From chewing tobacco to pudding skins aka On the way to long legged French girls

Once upon a time there were hordes of blue collar workers toiling in Detroit.  This was long before jobs were outsourced to the third world, before the Big 3 lost an undeclared war to Japanese imports and at a time when factory floors never saw adequate ventilation, air conditioning or robots.  The boys of these men got an education in smoke and steel, many got jobs making parts supplied to the auto companies.

We discovered that men up from the hills of Kentucky and Tennessee had missing teeth by the time they were 23, that they chewed tobacco and spit the juice on factory floors.  We saw that some women strutted, cursed and fought just like us, and lusted after the same girls.  We came to know that swallowing salt packets kept us from dizzy spells while we sweated off ten pounds a shift.  And, we discovered the value of steel toed work boots after our first broken toe.

We learned to move carefully, step quickly and avoid areas beneath moving cranes.  We had to steer clear of clanging steel and scalding molten metal.  We found out that rickety walkways, slippery ramps and oily puddles caused broken bones.  We saw hands crushed, fingers lopped off and quick as a flash third degree burns.  Is it any wonder that some of us finally decided to go to college?

 

Maybe our dads had the right idea in wanting us to be white collar workers.  Some of us had visited a university campus, ogled the cute coeds and had half filled out applications lying around somewhere.  Student loans were easy to get.  Book learning had to be better than getting patched up, splinted and sewn together at a weekly trip to the emergency clinic.

College life was much easier than factory work; more fun too.  It opened up whole new vistas.  Not only as to learning; we found out that education could be more intriguing than memorizing dates.  But also for the exposure; particularly for us guys who had never traveled more than 20 miles from home (besides the annual visit to Aunt Dot out in the sticks) or ate at restaurants at times other than prom night.  Thus, we developed goals.

The first goal was to visit Europe.  Yes, indeed, skip Chicago, Cincinnati and Cleveland.  Bypass hotels, motels, and fancy restaurants; fly right over the Atlantic to party with long legged French girls.  Travel books said it could be done on $5 a day, and a week of factory overtime would take care of plane fare.  Even better, every campus had brochures and flyers that touted, “Work in Paris, Rome, Athens… college students desperately needed.  No experience required; work permits and visas no problem.  Offices at all the major gateways to the European experience.  Placement guaranteed!”

 

I was on a plane to Brussels the day after freshman year ended.  It wasn’t as exotic as Istanbul, but who wanted to see turbans and scimitars?  It was also closer to those French girls than the symphonies and museums of Vienna, the other “gateway” choice.  There were scads of other gullible college kids standing, sitting and laying about in and near the Brussels office.  They were faithfully waiting, some as long as three or four weeks, for placement in a job at a tantalizing location,.  It apparently took time for an opening to develop in Paris, Rome or anywhere else a teenager might actually want to visit.  The immediate openings were all located within a days train ride of such hotspots as Budapest, Helsinki, and Damascus.  Hmmm… the $30 hidden in my shoe might not be a big enough emergency fund.

Beer, bread and cheese was rumored to be freely available in Amsterdam.  Amsterdam was on the way to an English speaking country; I got on the road and stuck out my thumb.  The rumor was true, and the Heineken factory was paradise, but sleeping in the railroad station got old,   I still had enough money in my shoe for a one way ticket across the English Channel and over to London.  By this time I had heard that major hotels in big cities, like the factories in the Midwest, were always hiring.  And similar to the factories, there weren’t a lot of questions – it was just best to show up shaven and not falling down drunk.

I thought speaking the same language might be helpful in getting a job; off I went to London.  I could wait a few more weeks to dance with the long legged French girls.  The first hotel I walked into was located in Grosvenor Square, which was also home to the U.S. Embassy.  The head housekeeper was the first person of authority that I bumped into; she avoided inquiring about a work permit.  I could start earning shillings the very next day, and was directed to a rooming house on the other side of the Thames River.  Many of the hotel’s dishwashers, porters and other menial workers were sheltered there, three or four to a room.  Most were Spanish or Portuguesse.  Some could even speak a few halting words in English.  But, like workers everywhere, we had no problem communicating the essentials.

Feeding myself on the cheap was the first concern.  The other employees quickly pointed out (quite literally, with hand gestures and poses) that if a place served food, one could eat well.  It was an unauthorized perk.  Dropped plates and trays of steak and codfish became a dietary staple.  Plus, hotels provided room service.  Hence, everything on the menu became available – if you weren’t fussy about someone else having taken the first bite or two.

A job in a fancy English hotel had other plus factors.  There were brass rails and plate glass doors that required daily polishing, not the slightest smudge was allowed.  Few things are funnier than watching a tourist smack into a door.  The other main benefit was a break room with steaming pots of tea and a huge vat of pudding.  The pudding had skin a half inch thick; it was delicious, a meal in itself.  The secret of making skins like that remains the most closely guarded British secret.

After a few paydays I inquired about the cost of getting to Paris, I learned that shillings weren’t worth much to anybody outside of England.  More than pence, but a lot less than pounds; it would take a bunch of months to turn them into enough dollars for a flight back to the States.  I wanted to get back home at some point, and I heard that jobs in France were scarce if you didn’t speak the language.

So, nope – I never did get to dance with those long legged French girls.  And darned if that wasn’t the first - and only - question that any dude has ever asked me about my European experience.

  

Jack D. Arlan©2011

(As part of a week of revamping and editing, this is a reworked piece from the one originally posted in September of 2010)

All you Need is Love

Where do you live?  What kind of car do you drive?  What do you do for a living?

These are questions that can usually be answered in a word.  Sometimes two, three or four words if detail or embellishments appear required.

Harry had a tough time answering these simple questions.  The landlord was threatening to evict him and his car needed repairs to be drivable.  What he did no longer qualified as making a living; he had spiraled downward from broke to impoverished.

Harry and I go way back.  We both put ourselves through college hustling fellow students who believed luck or steely eyed resolve won games of chance.  Harry became a mover and groover with a Midas touch.  He had a house with a scenic view to die for, took annual Caribbean vacations and got drunk on single malt scotch.  Yet, every five or ten years he made a bad choice or two.  He would lick his wounds, make a few resolutions, buckle down building a stake, roll the dice and move on to a new and glamorous enterprise.  The world moves on too -  Harry now gathers old furniture and appliances, makes repairs and sells them on craigslist.

Lately, he and I have been talking about changing times, “woulda shoulda coulda” and advancing years.  Harry, who always used to keep his troubles to himself, said, “I’m out of ideas and my life is collapsing on all levels.  My wife is leaving me, my back is out of whack, I’m going to be homeless soon and suicidal thoughts creep into my mind.”  He asked if I knew any solutions, but the only one I know is to just keep muddling on.

Last week he opened up his heart and told his pastor and some of his fellow churchgoers about the dire straits he was in.  “I was hoping for help,” Harry told me over coffee.  “In fact I outright asked for it.”

“What did they say?”  I asked.

“They told me to pray,” was Harry’s response.

JDA©2/22/11

 

The Spiritual Snowball Effect

The spiritual snowball began with two cases of frozen chicken and some cheese.  Roger grabbed them before they went into a dumpster.  It was three summers ago at a food brokers’ show.  He offered them to a friend, saying his own refrigerator and freezer was full.  There was too much for Jon and his wife Sarah to eat or store; they gave some to people across the street.  As it turned out, there were hordes of people in need of food – and the Lord provided.

Roger’s wife was a broker that wholesaled quality food to restaurants, bars, school systems, etc.  She told her husband that none of the food brokers returned foodstuffs to storage units after a show.  How much might be unused, and exactly when it would be available, was uncertain; charitable organizations usually couldn’t or wouldn’t come to pick it up.

Roger didn’t think wasting food was right.  Jon told him he knew plenty of people that would really appreciate food.  Roger began going with his wife to shows all over the Midwest, and started bringing more boxes to Jon and Sarah.  They could contain anything from whole, ready for slicing, deli turkey to six pound cans of corn or mixed-fruit and all sorts of breadstuff.

A few boxes turned into a dozen cases.  Much of the food was frozen or perishable.  It had to be stored or used soon.  Sarah enlisted the help of two ladies in the Section 8 building across the street.  She told them to bring carts, take as much as they wanted, and, “if you can, give a little to someone else.”

It wasn’t long before Roger also gathered goods when the broker had excess inventory, food lines were dropped or a storage location was moved.  A dozen or so cases turned into enough to fill a large pick-up, both bed and cab.  Jon helped unload onto his back porch as well as the kitchen and dining room.  Sarah began calling more people to come get free food.

Take a peek at one day last August; there were dozens milling around the back porch:

“Mussels, mussels.  Anybody want mussels?”  shouts Beth, Sarah’s daughter,  “We’ve got hot chicken wings, chicken nuggets and chicken strips.  We have all types of fish fillets plus spiced apple, chocolate, and carrot cake mixes.  We have wheat bread, French bread and cinnamon rolls.  Who wants what?”

Sarah sorted through the various cases.  Auntie Linda helped fill the bags and carts people brought over. Connie’s teenage nephews carried boxes to cars for older folks.  Rose made deliveries to men and women unable to get around without crutches or walkers.  Carl took rolls, sausages, pasta and spaghetti sauce to those in need at his church.  Angela baked cakes for a birthday party in the senior community room.  Joanne cooked hot meals for a blind widower and a wheelchair bound woman.  Lots of folk, many without money to ever buy extras, shared their blessings.

This has now been going on for almost three years: often every few weeks or so, but sometimes a month or more goes by.  There’s usually a few days notice that something may be available, sometimes just a couple hours.  Lots of people have had a chance to contribute or share; many do.

Roger hasn’t gone to church in decades.  He doesn’t think about ministries or missions.  He simply gathers food and makes deliveries, sometimes in-between and around a 16 hour work day.  Once he spent most of a freezing night under his pick-up, repairing it so he could get and deliver a full truckload to Jon and Sarah.  He often makes a 90 mile special round trip.  Roger turned away, red in the face, when told about how one woman tearfully gave thanks because all her money was just spent on car repairs with nothing left to feed her four kids.

Roger says he just doesn’t like food going to waste.  Jon says he just unloads some boxes.  Sarah says she just makes a few calls.  Rose says she just drives a few miles. Joanne says she just likes to cook.

No one thinks they’ve done much.  Things just started rolling, got bigger.  Some say it was the Holy Spirit in action.


PawPawJack©12/14/10

The measure of a man…

Men put on yesterday’s dirty shorts and socks without the slightest hesitation.  They’re not embarrassed to pick their noses, scratch their asses, adjust their crotch, stuff their faces with cheese and chips, scatter crumbs and aim in the general direction of the toilet bowl without bothering to put the seat up.  They openly ogle any cleavage visible, and will watch a nice backside until it walks out of view.  What do you think they do when no one is around to see?

“The measure of a man is what he does when no one is looking.”  Men nod in thoughtful agreement with the saying… when seeing it on a plaque hanging from a nail.   Most guys would shudder if that’s how they were judged.  One does come across male models of energy, efficiency, respectability and virtue.   Other men suspect it’s just the public persona.

Once, back in the day, I considered such philosophical points while riding at dawn to an industrial plant on the outskirts of Detroit.  There were a dozen of us sitting in the back of an old pick up.  Another dozen were following in a van.  We had all been at ManPower, Inc for shape-up at 5 am.  All of us – clean shaven go getters with tool kits, drunks, old bums, lazy slobs and surly young punks – got grabbed for a big gig that could last for months.

We saw the crowd slouching by the entrance gate.  Some carried STRIKE signs.  As we slowed to turn in some of the men yelled, “Scabs!  Scabs!”  One big ape screamed, “we’ll f^ck you up if you cross the line.”  Others shouted for us to join them.  A few spit at us while we waited for the gate to open.

Pete was an old bum; we had teamed up a month earlier, sharing the siren song of wanderlust.  We had just quit a job pounding nails into skids.  (Nope, they didn’t need repair or modification; we just had to look busy.  One of those ‘got the flu’ slowdowns with the foreman wanting to say he kept the temps hard at work.) The place was a rarity for back then - a clean, quiet factory, just the place to build up a stash.  But we got bored.  Boredom wouldn’t be the main concern on this job.  He and I looked at each other.  “We’re here now,” said Pete with a shrug.

Yeah, wonderful; crossing picket lines violates the blue collar code.  The unions were fat and happy in 1972.  But they still went through the motions.  Why not?  The bosses had tennis courts and full sized pools in their backyards.  Mandatory double time on Saturdays and a fourth week of paid vacation could help close the income gap.  Still; things could get ugly.  Spit back at one of these beer belly warriors and the next thing you know guys are swinging pipes and wrenches.  But, as Pete said, “we’re here now.” 

The main building was huge; you could fit a few football fields in it.  Three men in white shirts and ties were surveying their new workforce.   Two grumpy old men, wearing blue shirts with their names stitched on, had already started the furnaces, got machinery humming and cranes ready to scoop and carry. It was the first day of the strike and everyone stood around wondering what to do next.  Finally, one of the old guys told a white shirt that there was plenty of work that could be done out in the yard.  The white shirt asked if any of us temps could operate an acetylene torch.  Me an Pete both said, “Yep, you bet.”

One of the old dudes handed us a couple of torches, pointed outdoors and said, “you need to cut the ends off all the steel reinforcement rods.  Get em level with the concrete ends.”  Me an Pete went out into the yard – it was immense, acres and acres surrounded by a ten foot tall chain link fence.  Half of it was filled with big concrete tubes, about 30’ long with a 4’ diameter.  They were piled 5 wide and 3 high with alleyways alongside the stacks.  Six rods stuck out about a foot from each circular concrete end, thousands of them.  The rows seemed endless; while moving through them we guessed that the tubes would be used to construct sewers.

Pete and I finally picked a spot to start, one far from the plant and watching eyes. Pete looked at the twisted steel rods sticking out the ends, turned to me and asked, “you know how to torch these things off?”

“I don’t even know how to start the torch,” I replied.

“Me neither,” he said.  “It just seemed better than ‘learn as you go’ with that crew fooling with hot furnaces and tall cranes.”

Yeah.  “Looks kind of cozy in these tubes,” said Pete as he climbed into one about 10’ above the ground.  “Nice in here, I didn’t get much sleep last night.  Might as well take a nap.”

I climbed into one next to Pete.  We were alone, almost impossible to see or find. “Shift ends at 4,” Pete noted, “we gotta make sure we’re back by then.”

So we took a morning nap, told tall tales of life on the road and ate the sandwiches stuffed in our jackets.  We climbed out to take a whiz, stretched our legs and then got back in for an afternoon nap.  Later we bitched about being hustled over here with no mention of a picket line.  Then we silently contemplated our respective concrete caves.

I thought again about the measure of a man.  Pete and I went looking for a place to goof off.  That’s what we did when no one was looking.  But… what’s a story if not the absolute, unvarnished, unchanged, accurate on all counts truth?

As we walked back for shift end we first heard shouting, then saw the hordes of strikers milling around outside the gates, shaking fists and poking signs at the plant.  There were lots more of them now, all cussing fat cats and scabs.  I said, “I’ll be happy if we can get outta this place without getting busted up.”

“Me too,” Pete replied, “and I ain’t coming back here.  It’s gonna get cold and snowy pretty soon anyway.  You ever worked on a shrimp boat?”

I never did, but it sounded better than temping out to factories.  A month back in Detroit was long enough.  The next day Pete and I were heading south on I-75.


DJO©1/26/11