic pace.
There is a hierarchy, a pecking order among them as there are with all groups of men. A few of the guys are only expected to accept abuse from the boss and they do it with a low grumble. Other guys take flack from all directions and the New Guy is among them.
The days are long and often hard. It is cool in the shop where hoses flow constantly, hosing the totes, flushing the conveyors, washing the blood and guts down the holes in the floors. On the docks, the weather prevails. Some days the sun is hot and uncomfortable and we fry in our skins. Other days we have to suit up in full gear against the wind and driving rain. Favorite days are gray and overcast when the crew will gather on a break to watch the sky, the boats and ferries maneuvering around the piers, sitting on barrels smoking hand rolled cigarettes, often in silence.
There is a resignation among then. Life has not turned out as they had hoped. But they don’t often complain. They know there are much worse places they could be. They have been to those places.
New Guy looked like he would fit in with the crew, but he is slow to jump in when work needs to be done. He’s not lazy, just cautious, watching the crew and the work flow. He worked as a tree climber, swinging high in the air with a chain saw, learned caution from experience. He’s nobodies fool.
Still, the crew ethic has no tolerance for hangers-back. Yesterday Dave looked at him and said “If you’re not going to do anything, go back inside”… and he did. It stuck in his craw and he repeated the insult facetiously several times during the morning. His mind is sharp as is his tongue. Had his family of origin been different, he could have easily been the CEO of some company. One day he said, “I wish I could just do it all again. I would have paid more attention.”
He looked rough this morning at 4:00, hung-over or still drunk, and they gave him the dirtiest job, standing under the huge bins of slimy fish as they dumped into the hopper, covering him with gore as he hosed out the totes. He walked out onto the dock after an hour, cigarette in his mouth, eyes glazed and hard, his face set in a dark scowl. “What’s up, Rick.” I said. “Just living the dream”, he answered. I chuckled at his dark sarcasm. He finished his cigarette and flicked the butt into the ebbing tide as the sun rose in spectacular pinks and reds down the bay.
As he turned to walk back inside he stared straight ahead into space with distant eyes and spoke low, more of a growl.
“The dream is dead…” he said.
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