Author's notes:
(This story features 'links' in colored text, which, when clicked on, provide additional information about that point in the story.
Some names, dates, specific information, or time lines may not be 100% accurate in the remembering. If you are a stickler for journalistic accuracy make your own blog.)
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It was the best of times, it was the best of times, as my old high school buddy Chas. Dickens used to say. It was some time in the early/mid 1980's, and me, in my natural prime, was just about to embark on the adventure of my young, naive, sheltered life. My uncle Frankme had offered to take me on as an apprentice on his "ZVI Construction Rolling Thunder Revue and General Contractors'' tour. He currently was going from city to city in this great land of ours, building "young miss and "junior" clothing stores, under the brand name "Show Off". Now I had no knowledge or experience regarding lady's fashion, nor any real knowledge or experience in any of the building trades, for that matter. But as it turned, that wasn't really that important. It turned out we were just the ''general contractors''. There would be plenty of other real trade workers like electricians, plumbers, masons, etc. on the job site, and Frank was the only one who needed to know what he was doing. It also turned out Frank knew what he was doing. The best foreman out there, it was said. Handy with reading blueprints, bribing electrical inspectors, pacifying pesky sub contractors and baby sitting young ''construction laborers" like me. So any of my experience or inexperience was not going to make or break the bank. And more importantly, as it would turn out in the end, ''general construction'' was only something we did to fill in those long boring hours between ''beer times''. THIS "Beer Time" is where the real adventure would be. And where the real lessons would be learned.
So one chilly, cloudy, snowy Spring morning ol' Frank gathered me up at my parents' farmhouse, along with my duffel bag and bucket of tools, and we were on our way. By the end of the day we would be in steamy, hot, cherry blossom'd Bethesda Md. There were several "Show Off's" stores in the greater DC area with major ''punch lists'', and a new store in Alexandria yet to be put up.
One of the first lessons I learned from dear old Uncle Frankmy was how to travel. Sounds simple but it is an essential concept to any kind of work that causes you to be away from ''home''. But it also informs a way of living life just around in your own little home town. Take for example our trip from Newport Maine to Bethesda Maryland. An ambitious person c
ould probably make the trip in about 11 hours, depending on traffic and the fortitude of your bladder. And how much coffee you drink. Knowing this information can cause a person to perseverate, at least unconsciously, and focus on how long they are taking to get there. The focus or the success of the trip, now, has more to do with "making good time''. Coffee and pee breaks are then tainted by this and rushed through. A lunch break is downsized from a scenic side trip to check out an old historic diner in West Hartford to a quick stop bag full of fast food crap on the Jersey Turnpike. Little side trips get eliminated altogether. Like, since you were in New
Jersey anyway there WAS a place named "Cheesequake" State Park. Now usually, a roadside diversion named Cheesequake would be awesome. But it would take a bite out of your travel time. These things tend to add up. There is a cost/benefit analysis you must do, traveling on the company's dime. So the benefit of travelling like this is you get to your destination maybe an hour, maybe an hour and a half faster. You look good to your boss, you get street cred from your homies, and most importantly you have an hour, or ninety minutes ''bonus time" you didn't have before. Ninety minutes during which you'll probably be all jacked up and tense with achy back and sore legs. Now the benefits of travelling the ''Frank'' method are manifold. The Frank way is simple. Take your friggin' time. You're on the road homie. You are on a jeezily road trip! Enjoy it. Take that 20 minute side trip to that diner and have the best Reuben sandwich you've ever had. Go see Cheesquake Park (it turned out to be a kind of a waste of time, no geological phenomenon featuring cheese, but on the way back, there was a great little coffee shop, fueling up your caffeine needs for the rest of the trip). You have to go pee? Go pee. You want another coffee? Stop and get one. The benefits. You'll be in a better place mentally, and possibly not such a dick to the people around you. Now no offense to my dear old Pop. But he was a long haul truck driver for many years. And before a big trip, well, he could indeed be kind of a dick. Of course, by design, his travel experience was always going to be colored by the constraints of time a(time is money and all). But in most cases the only major benefit you're going to gain by neurotically watching the clock, holding your pee and skipping coffee stops are just those extra minutes you saved, time you will in deed spend being tense, crabby and overtired, with lasting memories of nothing more than the lovely, scenic New Jersey Turnpike.
Jersey anyway there WAS a place named "Cheesequake" State Park. Now usually, a roadside diversion named Cheesequake would be awesome. But it would take a bite out of your travel time. These things tend to add up. There is a cost/benefit analysis you must do, traveling on the company's dime. So the benefit of travelling like this is you get to your destination maybe an hour, maybe an hour and a half faster. You look good to your boss, you get street cred from your homies, and most importantly you have an hour, or ninety minutes ''bonus time" you didn't have before. Ninety minutes during which you'll probably be all jacked up and tense with achy back and sore legs. Now the benefits of travelling the ''Frank'' method are manifold. The Frank way is simple. Take your friggin' time. You're on the road homie. You are on a jeezily road trip! Enjoy it. Take that 20 minute side trip to that diner and have the best Reuben sandwich you've ever had. Go see Cheesquake Park (it turned out to be a kind of a waste of time, no geological phenomenon featuring cheese, but on the way back, there was a great little coffee shop, fueling up your caffeine needs for the rest of the trip). You have to go pee? Go pee. You want another coffee? Stop and get one. The benefits. You'll be in a better place mentally, and possibly not such a dick to the people around you. Now no offense to my dear old Pop. But he was a long haul truck driver for many years. And before a big trip, well, he could indeed be kind of a dick. Of course, by design, his travel experience was always going to be colored by the constraints of time a(time is money and all). But in most cases the only major benefit you're going to gain by neurotically watching the clock, holding your pee and skipping coffee stops are just those extra minutes you saved, time you will in deed spend being tense, crabby and overtired, with lasting memories of nothing more than the lovely, scenic New Jersey Turnpike.
The first thing my wise old traveling uncle would when he rolled into town was secure a place for the troops to stay. Jobs usually took a couple of months, at least. So the city would be our home away from home for that time. Usually Frank would get us hooked up in a mid priced place within shooting distance of the job. I think ZVI had a contract with the Holiday Inn chain. We stayed there a lot. One time I remember in Chicagoland, we stayed at a ''Holiday Inn Holi-Dome". It was 4 floors, entry to rooms from both inside and outside the building, and on the inside rooms there was a porch/balcony area which overlooked a lovely recreation area with a pool, hot tub, dining area,bar and little strolling areas. More about that later. There may be an anecdote about some of the boys climbing off the balcony 4 floors down the wall for a little after hours midnight swim. And I mustn't forget to tell you about the Westgate Motel in Toledo Ohio. ''Magic Fingers'', water beds, mirrors on the ceilings (pink champagne on ice?) First things first though. My first day we are coming into town and when Frank calls from the rest area phone booth, Eugene LaFrancois tells him he needs to get in touch with the electrician immediately. There's some big jam up and the power is not on from the street yet. This is going to cause issues because there are other subcontractors coming in tomorrow. Again, Frankly boy's problem, not mine. Anyway, Gene tells Frank that as soon as he gets into DC, make sure he finds this electrician. He's kind of a grouchy prick Gene says. The guy should definitely be there on site. And his name is Ty Cobb. Wait. What? Ty Cobb? Hall of Famer Ty Cobb from like the 1920's? Okay...that cant be right....
I'm gonna like this job.
"Babe meet Ty, Ty meet Babe".
So we breeze on into Bethesda just at rush hour, and make our way into the job site. There's a bunch of guys milling around not doing much of anything, because, you know, there `ain't no F****** power. We ask around until we get to this one guy who looks likely enough to be an electrician named Ty Cobb. He's standing there by a big pile of what looked like counter top fixtures looking at blueprints splayed all open. He was sipping his coffee and had a crabby look on his face. Frank walks up to him and asks, ''Hey, buddy, are you Ty Cobb"? ....."No" the guy says, "I'm F****** Babe Ruth.
Say it ain't so, Babe! ...errr....Joe...Ty.....Whatever. There's no need for sarcasm.
I think I'm going to like this job.
Frank gets all the business straightened out without my help. As he did with the hotel rooms and a local place to cash our checks. It turns out he always did. A well placed call, or bribe, or posed favor, or posed threat usually got the job done. And all his young apprentices were none the wiser. It terned out the guy we needed to see as the electrical inspector. His name was Joe Jackson. Nivk name, "Shoeless Joe". Anyway, I was saying: crew was none the wiser....
Ah yes, the crew. At this point let me tell you about the fine lads who made up the ZVI construction crew. Not the sharpest tools in the shed, but neither were they skilled craftsmen. This rag tag bunch made up for their occupational shortcomings by being hard working and willing to ratchet up the danger level if the need be, for either the interest of the job's completion, or Big Frank's amusement. Plus they worked cheap.
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Introducing:
From the ultra redneck region of Tampa/ St. Pete FLA, Frank's number one son William ''Bildo'' Hennessy. Bill and I roomed together for most of my 4 years. He liked his beer - like a dog love 'is bone. He was a perfect foil for me. Because as much shit as I could stir up to anger my grouchy uncle/ boss, Bill would jump in faster, farther and messier, bringing down, even harder, Frank/Dad's wrath on his poor skinny ass. Hey, we were both about 20. Frank must have known what he was getting into.
On the drums, Mr. Greg Laliberty, straight out of Linneus Maine. There/ll be more about him later in the story as he figured big time in some major hi-jinx in Toledo OH. His claim to fame was marrying his first wife (and first cousin) Sunshine, and taking their honeymoon driving their hippy mobile to Woodstock NY, you know, for the big concert.
Mark Cote, a crazy ass Portugese/Quebeqois from down New Bedford MA. A great guy, kind of a Deadhead, and a real solid weed and beer guy. His claim to fame was buying Frank a lovely pig for his birthday. We'll get to that.
Then there was Stuart Augenstern, or "Augie the Blade'' as we used to call him. A rather diminutive feller of about 5' - 4'', Augie was frequently wont to offer up prodigious threats, wholly unsupported by any ability he had to implement them. He would threaten to ''carve you a new asshole'', or ''cut you 4 ways, fast , wide, deep, and often". Yeah, Stuey carried a knife. He carried a knife like Barney Fife carried a pistol. He was bat shit crazy. But, you know, it came from a good place.
My little buddy/brother Marc was a part of this crew of miscreants for a good portion of my tenure. But a weekend spent in the pokey after a bad night of betting on billiards in Plymouth MA forced him to rethink his career choices and go back to marry his Maine sweet-heart in St. Agathe. Two major lapses in judgement "did" him in the end: 1). trusting Cousin Bill to bet on a game of pool, the two of them versus some regulars at this local bar, AND, 2). buying my 1967 Volkswagon Beetle, after I had caught it on fire and cooked all the engine's wiring, for 50 bucks more than I actually paid for it.
And of course, Frank. He was the top hat wearing, porn mustachio'd, cigar smoking ring leader of this circus. As I got to know him as much more than just my ol' lovable uncle Frank, I grew to appreciate what a responsibility it must have been to actually teach us all a trade, and keep our collective asses out of jail.
And then, of course, there was me. I had no problems with me. I was my favorite coworker.
So anyway, that was us.There were other guys on and off, cut from the same cloth, but that was, generally, the ZVI crew.
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So back to the job at hand. My first dalliance with life on the road. More lessons to come. So we had the hotel secured. A nice Ramada Inn on Wisconsin Ave. just up the hill from our nation's very chi chi capitol, Washington DC. We also got lucky because Frank found us a place to cash our checks. So, beer money was secured. Getting groceries would prove to be a challenge, but I would soon learn to enjoy ordering my food over a counter or at a drive up window. And that's not even considering the joys of drive up liquor stores.
Another life lesson I would employ when thinking of building or purchasing future houses. Proximity to package stores.
So, after the regular maintenance beer source was secured. Our next step, I learned from my master Sensei/uncle, was to secure our road beer source. A man of the road cannot subsist by lying around the hotel room all night after work. One must be among his people. Enjoy the night air and partake of the good "Craic" of pub life. It was a stroke of luck. Or it could have just been Frank's Zen master like Karma. Either way, just by driving around after work our second night, about 5 miles up the Rockville Pike, just north of Bethesda, we stumbled upon a place called "Hank Dietles Pub''. A place first opened in 1916, having been issued the first ever liquor license in Montgomery County, license number ''001". It had survived prohibition, two fires and gentrification of all surrounding neighborhoods. Nestled amongst the malls, housing developments, and the National Institute of Health (you know, Ronny Reagan's doctor), Dietles still was pretty much as it was in 1916, patronized by bikers, rednecks, and Washington Redskins ("Hogs") football fans. And ZVI construction laborers. Over my tenure with ZVI we had always found a friendly place for a social beer or two: a hotel bar would sometimes suffice. In Toledo there was the case of the office "Pub" of the Hotel Manager(and owner?), Haywood Jablomy. You see when we got into town, it turned out there was this big Ladies Professional Bowling tournament going on. So all the ''good'' hotels and motels were booked. We ended up at the Westgate, a shady rough shod little place who's rooms were usually rented by the hour. Haywood was a drinking man, and about the only thing shadier than the Westgate itself. He didn't mind buying, and we didn't mind that. So that was our official Toledo hang out. Another example, in Newton MA our after hours hang out was the Papa Gino's right across the street from the job. Much to the chagrin of the moms and kids patronizing the place Friday afternoons. But Dietles Pub was the best ''beer away from home'' any place, any time in my tenure with Frank. I looked it up on the internets just today, and I'm happy to say it is still in business. Maybe a bit more middle class, but still up, running and hosting blues bands seven days a week.
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Oh, I almost forgot about breakfast. A healthy breakfast is an essential part of any productive work day. Living in a hotel room does not make it easy to prepare your own hearty morning repast, especially since I couldn't cook my way out of a paper breakfast burrito wrapper. But thanks to Frank the ZVI boys always got their burrito wrappers filled as well as their coffee cups, and got their day underway with a full belly. Getting a hotel, securing a ''packy'', finding a good local gin joint. Done. There's no reason we couldn't be ready to go out and start building the world's finest young women's clothing store ever made. You know, except the fact we sucked. Now, all we really needed was a place to get our early morning ''grub on''. And hey, Frank did find us a dandy breakfast place. Actually, in this case, there was a pretty good breakfast buffet right there at our Ramada. Sometimes we got lucky like that and the hotel had a good breakfast deal. The Holiday Inn in Skokie IL, par ejemplo, had a really nice breakfast, very chi chi, dining al fresco at tables right by the pool at their indoor ''recreation'' area. They made flapjacks for you fresh from their pancake making machine, and custom made omelettes as you ordered them, filled with whatever your desired ''fixins'' were. Pricey but convenient. As I recall right now, though, regarding my entire time on the ZVI crew, I remember my favorite breakfasts were where we were able to find a good deli. A good deli is a rarity and a thing of beauty. A nice reuben sandwich is always welcome. And a nice onion bagel with a nice schmear really hit the spot. Chicagoland had some really nice delis. Kaufman's on Dempster St. was right near the job as was Schneiders. Baltimore had some nice little joints to get your morning grub on. But the best place I remember was in Newton MA. Newton, part of the famous ''Bagel Belt" of fine Jewish Delicatessons in and around the Boston area.
Jack's Deli in Newton on Brookline Ave. I believe it was called. It was formerly Johnny's Luncheonette and before that Langely's Deli. I believe. Ah, a true Shangri La, a bastion of breakfast beauty. To this day I can still hear the sounds, vivdly remember the sights and, ah, the smells: steaming hot vats of coffee, fried potatoes, and onions! Oh my, the bread box sized pile of aromatic, sauteing onions on the griddle, from which Jack, the man on the griddle, would shovel a spatula full onto your plate, without asking you, regardless of your order. Jack, by the way, or John, was the cook. And maybe the owner. But he was also the MC. The host. Entertainer. Master of Ceremonies. Think of a Milton Berle. Or a Red Skelton. And you were not just at a deli, you were at the Friars Club. Jack was doing the roasting, slinging a spatula, cracking jokes, taking orders, busting peoples' chops, smoking a cigar. Okay, maybe not the cigar, but still I think he could have pulled it off. He provided a little cabaret each morning, along with your home fries. You'd go in, say hey to the regulars, pick up your tray and get in line. You slid your tray along the little metal track, like you were on the lunch cafeteria line at school, and point to the stuff on the griddle you wanted. Jack would bust your balls and shovel some onions onto your platter. You'd pay old Schlomo at the register at the end of the line, and, all too soon, you'd have to go sit down and eat. Not that the breakfast wasn't good. It was F**** transcendent. Sublime. Greasy, salty, ketchup-y, onion-y. The best. But THE best, best part of the place, and the best part of the experience was ol' Jack, Uncle Milty, holding court over the griddle, but never, never, holding the onions.
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~Back to work ~
The job at hand. Yes I did learn many a helpful lesson on the job working on the crew. But I have to say that any memory or lesson learned that has actually borne fruit, or at least conjured up an evil grin of nostalgia and a matching tall tale, was learned, as I said before, during those long painful hours between beer times. To adventure, I raise my glass. To misadventure. Never do I forget to say, even to this day, after remembering such past mischief, "to think I could have been working'. And that is still correct.
But enough about work....
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Uncle Jack, tell me more about this ''beer time'' you keep talking about.
Your honor. I bring to the stand, one Greg Laliberty, aka known as Hippy Greg. Or "Hillbilly Cousin F****r". This dude did me dirty on a number of
occasions. But memories tend to run short between young dudes, and, you know, what happens in Toledo stays in Toledo. More about that in the link below. I'll try to keep in the spirit of good humor, so I can tell you about him getting us lost in Buffalo NY. And I'll try not to remember that, back in Toledo, he sent me in to pick up his photos at a one hour photo lab. All of them NAKED pictures of him and his paramour/cousin Sunshine reliving their honeymoon in Woodstock. And I thought the girl behind the counter was flirting with me for different reasons.
Also in Toledo, the Hippy bastard almost gets us keel hauled on a booze cruise.
More about Toledo, click the link below.
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Honorable Mentions
1). "Buffalo Shuffl-O"!
So we are in Boston, after having had a few days off to all go to our ''home'' crash pads. You know, to feed the alligators, visit our wives, girlfriends,or moms, and bury our big piles of cash in mason jars out in the swamp. Gathering the team back together, Frank gives us our next assignment. It is Toledo OH. Previously alluded to. This next assignment would surely test us on the lessons Frank had been teaching us. The test/lesson: What to do when things don't go as planned. "Everybody's got a plan", Iron Mike Tyson once said, "until they get punched in the mouth". Iron Mike was a wise man, indeed.
Anyway the trip started out well enough. The caravan assembled. Billdo had his '83 GMC pick up, rusted out and no sticker. Frank had the ZVI van, loaded down with tools, screws, nails, plywood, ham hocks and guitar strings. Animal had his "Jeep-ish" looking vehicle all draped out in Dead Stickers and such. I think he must have seen a couple of Dead shows during our break. I had left the
Deathmobile at home, so my assignment was to ride with Hippy Greg and make sure he didn't get lost or take a right turn and head back to Woodstock. We gas up and hit the road. All is fine at first. Just 12 or 13 hours to go. Now I should mention, that in those days, we never traveled with either cell phones or credit cards. I didn't anyway. Frank had a company card, sure. But the rest of us were off the grid. Which becomes important here because Frank keeps telling me at rest stops along the way to "keep the caravan together, we're on a tight schedule". "Keep the Hippy glued to my back bumper'', he keeps saying. "Don't let him lose me". No prob Unc. I got this. No problem. "I got my eye peeled on the "Cousin F*****r. I got your 6". All is fine until ol' Greggers says to me at a coffee stop just before Buffalo, "Don't tell Frank, but can you switch up and drive for a while? I wanna toke up a couple of bowls. You know put a little buzz on to make the trip pass more pleasantly". So I reluctantly agree and take over the wheel. Diligently and more diligently I focus on Frank's back bumper, making sure I do not fail at my only job now: Stay with Frank. Keep the caravan together. On to Toledo, the Athens of the mid-west. I start to become curiously more and more focused on Frank's back bumper. On his license plate. On the numbers on his license plate. Numbers getting fuzzy. Must stay focused. Wait! What!? The what?! Shit, that weed Greggers was smoking must have been good, and he hadn't cracked a window for my contact high safety, so I had been the victim of a wicked contact buzz. In my altered state, I followed Frank's blue Ford commercial van through Buffalo, where he inexplicably took the I-190 toward downtown/Niagra Falls and Canada. "OK", I says, "Keep to his 6. Don't lose him". He then takes the airport exit. "Whatever Frank", I sez to myself. "You're the boss". Lead on. He curiously turns down a few side streets, at quite a speed, making it kind of hard for me to keep up. He zigs suddenly and goes into a carpet supply store. Inexplicably. So I thought. Until I realized I had been following the wrong blue Ford commercial van, not Frank's. For how long it was hard to say. Who I was following was hard to say.
Deathmobile at home, so my assignment was to ride with Hippy Greg and make sure he didn't get lost or take a right turn and head back to Woodstock. We gas up and hit the road. All is fine at first. Just 12 or 13 hours to go. Now I should mention, that in those days, we never traveled with either cell phones or credit cards. I didn't anyway. Frank had a company card, sure. But the rest of us were off the grid. Which becomes important here because Frank keeps telling me at rest stops along the way to "keep the caravan together, we're on a tight schedule". "Keep the Hippy glued to my back bumper'', he keeps saying. "Don't let him lose me". No prob Unc. I got this. No problem. "I got my eye peeled on the "Cousin F*****r. I got your 6". All is fine until ol' Greggers says to me at a coffee stop just before Buffalo, "Don't tell Frank, but can you switch up and drive for a while? I wanna toke up a couple of bowls. You know put a little buzz on to make the trip pass more pleasantly". So I reluctantly agree and take over the wheel. Diligently and more diligently I focus on Frank's back bumper, making sure I do not fail at my only job now: Stay with Frank. Keep the caravan together. On to Toledo, the Athens of the mid-west. I start to become curiously more and more focused on Frank's back bumper. On his license plate. On the numbers on his license plate. Numbers getting fuzzy. Must stay focused. Wait! What!? The what?! Shit, that weed Greggers was smoking must have been good, and he hadn't cracked a window for my contact high safety, so I had been the victim of a wicked contact buzz. In my altered state, I followed Frank's blue Ford commercial van through Buffalo, where he inexplicably took the I-190 toward downtown/Niagra Falls and Canada. "OK", I says, "Keep to his 6. Don't lose him". He then takes the airport exit. "Whatever Frank", I sez to myself. "You're the boss". Lead on. He curiously turns down a few side streets, at quite a speed, making it kind of hard for me to keep up. He zigs suddenly and goes into a carpet supply store. Inexplicably. So I thought. Until I realized I had been following the wrong blue Ford commercial van, not Frank's. For how long it was hard to say. Who I was following was hard to say.
Well, since I am retelling this to you now, it must be true that 1). we somehow got lodging for the night, 2). caught up with Frank, and 3). he did not fire us. And is was also true that the Hippy and I established some new rules for turn taking, driving and weed smoking in the van.
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2). "Gas! Everybody run"!
So in Silver Spring MD, we were at the point of demolition. We were redoing a part of a strip mall that was previously some kind of department store. We were tearing down interior walls, ceilings, shelves, fixtures and such and were about ready to start piling debris into a giant dumpster. Frank had gotten a small Bobcat excavator which was a perfect size to reach up and tear down pipes, wires, ceiling grid and various detritus. It was a Friday, and there wasn't much else on the job to do until the dumpster got there. So there's like a half dozen of us to entertain until Monday when the demo leg work starts. It's Friday afternoon, and we have a Bobcat. And a bunch of guys who'd love to play Tonka with a cute little excavator. Frank makes the executive decision: He sends me down to the Packy to get some cold swill, pick up some Marlboro 100's for the team, and we'll all take turns smashing shit up with the Bobcat, while the other guys take turns sipping their coldies. A wise decision. Now there are a few side notes I should mention at this point. 1). Maryland/ Virginia uses Natural Gas, and it is piped into public commercial uses like this strip mall. 2). Before any type of construction or demolition takes place, contractors must contact local municipal officers and gas providers. To make sure gas is shut off at the street connection. You know, because natural gas is, like very F******g explosive. 3). Frank had done this. I heard him on the phone. 4). Somebody, somewhere dropped the ball, and did not shut the gas off at the street. So we're all standing around with our Carlings Black Labels, watching Billdo take his turn on the Bobcat, tearing down some stuff up above the ceiling. He shuts it down for a break, and we all hear the sound: HSSSSSSSHHHHHH!!!
So in Silver Spring MD, we were at the point of demolition. We were redoing a part of a strip mall that was previously some kind of department store. We were tearing down interior walls, ceilings, shelves, fixtures and such and were about ready to start piling debris into a giant dumpster. Frank had gotten a small Bobcat excavator which was a perfect size to reach up and tear down pipes, wires, ceiling grid and various detritus. It was a Friday, and there wasn't much else on the job to do until the dumpster got there. So there's like a half dozen of us to entertain until Monday when the demo leg work starts. It's Friday afternoon, and we have a Bobcat. And a bunch of guys who'd love to play Tonka with a cute little excavator. Frank makes the executive decision: He sends me down to the Packy to get some cold swill, pick up some Marlboro 100's for the team, and we'll all take turns smashing shit up with the Bobcat, while the other guys take turns sipping their coldies. A wise decision. Now there are a few side notes I should mention at this point. 1). Maryland/ Virginia uses Natural Gas, and it is piped into public commercial uses like this strip mall. 2). Before any type of construction or demolition takes place, contractors must contact local municipal officers and gas providers. To make sure gas is shut off at the street connection. You know, because natural gas is, like very F******g explosive. 3). Frank had done this. I heard him on the phone. 4). Somebody, somewhere dropped the ball, and did not shut the gas off at the street. So we're all standing around with our Carlings Black Labels, watching Billdo take his turn on the Bobcat, tearing down some stuff up above the ceiling. He shuts it down for a break, and we all hear the sound: HSSSSSSSHHHHHH!!!
GAS!!!!!!!!!!
Billdo had busted the incoming gas supply for the street and highly explosive gas was filling up the building. A very nice little bomb in the making. I happened to know where the shut off from the street was and so did Frank. I ran that way, grabbing a pipe wrench, Frank running two steps behind me. The rest of the crew ran around in circles shouting ''GAS! GAS! GAS"! Actually one of them called 911 and notified the other stores in the mall. By the time I got to the back of the store and started shutting off the gas, the store area was filled with gas. As I turned the wrench, I quickly realized I was somehow turning it in the wrong direction, somehow pumping in MORE gas. Frank grabbed the wrench from me and quickly was able to shut the gas down. Just about that time the fire trucks all arrived. And the police. And the ambulances. Lucky for all of us they weren't needed. There was thankfully no explosion. And the funny thing was, as we were all there with that gas pouring down on us, I was the only one without a burning cigarette sticking out of their lip. So we didn't all die from explosion. AND neither did the rest of the mall patrons and staff, as they all stood out in the parking lot waiting for the green light from the EMT's. Were they appreciative that we possibly saved them? NO. Gee what soreheads.
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3). "Friendly neighborhood Spiderman".
Elmhurst Illinois
We got to stay at one of those Holi-Dome hotels I was telling you about earlier. Our rooms were on the 4th floor, with a nice sliding door leading to a porch/ balcony overlooking the inside recreation area. They had a pool down there, some nice fake trees, tables a bar, a little cafe, little tile walkways. All very scenic. Unfortunately on this night in particular the recreation area was closed for the night. As was the bar. Unfortunate. Because on this particular night some of the crew still craved adventure. Adventure that lay 4 stories below. The pool is what we sought. But how? I'm not sure who came up with the idea, but it was ingenious. The brick work on the interior walls had a certain lay out and texture that, if you were nimble enough, or just drunk enough, you might climb down the wall, sticking your fingers and toes in the crevices for traction. Yes, well we were just drunk enough. But were we nimb3le enough. I mean 4 stories. Right?!
Well, to make a long story short.
1). We did not die. 2). We had a nice, albeit short swim down there, until the hotel staff kicked us out and sent us back to our rooms. 3). They were not amused. 4). Frank was not amused. 5). We ahd more ice cold swill in the cooler.
"Can he swing, from a thread?
Take a look, up ahead"...
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4). "I got good news, I got bad news".
How to employ humor in the workplace.
So Frank had given me the choice assignment of being the ''beer go-for". It was my proud task, when Frank gave me the nod every afternoon, to jet out to the preordained package store, and come back with cold delicious swill as a reward for al the crew's hard work. This day I must have been distracted, because, as I left the parking spot, I accidentally turned too sharply as I backed out, and tore off the van's passenger side rear view mirror. Bad news for me to be sure. But I thought quickly. And I summoned up all that I had learned from Frank's tutelage so far. Sure he would be angry that I broke the mirror of the van. But I did return from my appointed task with appointed "cold swill". Mission accomplished. Yes? We would see. I took a chance and decided what would appeal to Frank was to see the humor in the situation, and say F*** it, at least the beer is here.
So I bust into the job where all the guys are waiting impatiently. I look at Frank, look at the guys, look down at my right hand, with the broken mirror, and at my left hand, with the cold beers, and declare:
"Well. I've got some good news and some bad news"!
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5). ''Everybody Tighten Up".
(Frank's admonition to us when things on the job were getting too uptight. After which, on cue, we would clench our butt cheeks, crouch down and strut around in circles, like little monkey robots. This used to amuse the hell out of the suits from the head office in Boston.)
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Chingon!
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