Jessie

Jessie's father had a heart attack at age 39. Jessie had one today at age 38.

I hope none of my workmates on the dock are checking up on this blog. Last time I wrote about them it wasn't received well. But I feel compelled to write about some of the events of this summer as my time on the docks comes to a close.

Let me say at the onset that I do not stand in judgement of any of these men. I stand in humble recognition of their struggles and their many talents. The poverty, addictions and difficult conditions of their lives is entirely overshadowed by their pride and the incredible amount and quality of the difficult work that they perform. They value themselves and each other by the sweat of their labor.They are an example to me and I strive to be worthy to be among them.

Jessie got off a bus from Pittsburgh at midnight and walked down the dock looking for his future. 254 pounds of muscle, tattooed with Irish flags and symbols, he is a striking, dangerous looking bruiser. His head is shaved and his eyes are dark and expressive.

One of the guys was drinking a beer on the wharf waiting for the bait shop to open at 3:00AM so he could go to work. He usually takes the last bus in from Westbrook and sleeps in one of the truck until the doors open in order to be on time. So, Jessie asked him where he could find work. He told him to talk with the foreman. When the foreman came in at 3:00AM, he took one look at Jessie' massive arms and hired him on the spot... conditionally. Day to day, but that's how all these guys operate. He was looking for a bull. Jessie looked like he might fit the bill.

It wasn't long before he pulled the assignment to ride with me on a run where extra muscle was needed. That's part of my job driving the big 52,000 pound trucks that I enjoy, getting to know these guys. It seems to be the same with each of them. They never ask me about myself, but, with a few questions, they open up and tell me their stories.

Jessie grew up in the tough part of Pittsburgh. He tried to join the military, but got rejected for his criminal record. So he trained to fight in the cage, full contact mixed martial art. He is proud of his 16-2 record, but complains that the many knees and elbows to his head have slowed him down mentally. He compensates by obsessing about the decisions he faces and the day to day conflicts to the point of unhealthy worry. He doesn't do drugs anymore, just drinks beer. Lots of it.

In Pittsburgh, he worked as a bouncer between fights and training and one night, outside a strip club, two guys jumped him. He doesn't have a just short fuse. He has a detonation button. He beat them so badly that the judge put him in prison for 5 1/2 years. When he got out thing went poorly in Pittsburgh; warrants, back child support, too much drama. So he took a handful of quarters, threw them down and picked one up at random. It was the Maine quarter and he bought a bus ticket to Portland.

After a week on the job, they offered him a berth on the Irish Piper. The engine had seized and it was tied up along side the wharf awaiting a rebuild. Jessie was out to prove himself and made himself a nuisance for awhile asking the foreman for his next assignment. Finally the Boss growled at him. "You can see what needs to be done. Just do it! I'll tell you when to do something different."

Jessie is heavily muscled in the chest and arms, so much so that rolling barrels is awkward for him... and the crew pounced like sharks on a bleeding tuna. The waterfront has a pecking order like any gang of men and Jessie sensed he was quickly declining in that social order. He responded by becoming sullen and lazy which just confirmed the harsh judgements of the crew. "Useless..." mumbled one of the guys, the worst judgement you could ever receive.

I was working loading a truck at the Brunswick cooler when I overheard the phone conversation.

"I'm sending Glen down with 12 pallets of redfish racks. You ok with that?"

"Yeah, things have quieted down now that the ambulances and fire trucks have left..."

"What happened?"

"Jessie had a heart attack and the trucks blocked the wharf for an hour.. wish he'd had it down on Commercial Street."

I found him sitting at the bar at the Starlight, one of the so-called three gates of hell, the trio of seedy waterfront bars on Commercial Street.

"The sack around my heart filled up with fluid and blood and it hurt like hell. Don't remember what he called it, but the Doc at the Emergency Room gave me a script for some medicine."

"Angina? Congestive heart failure?" I suggested.

"Yeah, that was it." he said as he lit up a cigarette. "I'll be ok. Got to be. I've got things to accomplish with my life. Still can't find a place to live though and they want me off the boat soon."

I drove him up to the Preble Street Resource Center and he spoke with a social services counselor about his dilemma. They scheduled him for an appointment the following day. I dropped him off back on the wharf, slipped him $20 and a winter coat I had in the truck.

He shook my hand when I told him I was heading South. His eyes narrowed and watered. "Hey, I wanna give you something. I only give it to my friends...". He recited the Irish Blessing,

"May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of His hand."

Right back at you, Jessie. Good luck Brother.