As I've mentioned here a few times, my dad was a longshoreman on the Brooklyn waterfront. His dad (my grandpa) was a longshoreman, too. It was sort of a family business for a while. I remember sitting in the backseat of dad's car, along with my little brother the longshoreman's hook (the basic tool of a dockworker) and dad's work shoes. The shoes had 'that look'.You may have heard stories of corruption, crime and major mafia involvement down 'at the docks' as depicted in the image to the right. Alot of those stories may well have been true but there was another side to life on the piers.
Up until the last few decades, the men who worked down at the docks were un-complicated guys with limited education - partial high school at best - maybe some trade school like my dad. They were trying to provide for families through a tough period of time in our country's history - the Great Depression. But, at this point in time, a longshoreman was only an occupation, not a steady job. They never knew when they were going to be able to work. They would get up hours before dawn, drag their butts down to the 'hiring hall' and "shape", which meant they all tried to physically position themselves in a spot near the 'dock boss' who pointed at random individuals in the crowd and said, "You, you, you, you and you. You're working today. I got no other jobs today, boys. Good luck ta yuz." But it wasn't always random. It helped if you knew somebody.
If you were lucky enough to be hired for the day you had a solid 12 hours of backbreaking labor to look forward to. Tasks like; carrying 200 pound bags of coffee (or an unlimited supply of any other imported commodity) on your back, for hours at a time. Later on, with the introduction of the International Longshoremans Association, the situation got better but not much.
It must have been a vision of desolation; always gray, always dreary, always hard labor. But once in a while something exciting happened.
Dad walked in the door after work one day, and held out his two hands closed with the back sides facing up. "Which hand is it?" he'd ask with that grin on his face. This was one of dad's favorite things, building excitement in his kid then watching the reaction of glee that followed the revelation of the surprise. I picked one, he turned it over and opened it up. Inside was a bright red Superball - those extra bouncy balls first manufactured by Wham-O in the 1960s. As most kids my age, I loved Superballs. When you threw them down, they bounced forever. What's not to like? When my dad opened his other hand it also contained a Superball. Then he began emptying his coat pockets onto the kitchen table and they were filled with Superballs! What had happened was that a crate filled with Superballs had fallen from a crane about 50 feet in the air. When it hit the pier the crate exploded, sending tens of thousands of Superballs flying in all directions. Picture what this must have looked like. It must have been quite a diversion from the normally mundane tasks involved with being a longshoreman.
But the event that must have stuck in dad's memory more than any other was the day one of the guys fell into 'the drink'. Dad said it all happened very quickly, so I'll tell it the same way.
A group of men were up on the deck of the ship, steadying the ropes on a pallet being pulled out of the hold, by a crane. Suddenly, a stray boom arm came around and caught one of the guys in the face, sending him off the side of the ship into the cold waters of the East River. My dad, who, as I've mentioned here before, had won awards for swimming and fancy diving, immediately removed his wallet from his back pocket, handed it to one of the guys standing next to him (we'll call him "Archie") and dove into the river. A few seconds later both heads appeared on the surface. A few minutes later and both the rescuer and rescuee were wrapped in blankets on the dock, sitting beside a fire burning in a 50 gallon drum.
Swarms of longshoreman passed around dad and the guy he rescued, whacking them on the back and offering words of respect and admiration. After they'd dried out a bit, dad remembered that right before he dove in, he'd given his wallet to Archie. The problem was that Archie was now nowhere to be seen. One of the dock bosses saw dad looking through the crowd frantically, and came over to ask him what was up. Dad told him. The dock boss simply grunted and walked away. Dad came home and told us the whole story, with a measure of humble pride, but I could tell that he was disillusioned (not to mention pissed off) at the loss of his wallet.
The next morning, dad showed up at the hiring hall and was immediately given work. In fact, from this day forward, if dad wanted work, he got it. When he got to his spot on the pier, the same dock boss, who dad had spoken with about his wallet, came by and said, "Campbell, I got something for you," and handed dad his wallet. Dad opened it up and saw that it was filled with money; more money than had been in it when he'd passed it to Archie. When he asked how the dock boss came up with the wallet, the dock boss shrugged and gestured at two 'gentlemen' dressed in dark suits and fedoras standing on the other side of the pier. The two gentlemen silently nodded back.
The dock boss looked at dad and said, "I guess we won't see Archie no more."
