Everything Is Wrong with Me (21 page)

Getting ready to hit the town.

I left my home in New York to return to Philly for a few days of hanging out, binge drinking, and overeating. I had a great time, too, finally free from the book and another step closer to being a real writer. Joy. But after a few days, I had to return to New York. Whenever I’m in Philly, my dad always drives me to Thirtieth Street station, the main train station in Philadelphia, from where I take a train back up to NYC. Over the years this has developed into sort of a tradition. There are no great good-byes or pearls of wisdom or anything like that, just two guys driving in a truck, having a normal conversation. This most recent trip was no exception.

“So, done with the book, huh?” my dad asked.

“Yeah, all done. Thank God.”

“That must feel good, to be done with all that work.”

“Tell me about it.”

About six full seconds of silence passed before my dad spoke again, saying offhandedly, “Oh—did I ever tell you about the time I got arrested for attempted murder?”

Um, what?

“Um, what?”

“Did I ever tell you about the time I got arrested for attempted murder?”

Hours of interviews, hundreds of questions, weeks and months of preparing and writing the book…no, I don’t think he told me that he was arrested for attempted murder. “No, I think I would have remembered that.”

“Oh, Jas,” he chuckled, “that’s a good one.”

On the car ride to the train station, two weeks before my manuscript was due,
after
I had already handed it in, my dad told me about the time he was arrested for attempted murder.

So much for my investigative journalism.

Just before midnight on December 23, 1979, my dad left for work. He was working the midnight-to-eight shift that night on Pier 80, a large port on the Delaware River. While it was not an ideal shift for a new dad whose wife and young son were home alone so close to Christmas, a container ship had come in and needed to be unloaded. He got a call from the boss of his “gang,” the term used to describe groups of longshoremen who worked together, and was asked to come in. So he didn’t have much of a choice. Besides, union rules stipulated that December 24 was a holiday, which meant time-and-a-half pay. This overtime was much needed to offset some of the costs of raising a newborn, as well as the cost of the additional alcohol consumption that came with raising a newborn.
*

Ships come from all over the world to the port of the Delaware River, which divides Pennsylvania and New Jersey. As a child, I’d be thrilled whenever my dad came home with coins from Europe, South America, even Africa that he had gotten from visiting ships. This Christmas Eve ship came from China, and its cargo was giant containers filled with miscellaneous electronic devices: transistor radios, televisions, and the like. My dad’s job was to roam the deck of the ship unlatching these containers, which had been tied down during transport so that they wouldn’t shift as the ship traveled. Once they were unlatched, a giant crane would come down and lift the containers from the ship, placing them on the pier. They would be moved via forklift into storage and eventually be transported across the country.

My dad was working that night with a guy from the neighborhood, Billy Reynolds. Billy was a good guy, but a lunatic, always fighting, drinking, and getting into trouble. But of the three, fighting was his favorite, even though he was only five feet seven and about 160 pounds with a ten-pound sack in his hand.
*
But Billy, despite his reputation, was a good worker. Crazy guys are fun to be around—you never know when you’re going to turn around to see them hanging off the side of a ship or taking a shit in the middle of the deck. The work can be boring, so a guy like Billy would spice it up by occasionally doing something stupid. And tough guys were ideal to work with. It’s cold on the ship and the work is physical. The last thing you want is someone up there with you complaining and lagging behind. After all, once the cargo was properly unlatched, you could go home.

Or or or
—if you finished early, you could hang around, still on the clock, soaking up that time-and-a-half pay (I mean, isn’t this what being in a union is all about?), which is what my father and Billy decided to do on this night. They figured the job would take a full eight hours, so when they finished around 6:30
A.M.
, they decided to celebrate. And what better way to celebrate a job well done and Christmas Eve than with a drink?

Drinking on the job was not uncommon. You had your closet (or not-so-closet) alcoholics that would pack cases of beer in the trunks of their cars, retreating to the parking lot during downtime, of which there could be a lot. There was also a number of guys who would pack flasks and weren’t afraid to bandy them about while working. As I said, “working longshore” is hard, unforgiving work. Sometimes one needed a pick-me-up. Sometimes one needed fifteen pick-me-ups. But now is not the time for judging.

My dad’s and Billy’s cocktail of choice on that Christmas Eve morning was something called a “shake-up,” the main ingredient of which was grain alcohol. Though grain alcohol, which is 95 percent pure alcohol or 190 proof, was technically illegal, it was available.
*
More important, it was very, very efficient. A few sips of it and you didn’t think about that cold December wind at all. The problem was that you didn’t think about moving out of the way of the thousand-pound crane hook descending on you, either. The grain alcohol was too potent to be drunk straight, so it was often mixed with anything available to cut it—water, juice, soda—and shaken up, hence the “shake-up.” This morning, orange juice was the mixer.

Whether my dad’s original intention was only to have a few with Billy and then to head home at the end of the shift at eight is unknown. That’s the beauty of alcohol, really, something that I have learned as well: each drink deepens the mystery and more dramatically alters the course of the day, the evening, or the night more than the previous one. In my mind I can see my dad and Billy, sitting in the small mechanics’ shop, cluttered with tools and covered with grease, just off the pier on that morning, deciding to have one drink to help shake off the cold. A second would be poured because hey—it’s Christmas Eve! A third because, well, why not? And a fourth would come just before clocking out, the proverbial “last one.” But by that last one, my dad and Billy were feeling too good to end it there, so they left Pier 80 and drove into the neighborhood for a few more.

Billy’s aunt and uncle owned a bar called Stevie & Karen’s on the corner of Fourth and Moore streets. This was still technically in the neighborhood, but it was a bit on the outskirts, which means that the streets surrounding the bar were not the safest around. Because everything was so segregated—Irish here, Italians here, blacks here—when you stepped out of your element it was not unthinkable that you might run into some trouble. But this was of no concern to my dad and Billy on that Christmas Eve morning. When they arrived at the bar, hours before it was to open, they ascended the stairs on the side of the building leading to the apartment above where Billy’s aunt and uncle lived. Billy turned on the charm and his uncle agreed to open the bar early so that he and my dad could have a few drinks and play some darts.

Meanwhile, back at home, my mother had no idea that my father was at a bar. It wasn’t unusual for him to work late, so she wasn’t bothered when he didn’t get back after eight like he said he would. Besides, she was happy. Thrilled, even. She had her baby’s first Christmas and had taken great pains to make it perfect. The gifts had all been wrapped, the Christmas tree decorated, and the stockings, which now read “Daddy” and “Mommy” instead of “Dennis” and “Kathy,” along with a little one for “Jason,” were hanging from the railing of the stairs. So even if Denny wanted to have a drink, let him have one. It
was
Christmas Eve and he
did
just work a bad shift, after all. It would take quite a lot to ruin this day for my mom.

Shortly after noon, the bar’s regular opening time, business began to pick up. The regulars started filing in, a mix of retirees, loners, and alcoholics of all ages, as well as regulars guys looking to escape the holiday hubbub in their households. The mood, befitting the holiday spirit, was light and relaxed. While the world outside rushed to finish shopping or make preparations for a Christmas feast, time stood still inside the bar on Fourth and Moore.

It is my contention that in every drinking session, there are three critical points, three times during the session in which the drinker has a choice. If he chooses correctly, he will not tie on a load and instead will return home on his own volition safely and soberly. On the other hand, if he chooses incorrectly, he will probably have to be carried home by a bunch of guys he doesn’t know who have most likely taken the liberty of relieving him of his wallet. In everyone’s case, including my dad’s on that Christmas Eve, the first critical point comes with the second drink. It’s perfectly okay to have one drink, but when the second is offered and accepted, it begins a slippery slide toward a long night. Say no to that second drink and everyone walks away a winner. Say yes and your chance of doing something stupid or of something bad happening increases fivefold. When my dad agreed to have that second shake-up with Billy at work, Trouble wasn’t exactly on his doorstep, but he was certainly up and awake and about to get in the shower.

The second critical point of my dad’s day came when Billy suggested they go to his uncle’s bar. Had he said no, my dad could have returned home with a nice buzz, but not too drunk to enjoy the rest of the day and spend it productively. Instead he accepted this invitation, and Trouble started the car and went out cruising. By the time of the third critical point of the drinking session they had already been in a bar for five hours. Billy suggested that instead of going out to grab lunch, they order in sandwiches. Welcome to Critical Point 3. To the casual drinker, Billy’s offer might seem inconsequential. But to the experienced boozer like my father, this was key point in the day and the rest of the story. When Billy asked my father about having some sandwiches delivered, he more or less meant, “Look, you and I both know we’re not leaving here anytime soon. Why don’t we just have people bring us food so we can continue getting fucked up?” My father accepted. At that moment, Trouble saw Stevie & Karen’s, thought it looked like a nice spot for a beer, and parked his car.

Cut to: At home, my mom was busy readying herself for Christmas Eve when the phone rang. It was my dad, asking if everything was all right, telling her that he was out but would be home soon. Annoyed but allayed, she carried on with her preparations. Trouble ordered a Bud, please.

Throughout the course of the day, my dad and Billy had made friends with many of the guys at the bar, and the whole afternoon turned into a chimerical montage of drinking, playing pool, laughing, drinking, playing darts, doing shots, and laughing. Neither Billy nor my dad had any concept of time until the six o’clock news came on, which meant dinnertime. With their heads swimming in booze, Billy and my dad got their things together to leave. They wore heavy clothes to work in order to brave the cold temperatures, thick Carhartt coveralls on top of their regular work clothes, which were layered upon long johns. They slowly, unsteadily climbed back into the heavy coveralls, which they had taken off when they first came into the bar. Finally suited up, they said their good-byes and headed outside.

It was now dark out. Snow covered the ground from a small storm just a day or two before. At the door of the bar, my dad and Billy shook hands and wished each other a Merry Christmas; it was the end of a hard shift and a fine day of drinking, and now it was time to return to family. Work, drink, family: the holy trinity of the Irish Catholic, on the eve of the birth of Jesus Christ, no less.

As Billy turned away from my dad to head toward his car, he was blindsided—smacked in the face with a snowball, a direct hit. Hearing the thud of the snowball against Billy’s head, my dad turned to see Billy stutter-step, gain his composure, and wipe the snow from his face, and take off running in the direction from which it came.

Second Street and the neighborhoods around it are very territorial. If you’re white, you’re not welcomed in the black neighborhood, and vice versa. This is not strictly a black-white issue and extends across all races and ethnicities—it would not be wise for an Irish kid to go walking around in the Italian neighborhood at night. This snowball was a “fuck you” to the white guys in the predominantly black neighborhood. Billy Reynolds, however, was not the guy to say “fuck you” to.

Billy and my dad gave chase. There ran after three guys, black kids maybe nineteen or twenty, just a few years younger than themselves. They followed them up Moore Street, heading toward Fifth Street. The kids made a right onto Fifth, and when my dad and Billy did the same, they saw that they were in for some trouble. A dozen black kids were standing on a stoop about halfway down the block.