What is the power and value of a man's word? In this day of continuous examples of duplicitous politics (has there every been any other type of political day, notable individual exceptions not withstanding) it is evermore difficult to remain true to the noble concept of keeping one's word. But the concept is far from dead... especially among the "working class". In fact, it counts for more than can be measured.
The waterfront is cruel, much like nature is cruel. That is not to say nature or the waterfront is evil. Just the opposite. Let's just say they are both "efficient". The strongest, most adaptive species or individual wins. Weakness is not an attribute that is tolerated, perhaps reasonably accommodated, but never tolerated. On the waterfront, if a man's back or his brain are not up to a task, he will be accepted only at the level to which he can add value by some other means. If you can't handle the heavy lifting or accurately run the numbers on the tally sheet then you had better be able to run the winch or the fork truck or operate the salter. Or you're out...
Skully was on the bleeding edge of being deemed "useless". The younger guys harassed him mercilessly, cruelly, trying to finally tip the scales and be rid of him. Skully was 55, way past his prime, crippled with a bad back, a deformed hand, illiteracy and alcohol abuse... and a nasty disposition. He operated the fork truck and was so dangerous that no ones eyes ever left him as he raced around the shop, spilling bait, tipping over totes, hitting walls. We all knew it was our responsibility to watch out for him, because he didn't give a rats ass about anyone else. Recently the forks truck brakes were repaired. Ralph's comment was "Well, Skully's got brakes now. All he needs is brains..."You decided to like Skully, in spite of himself... or you hated him.
Skully collected bottles and cans for beer money. Some of us would gather them from the trash we hoisted off the boats and throw them into barrels and totes until Skully would drag them away. Sometimes I would load my little truck with his treasures and drive him up India Street to the redemption center. After one such trip, Skully approached me with an orange tote. "This is Sam's tote. I told him would get it back to him. Will you do that? Give it back to Sam?" I knew from the way he was atypically looking into my eyes that returning the tote to Sam was important to him. I nodded. He wasn't satisfied. "You'll give this back to Sam? Won't forget?" He wanted to hear me say it. "I'll give it to Sam. I give you my word." He nodded. It wasn't as if someone hadn't broken their word to him before. His life was a continuum of broken words, broken dreams. But he knew my word was as good as he was going to get that day... whether or not the tote was returned.
I returned to the shop and carried the tote back to the dock. "Skully wants me to return this tote to Sam." I said to the crew and threw it into the corner. Later in the day, when Sam piloted his boat, the Irish Piper, up to the dock to bait up, I would toss it down to him. I didn't think any more about it and got busy filling boat orders and shoveling fish.
We were winching totes down to a waiting boat when I spied the orange tote, filled with herring and being rigged for winching by Jeff and Cecil, two of the hard nose younger men on the crew. They both hated Skully and took any opportunity to mess him up. And this was just another chance to push him closer to the edge of that proverbial cliff.
"Hey, that's the tote that Skully wants to give back to Sam," I objected.
"To hell with Skully, that useless bastahd." growled Jeff.
"Besides, Sam already owes us 2 totes." justified Cecil.
They both glared at me. Was I going to side with them or with Skully?
I took a deep breath and tried to hold my temper. I walked over and said slowly and quietly; "Look, I don't give a damn about this tote or what issues you boys have with Skully. But I gave my word that I would return it to Sam. So that's what I need to do. OK?"
They looked at each other, Cecil nodded. Jeff mumbled, "Fair enuf. Man's word is a man's word... but Skully is still a dipshit."
I nodded. "Fair enuf."
Sam got his tote back.
On the waterfront your word does count for something. It's really all you've got.
Now if only Washington would get the message...
The waterfront is cruel, much like nature is cruel. That is not to say nature or the waterfront is evil. Just the opposite. Let's just say they are both "efficient". The strongest, most adaptive species or individual wins. Weakness is not an attribute that is tolerated, perhaps reasonably accommodated, but never tolerated. On the waterfront, if a man's back or his brain are not up to a task, he will be accepted only at the level to which he can add value by some other means. If you can't handle the heavy lifting or accurately run the numbers on the tally sheet then you had better be able to run the winch or the fork truck or operate the salter. Or you're out...
Skully was on the bleeding edge of being deemed "useless". The younger guys harassed him mercilessly, cruelly, trying to finally tip the scales and be rid of him. Skully was 55, way past his prime, crippled with a bad back, a deformed hand, illiteracy and alcohol abuse... and a nasty disposition. He operated the fork truck and was so dangerous that no ones eyes ever left him as he raced around the shop, spilling bait, tipping over totes, hitting walls. We all knew it was our responsibility to watch out for him, because he didn't give a rats ass about anyone else. Recently the forks truck brakes were repaired. Ralph's comment was "Well, Skully's got brakes now. All he needs is brains..."You decided to like Skully, in spite of himself... or you hated him.
Skully collected bottles and cans for beer money. Some of us would gather them from the trash we hoisted off the boats and throw them into barrels and totes until Skully would drag them away. Sometimes I would load my little truck with his treasures and drive him up India Street to the redemption center. After one such trip, Skully approached me with an orange tote. "This is Sam's tote. I told him would get it back to him. Will you do that? Give it back to Sam?" I knew from the way he was atypically looking into my eyes that returning the tote to Sam was important to him. I nodded. He wasn't satisfied. "You'll give this back to Sam? Won't forget?" He wanted to hear me say it. "I'll give it to Sam. I give you my word." He nodded. It wasn't as if someone hadn't broken their word to him before. His life was a continuum of broken words, broken dreams. But he knew my word was as good as he was going to get that day... whether or not the tote was returned.
I returned to the shop and carried the tote back to the dock. "Skully wants me to return this tote to Sam." I said to the crew and threw it into the corner. Later in the day, when Sam piloted his boat, the Irish Piper, up to the dock to bait up, I would toss it down to him. I didn't think any more about it and got busy filling boat orders and shoveling fish.
We were winching totes down to a waiting boat when I spied the orange tote, filled with herring and being rigged for winching by Jeff and Cecil, two of the hard nose younger men on the crew. They both hated Skully and took any opportunity to mess him up. And this was just another chance to push him closer to the edge of that proverbial cliff.
"Hey, that's the tote that Skully wants to give back to Sam," I objected.
"To hell with Skully, that useless bastahd." growled Jeff.
"Besides, Sam already owes us 2 totes." justified Cecil.
They both glared at me. Was I going to side with them or with Skully?
I took a deep breath and tried to hold my temper. I walked over and said slowly and quietly; "Look, I don't give a damn about this tote or what issues you boys have with Skully. But I gave my word that I would return it to Sam. So that's what I need to do. OK?"
They looked at each other, Cecil nodded. Jeff mumbled, "Fair enuf. Man's word is a man's word... but Skully is still a dipshit."
I nodded. "Fair enuf."
Sam got his tote back.
On the waterfront your word does count for something. It's really all you've got.
Now if only Washington would get the message...
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