DILLDOCKS

January 1948 - Two Lucifers Tossed Out of Heaven

“The floor caved in. He went down up to his waist,” I said, through my fingers, to a man passing by, from the restroom. He looked as startled as I was, at the sound of the crash.

He said, “You better tell the bartender.” Giving me the fisheye and striding quickly away.

I ran up front to get the bartender Al, and tell him the floor gave way.

Al said, “The floor gave way?” He looked puzzled by that news.

I said, “Yes. My uncle went down … all the way up to his waist.”

He said, “Nah. That can’t be, Miss. Let’s have a look.”

He came out from behind the bar, and we walked back to where the booths were. He studied the problem, from above and below the table, and said, “That’s Pete under there. He’s you uncle? You can’t tell he’s got a load on?”

I said, “What do you mean? Look at him. He’s sunk right down through the floor.” I knew what I saw. Uncle Pete’s arm was sticking up like a periscope, above the table. The rest of him was down the basement.

The bartender, Al said, “What’d he do? Get up real sudden?”

I said, “Yes.”

He said, “Then down? Like the hammers a hell?”

I said, “Yes.”

He said, “It ain’t nothin’. He’s just got a load on.”

Some barfly came nosing around and said, “What is it? The floor give out?”

Al said, “Nah. The floor’s fine. It’s got lolly-col’yums under it an all. The problem is Pete. He’s half in the bag.”

The barfly said, “Wedged under the table again, huh?”

I said, softly, “His legs are in the basement. I know it.” No one paid attention.

Al said, “He’s aw’right till he stands. Then Bang! Down he goes.”

The barfly said, “Take his pulse. It gotta be 72.”

Al said, hopefully “It is 72. He’s OK.” He looked pre-occupied. Studying the dilemma before him. He mumbled, “Two hundred forty pounds a dead weight. It’s a tough one.”

The barfly, hanging in there, said, “I got a hydraulic jack in the truck. Want I should get it?”

“Nah,” said the bartender, stooping down for a better look. “Y’can’t get no purchase in there. No room.”

A second barfly came out of nowhere and offered, “Call the fire department. Like y’done last time.”

The first barfly got back in it. “Yeah. Get Big Mike. The boys will dig him out. It ain’t hard, you got the right equipment.”

I protested, “You got to go in the basement and push him up. He’s right through.”

The bartender put his hand on my back and moved me closer to the disaster site. He shone his flashlight into the dimness and began explaining the situation to me. “Look here, Miss. That table leg there. See that? It’s what you call cast iron. Lagged into the floor joists. Now take a gander at Uncle Pete. See how his legs are all folded up between the bench and the table leg? And them shoulders of his. He’s in there, tight as a tick.”

He shook his head at the hopelessness of the situation, avoiding my eyes.

God, I was so humiliated. The men in my life. Un-believeable. You’re never safe with any of them. They’re all such dilldocks.

There was a whole nest of barflies around us now, each one dumber than the next.

“You ought to put a eyebolt up there in the ceiling there,” recommended one short, feisty fellow.

Al took offense, “I don’t want no eyebolt in the ceiling.”

The feisty guy kept jabbing. “We could get’m the hell out with a block’n tackle, if there was an eyebolt up there in the ceiling we could hook up to.” He was rushing this hot idea. You could see it in his flushed face.

“Nah.” All squelched it. “How in hell I know what booth he’ll sit in? I’d have to put a friggin eyebolt over each on of these six booths here. Easier to call the fire department.”

One of the barflies already did it. In a very authoritative voice and knowing manner he announced, “McKay and the boys be right over. They’re on the way back, right now. I found this out they had a four alarmer. They be here inside a two hours, what I was told.”

That news caused everybody to drift away.

I settled into the booth across from Uncle Pete’s rigid, up-stretched arm and limp hand. That’s all I could see of him. He was a sunken pile under the table. People came and went past our booth and everyone took a long, hard look.

I felt so ridiculous.

After awhile, Uncle Pete began to snore. I could’ve died of shame. And I couldn’t think of anyone I could call to help. Poppa would rather see Uncle Pete, his own brother, die under the table, than help him out. I couldn’t call my ex-beau, Dick. Not after he nearly got me gang-banged. And that freezing cold swim I had to take. Not him. Flat Top could probably help, but he had no phone on that godawful barge he lives in. The only one left is Brother. He might just do in a pinch.

The bartender, Al, came back to see I wanted to use the bar phone. I said I wanted to call my brother. He worked over at the Esso station. Over at the Camp.

I asked did he know the number.

He said, “Yeah. We got the number.” He grabbed a business card pinned to a bulletin board. The Esso phone number was printed on it.

I scrunched over in the far corner of the bar and dialed. I figured Brother would answer because he’s just the kid there and the kid does all the dirty work, including answering the phone.

“Hal’loo. Esso.”

“Brother?” I never heard him answer a phone before.

“That you, Melissa/”

“Yes,” I whispered. The barflies all fell to silent listening.

Brother said, “What’s up?”

“I’m over at Verities-By-the Sea.”

“Verities? Sounds like a joint Uncle Pete would hang out. What’re you doin’ there?”

“I’m with Uncle Pete.”

“You’re with Pete?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He took me out to dinner.”

“Oh.”

I said, “We came over here for the turkey dinner. Every Thursday, they serve this roast turkey and turnips. And it was pretty good, after eating pot roast and red cabbage all week. Pete cooks for a week at a time. Same meal every night for a week.” I was rambling because of my nerves.

Brother said, “Melissa. What the hell is going on?”

“He went through the floor.”

“Who?”

“Uncle Pete, for God’s sake. Not through the floor, really. But he’s stuck under the table. It’s practically the same thing.”

He said, “I got three more grease jobs to do. What’re you—”

I said, “Help me. I’m so nervous. The firemen are coming.”

He said, “Firemen?”

I said, “Yes. To get Pete out. But when they get him out, I don’t know what to do. I got to get him home, somehow.”

He said, “He’s half bagged, huh?”

I said, “That’s what they’re all saying here. He was drinking those boiler-makers. And three pitchers of beer.”

He said, “He can’t move?”

I said, “No. And you know how big he is. The bartender wouldn’t even try. Now he’s snoring under the table, for crying out loud. It’s so embarrassing.”

“OK, three more grease jobs, then I’ll try to get over.”

I said, “Bring a truck or something.”

He said, “I’ll try’n get Eddie’s flatbed. I ain’t got my license yet. But I think he’ll probably let me for Pete. Him and Eddie are tight. They just went deer hunting last month. Up the Catskills.”

The thought of Uncle Pete, in the still woods, with a deer rifle, was something I couldn’t get a handle on. I’m just so nervous, lately. After that thing with Dick.

“Brother. Try’n hurry. I have nobody to help me.”

“What about that guy Dick? Hake, or something like that.”

I said, “What about him?”

He said, “Thought you was livin’ with him.”

I said, “I was. But something happened.”

He said, “Where are you livin’ then?”

I said, “Uncle Pete’s place. It’s temporary. Till I can figure things.”

He said, “Joey and Carmine said you was bein’ a artist model.”

“Those two? How’d they know that?”

"He said, “I don’t know. Mom and Pop never tell me anything. But they whisper a lot.”

“Me too,” I whispered.

He said, “So … are you?”

I said, “What?”

He said, “Bein’ a artist model.”

“Yes.”

He said, “So this guy Dick Hake is an artist? I thought he was a gangster. Ran the Camp Club shenanigans.”

I said, “He does. But he also carves up soap bars. He made little, miniature statuettes of me.”

“Out of soap bars?”

I said, “Yes. He makes little, theatrical displays. Of me. Naked. Sitting in the woods with little animals. He’s very good at it.”

He said, “Gees. He don’t leave’em out in the rain, does he?”

I said, “Of course not. They’re very cute, and he polishes the soap as smooth as my —”

He said, “Melissa. I gotta get back to work. I’ll be over forty five minutes to an hour. I’ll bring a dolly, too.”

The firemen got there sooner than expected. Almost right after I hung up the phone. They didn’t have any special equipment that I could see, except for their black raincoats with yellow piping, or whatever it’s called; hard looking hats and clomping boots.

They marched in like giants, from another planet, their faces all sooty and sweaty, even though it was freezing outside.

They all grinned when they saw Uncle Pete’s predicament.

“Yo Pete. You ol’ booze hound, you.”

“Your Momma shoulda made you smaller. You wouldn’t alla time be gettin’ stuck.”

They kept making these wisecracks, till I asked politely when they planned on getting him out of there.

And there special techniques weren’t much to write home about. Two of them got up on the bench, reached under Uncle Pete’s armpits, said “shit,” groaned mightily - and Uncle Pete rose to a sitting position between them.

LT McKay took a quick look and made a diagnosis. “Jesus H. Christ! Get that butt out of his mouth. Didn’t anybody see that butt? We could’ve had a fire here.”

One of the giant firemen tried to remove the smoking cigarette. He said, “It’s stuck right to his lips. Amazing man. Even comatose conditions cannot stop this man from a relaxing smoke.”

Lt. McKay weighed in. “You see that sometimes. On a roaster. Butt paper stuck to their lips. Mattress all burned to hell. Crisp on the outside. Juicy on the inside.”

Then, they all looked at me. What’d I do.

I said, “I forgot he was smoking. I seen smoke rising, but I didn’t make the connection. I was so nervous.” But they weren’t listening.

McKay’s voice boomed. “Hey Al! Glass of water. On the double.”

The water arrived and was sloshed on the butt, freeing it up and putting it out.

McKay said, “Look-it that. Eighth of an inch away from third-degree lip burns.”

Then he turned to me. “You gotta watch him in bed, Miss.”

A smaller firemen standing there with a pike said, “I never seen a guy get away with so much.”

McKay said, sagely, “Pete never worries about nothin’. When you worry, you get tensed up. That’s when you get hurt.”

The smaller fireman couldn’t agree more. He said, “Never seen Pete tense up. Never. Man could sleep inside a hedge row standing up in the freezing cold. Or wash up on the shore, drunk as a skunk, two AM of a summer morn. Sleep right there on the tide line. Loose as a goose.”

McKay said, “Alright, let’s get’m the hell outa here. I wanna chow down and shower up.” He shot a sly smile at his men.

The three firemen hoisted Uncle Pete by legs and armpits and deposited him behind the bar, flat on his back and very much in the way of the bar tender.

Al the bar tender came to life. “Not there for Christ sake. I’ll take a flop over’m.”

“Where the hell you want’m then?”

Al said, “Over by the door. Use your head. He’s going out. He ain’t renting floor space.”

McKay grinned and nodded to the smaller fireman who started to vigorously threaten the bartender’s crotch with the hooked pike. Poor Al was driven backwards till he flopped across Uncle Pete who was now snoring, as if trying to swallow his tongue. Al was not amused, insisting the body be moved near the door. And it was done.

McKay said, “Well, young lady, here he is. What’s your plan?”

I said my brother was coming over with a dolly and a flatbed truck. McKay approved, but said it might be tough to get the load onto the dolly and down the three steps at the bar entrance.

He said, “You want, we could shore him up.”

I said I guess and nodded.

McKay shouted at the bartender, “He Al, you got any three by twelves around.”

Al, recovering from the evening’s events said, “Outback. The mason’s scaffolding’s still there, I think.

The firemen went out back and returned with three heavy planks and a large square block of wood. They set one end of the planks on the block and formed a ramp. One-two-three and Uncle Pete was head-down, on the ramp.

McKay said, “We’re gonna leave’m head down, sweetheart. Get the blood running to his head. Bring’m back to the land of the living.”

The smaller, lively fireman squatted down alongside Pete. “Yo Pete. Time for school. Rise and shine, big guy.” He slapped Pete’s face several times and got no response. He concluded, “The man’s ossified.”

McKay laughed then bent down a bit to talk to me, in a fatherly way. “When’s your brother coming over, sweetheart?”

I said, “He should be here in an hour or so.”

McKay said, “Is he like a … mechanically inclined?”

I said, “He’s learning to be a mechanic.”

McKay said, “OK good. Here’s what you gotta do. Slide the dolly under the plank, then kick out the block.” He glanced at my feet. My painted toe nails were sticking out of my open toe heels. He said, “Let your brother kick out the block. That puts Pete on wheels. We got some three by twelves on the steps out front. Let’m rip down the planks. Once he’s outside, you gotta figure a way to hoist’m onto the flatbed. Your brother can figure it out. Maybe there’s a recovery winch on the truck.”

“OK,” I said, trying to memorize this plan of action.

McKay said, “We gotta go, sweetheart. Good luck.” He started talking with his men about chicken and dumplings they had cooking back at the firehouse. I got more and more nervous. I’m not usually the nervous type, but after the business with Dick, something went wrong, in the back of my head. My nerves are shot.

Not long after, Brother arrived in greasy coveralls and knit cap pulled down over his ears. He chuckled when he saw how Uncle Pete was rigged.

“This ain’t so bad,” he said. “They chocked him up nice. I got the deuce’n’half with a hydraulic winch. Twenty four gallon per minute pump,” he said, excitedly. “You could load a dinosaur with that rig. Piece a cake.”

Brother got to work and without any assistance from me, loaded Uncle Pete onto the flatbed truck. I was amazed. I didn’t know my younger brother was that competent. No other man in the family could’ve done that.

“He’ll freeze,” I said, pulling my coat tight, the wind off the water whipping me.

“Nah. I got these quilts. We’ll tuck him in and lash’m down good.” He said it, then he did it. I was so relieved.

Brother looked very pleased with himself. I gave him a kiss and he blushed.

I said, “Want some coffee? I’ll make some coffee,” my mouth lousy from cigarettes. I checked my tongue in the mirror. All coated white. Disgusting.

When I came back with the coffee, Brother was inspecting Uncle Pete’s knick knack shelf. I came up and stood alongside him. There was a framed photo of Pete and me, taken down at the Battery, by some passing stranger. Of all the silly things, I was wearing a riding outfit, jodhpurs, riding boots, cap and all - and carrying a little jockey’s whip. Uncle Pete looked half-bagged, his fedora pushed back on his head, a butt dangling from the corner of his smiling face. He had his arm around me and looked like a lovable grisly bear, about to eat me up.

I said for about the ninth time, “You did such a nice job, Brother.”

He said, “You gotta go one stop at a time. Never rush. That’s the thing of it with mechanical stuff,” he said, obviously proud he had pleased his older sister.

I said, “Sit down. Have your coffee.”

He said, “Pete keeps a nice place, don’t he.” Brother slumped into his chair and looked, for the first time, weary.

I said, “Yes. He’s a very neat house keeper, for a bachelor.”

We sat in silence for awhile, sipping coffee, our minds off on our own. The wind was howling across the bay, shuddering its way through the congestion of The Camp’s five hundred bungalows. You could feel the little house give from the pressure and smell the fresh air seeping through cracks and under door sills.

Brother looked at me, a puzzled expression on his face. “So what’s with you and this guy Dick Hake, then?”

“Oh Brother, I was so crazy about him.”

“He’s pretty old and all, isn’t he?”

I said, “He’s only thirty eight.”

Brother came alive. “Thirty eight! Jesus. He’s more than twice as old as -” He stopped and took a sip of his coffee.

I said, “I know, It doesn’t really matter. When you get past a certain age, everybody’s the same.”

“I don’t know, Melissa. That’s pretty old. Joey and Carmine-”

I interrupted, “It’s not old. He’s a very … passionate man. He fed me such a sweet poison.”

Brother alert again. “Poison! … Oh …”. He blushed again, looked confused and tried hiding behind his coffee cup.

I said, “I hate to trouble you with my problems.” But actually I was enjoying his interest in my problems. No one else was.

He said, “It’s OK.” But I knew anything too personal made him uneasy.

I said, “I’ve been so nervous lately, you know?’

“Mm,” said Brother. He put his cup down and began reaming punk from under his fingernails, with a thick thumbnail.

He said, without looking directly at me, “Why don’t you just come back home with Mom, Pop and me?”

“Oh Brother, I can’t. I was suffocating there. Momma practically had a stroke every time I went on a date. She had monsignor up the house, to hear my confession, right in living room, for God’s sake.”

He said, “I know. That wasn’t right. Momma worries cause you’re so-” he picked up his cup for another sip, but you could see there was nothing left in the cup. He drank anyway.

“So … what?” I wanted to know.

He said, “Carmine and Joey say you’re a good looker. Joey said if you’re ever baby sitting again, over at Maureen’s, let him know. Those two guys are crazy about you, Melissa.”

“They’re boys.”

“They’re the same age as you,” he said, as if I had questioned their manhood.

I said., “Yes, but I got old this past year. Dick did it to me.”

He said, “Did what?” He looked up quickly, expecting the worst.

I said, “Made me feel older, for God’s sake. Until that thing happened up on stage.”

He said, “What did he do to you, anyway?”

I said, “It’s too embarrassing … He just left me up there. The lights came on. With all those goons watching. I haven’t seen him since. I’m crazy about him. And hate him at the same time. Know what I mean?”

He said, “Not really ... Just come home, Melissa.” He flicked away a ball of grime that he fished out of his fingernails. He looked around the room. “You can’t live here with Pete. You know Pop don’t like Pete. The place don’t even have a bathtub, for Christ sake.”

I said, “Uncle Pete’s always been nice to me. He buys me shoes. If I didn’t have Uncle Pete, I’d have hardly a pair of shoes to wear.”

“It ain’t the shoes that makes Poppa mad, Melissa.”

I said, I know. But he’s such a sweetheart. Treats me like a queen. I’m just staying here till I figure out my next move.”

He said, I … I don’t think he should be buying underpants for you.” He sort of blurted this out, then looked away in shame. How the hell did he know that? I didn’t ask because, I didn’t want to know.

I said, “There’s nothing bad about Uncle Pete. He likes to take me to those classy, little shops, on the east side. And buy me lingerie. Nobody else buys me anything.”

He said, “It ain’t right,” he said grumpily, squirming around in his seat.

I said, “Oh Brother. I don’t know what’s right or wrong anymore. It’s like falling through the damn floor. Once you fall, there’s no right or wrong anymore. And you can’t get back up. You really can’t.”

He said, “I don’t believe that. There’s plenty of right and wrong. It ain’t hard to tell. Look how nervous you are, for Christ sake. You been smoking like a chimney all night. Your hands shake. Your face looks like hell. It ain’t hard to tell right from wrong.”

He wouldn’t look at me.

I said, “Are you ashamed of me, Brother?”

He said, “I ain’t ashamed of you. You’re the only person in the family I can talk to. So I’m talking. Come on home Melissa … I miss you.” His voice wavered, and he put a thumb up to the corner of an eye and blinked a few times.

Uncle Pete stirred, in the bed behind me. I turned to look so Brother wouldn’t see the tears running down my cheeks. The coal stove had a nice, peaceful orange glow. There was a broad, frost stain, on the wallpaper, under the window.

Uncle Pete was reaching for a pack of Luckies, on the window sill. He shuffled a cigarette out of the pack and pinched the end in his lips. His eyes were little, red slits, deformed by chronic sties. He started to strike a match.

I said, “Uncle Pete, for God’s sakes.” I jumped out of my chair and snatched matches and cigarette away.

Pete worked his dry mouth and said a sleepy, “See so …”. He smoothed the air in front of him with one hand, as if stilling troubled waters. “Quiet,” he said, quietly, rested his head back on the pillow and resumed his guttural snoring.

I turned toward Brother. “I have to stay here. At least for the night. He could burn himself up.”

Brother said, “He don’t need no match. He’ll go up by spontaneous combustion. Like a barrel full of gasoline rags. Come on with me, Melissa. I’ll drop you off home. I got to get the flatbed, back to the garage.”

“I can’t Brother. Not tonight.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, resigned to my thick-headedness. “Can I least tell Joey and Carmine, you said hello?”

I said, “Yeah. Tell them I said hello.”

Old man asleep with cigarette in mouth with young seated woman watching him

I sat awhile at Uncle Pete’s bedside. Listening to the wind howl over the bay, the water frosted with white caps. The coal stove comforting. It could warm up a morgue. So peaceful Pete sleeps. All orange in the stove’s glow. We’re a pair of fallen angels. Lucifers. Tossed out of Heaven.

The bungalow has an L-shaped living room, one part of which holds Pete’s bed and stove. Across from his cot is my bedroom. With its door that sticks and will not close tight, no matter how hard you kick it. The rear of the bungalow holds the tiny kitchen and a bathroom with toilet and all-purpose galvanized washtub. A very simple design that was once the floor plan of an army surplus tent.

At the waterfront end, there is an enclosed porch, not used in winter. It’s windows decorated by Jack Frost.

I pushed open the door to the porch and stepped into its coldness. On a whicker chair lay the tattered remains of my black evening dress. One week old. But stiff with frozen saltwater and its sour, sea smell. I picked it up and something dropped to the floor and bounced merrily. A single, gleaming pearl. Must’ve been trapped in the hem. I picked it up and felt its smoothness. How luminescent it was. A ruined evening dress and one little pearl that escaped from its choker.

What have I done?