Category: A Very Short Story

From the Short Story Vault

Fair Winds and a Following Sea…3

…During the annual fair the concession did a thriving business in charcoal broiled hamburgers: hamburgers topped with cheese, with bacon, with bacon and cheese, fried onions, relish, mustard, pickles, ketchup, mayo, well… all of the major food groups of the day combined in a huge, messy calorically rich, artery busting snack.  In fact their burgers were so well known across the fairgrounds that the working stiffs, old and young, migrated to this place everyday either at lunch, dinner or just before closing time of the fairgrounds itself to get their daily fix.  They sold so many burgers that a ranch out west had a herd of cattle on standby just for this fast food joint. They sold hundreds of these burgers daily. How did they do it? How were they able to keep up considering it does take some time to cook one of these delicacies properly so as to ward off those nasty gastro-intestinal loving critters?

It was easy as I found out. The owners had this wagon stored in the storage shed beside the concession.  The wagon could hold about six of the two gallon type stainless steel kettles, two abreast: narrow at the bottom, bulging wide in the mid section then open to the air at the top, with a thin steel handle bar fastened at each side near the top rim.  Every day about 2 hours before lunch it was my job to take that wagon and the kettles over to the sports stadium, up the ramps into the concourse of the stadium itself.  This was a stealth operation you see for I could not make it be known to the public that I was connected to a food processing establishment while on this particular mission hence off came my white apron and hat while in transit from the concession booth to the stadium’s concourse.

Inside the concourse one could not fathom that anything was amiss, or open. All of the vertically oriented and aluminum sliding shutters were shuttered shut.  Silence, nobody there it would appear at first glance. Then, almost subliminally, the odour of a deep fryer operation wafted the senses. It became overpowering as I walked along the concourse, pulling my wagon, as if a hundred deep fryers were at work simultaneously. An exaggeration perhaps but the smell of gazillion French fries could be overwhelming to the senses.  But this wasn’t about French fries frying. This smell was sweeter, pungent,  salt-like in its aroma with a deep and richly textured smell.  It was meat!

As instructed I banged on the penultimate shuttered booth to the main ramp of the stadium. It opened slowly.

“Yeah, what do you want.” said no one in particular.

“I’m here for the burgs”

“Okay, hold on a bit”

Suddenly the shuttered metal door opened up about half way. Inside I could make out about 3 sets of deep fryers going full tilt. The oil bubbling and boiling over it seemed. Smoke filled the air but then got caught and sucked up in a vacuumed vent. This was only one of the booths. There were three more in operation.

“Give me your kettles” he ordered. “Just two.”

I complied. He took the two kettles over to the fryers. He then lifted two baskets out of the oil tilting them up then down, then shaking each of them to drain the oil, or grease, or whatever from the baskets. He tipped them over onto a white cloth, stained by a hundred deep fried burgers past while the burgers present looked like a lump of brown, oil soaked fried cow pies laid out on to the white cloth towels.  With tongs he then transferred these deep fried burgers into the kettles ever so carefully but ever so skill fully so as not to damage the integrity of the burgers themselves. When he was done, both kettles were full to the rim with these oil soaked cooked burgers. He then covered them up with more white cloths tucking the ends into the kettle walls.

“Here, off you go” he said

“Thanks,” I think

With that the shutter was shuttered closed again, until tomorrow…

Fair Winds and a Following Sea…2

…Besides caddying I also worked our local fair. This was held the last two weeks of August, beginning of September, ending Labour Day to be exact, the day before school started.  It was about eighteen days in duration, was the oldest continuous annual fair in North America and, besides entertainment, it provided local part time employment for youth across the city.

I worked as a busboy at an outdoor Charcoal Broiled Hamburger restaurant or stand as they sometimes referred to it during the fair.  It was really nothing more than a “V” shaped open air concession booth that sold burgers of all sorts and sizes, hot dogs, French fries, soft drinks, coffee and other major food group worthy snacks and delectable treats. During the winter, or off fair months, this concession closed itself off from the elements with temporary walls and remained open to cater to the permanent maintenance workers at the fairgrounds and also to service the fan base that attended the professional football matches at the local coliseum.

This stadium was quite big for the times holding about 40,000 people at a sitting.  It had a large concourse that also provided various snacks and refreshments, including beer during game time.  The fairgrounds were substantial in size housing many permanent structures that had been around for over a hundred years.  In addition to the sports stadium this included the Horticultural Building, Better Living, The Press, Four H, Equestrian and Riding Arena, Sports, Food and the Automotive Building, which was large and cavernous enough to hold the annual automotive, boat shows, home shows and my own particular favourite: Medieval Nights.  There were parks, musical bandstands and gazebos and various fountains and green spaces. During the summer months it was a wonderful sight to behold, a real oasis in the city during those hot and humid summer days.

The concession was owned by two local businessmen: big, overweight, cigar chomping, loud, obstinate, ignorant, business like, local area demagogues.  Everyone feared these guys. They were also part of the “Carny” world owning a number of gaming concessions along the midway as well as a segment of concession booths along the stadium’s concourse. These guys were into everything. I worked there for three summer fairs, well two and a half as you shall soon see.  The work was mindless fluff: empty the garbage; ensure all the condiments were full; replenish supplies such as coffee cups, cold drink cups and the like; clean what few tables there were; and just be an all round gofer.

Beside our booth there was a side entrance, staff only, to the Food Building.  It was in here that we stored all of our supplies. It was also my smoking room and measuring room. We diluted almost everything in there. Ketchup, mustard, pop, coffee, you name it. Yes coffee for it was also my job to gather discarded coffee grounds and add them to our tins of real coffee bean. It also housed a cold storage walk in freezer, which held our pails of our so called charcoal broiled hamburgers.

I was paid 90 cents per hour for my first two fairs then a dollar an hour for the third. I started at 14 and ended my career in magnanimous fashion when I was 17. There were two of us during the height of the fair working 12-15 hour days. As this was a 24 and 7 establishment for the fair’s duration, it had a small night staff that catered to the fair’s grounds keepers and maintenance staff as the fair itself closed each night at midnight, opening again at 0800 each morning.  My keenness was at its peak during my first year. My keenness weaned a bit during the second year but waning precipitously during my final fair.  I knew it was coming to a head and it seemed to be directly proportional to my rebelliousness as I matured into an immature adolescent.  It all started with those charcoal broiled hamburgers…

Fair Winds and a Following Sea

I first started working for money when I was fourteen. Indeed, I had a plethora of jobs when I was young. My first job was at a golf course, as a caddy, a situation not so much different as that depicted in the movie Caddyshack. We had our own caddy tournament, even our own eccentric Groundskeeper.  Except our Groundskeeper used his own Crown Victoria automobile and not dynamite to address unwanted interlopers and chase golfing trespassers off of the course in the late evening hours just before dusk.  The chase with his Crown Victoria did wonders for the bent grass of the fairways but provided an added hazard during summer rules.

We also had our idiotic Chairman of the Board, the Big Kahuna, the Commodore, the “I Gotta Be In Charge No Matter What” individual or whatever they called the President of the Country Club in those days. He was the guy generally festooned out in his pastel blue, polyester golf pants, his white belt with matching white shoes and a rainbow of coloured polo shirts to boot. Topping that off with his newly minted golf hat with the stiff un – malleable visor. Having poor taste in clothes and being colour blind was not deemed to be a disability in this worthy position. 

We had our “Loops.” These were the more senior, serious golfers. Usually local businessmen who had way too much money and time on their hands. They also had the big colourful bags with Wilson, Dunlop, Spalding or Macgregor logos scrawled down the sides of their leather loads. They paid well relatively speaking and provided much needed refreshment at the 10th tee. During the summer months the loops generally tee’d off individually or in pairs late afternoon or evenings during the weekdays. On Saturday and Sunday they came out in foursomes in about 3 different groups for a total of about 12. All of the caddies hoped to get a loop on those Saturday and Sunday mornings. They could be intimidating as they all cursed like a sailor in a gale and had little patience or tolerance for youthful stupidity or hubris and indolence from us caddies, especially if a bet was riding on the match.

The women golfers were the worst.  A round of golf with them normally took about half as much time again as playing with the loops. They paid poorly and never offered refreshment at the 10th tee. Their dainty little pink, yellow and white pastel bags were handled with pull carts, a fate worse then death to a young, budding, athletic and eager caddy who vied for a “Looped” carry on. Unfortunately caddying for the ladies came with the territory.  Then there were the in betweens, the hackers and duffers.  Sometimes they could be worse than anyone.

The caddies all knew one another.  Some of us were even related, as cousins. Word gets around a big but financially challenged extended family in quick succession when the prospect of making some money is made apparent.  One of my cousins, who was a year older than I, came from a devout Catholic household.  His mother was a religious zealot, as dedicated to the written word as the archangel Gabriella. She took things way too literally and passed her fanaticism on to her offspring, whether they were receptive or not. It is amazing what a good boxing of the ears or an earful of guilt can do for adherence to the scriptured way.

One day my cousin Peter and I were in the same group.  Suddenly, around the 7th hole, a place were caddies were shooed ahead by their golfers to wait as they tee’d off, I had to take a leak. Up against the nearest tree I went, thinking nothing of it but Peter was aghast and told me in no uncertain terms that I was due to go straight to hell. Okay. So be it. So sayeth the Lord I told him.  He was shocked and perplexed. I couldn’t give a shit, or take one at that particular moment in time.  Yet a few holes later I could hear raucous laughter coming from his direction on the other side of the fairway. On closer inspection I saw that Peter had pissed his pants. There must have been a weeks worth of piss building up in his system for when he went it was geyser worthy. His pants were completely soaked. I asked him why? Why Peter? He told me it was a mortal sin to go outside.  What on earth!  Sheesh, these stupid Catholic Church rules are going to destroy mankind…

 

Pitcher Perfect…5

…My dad worked there until his death in 1971, about 8 years. He loved this job: worked right downtown in the heart of the city and even won some favour and recognition with a few promotions. Just when things were finally improving financially for him, and with his oldest daughter being engaged, he dropped dead of congenital heart failure at the young age of 54.  Of course he loved his Pilsner, his Buckingham’s and did little exercise in his later years except by getting up off of his butt to change the television channel.

Sitting there with my mom on that stoop on that summer evening of 1968, the excitement of my circumstances just seemed too trivial in comparison. I immediately got up off of the step, went into the house, found my dad sitting in his chair and gave him the biggest hug I could muster. I told him how proud I was to be his son and how much I loved him!

The next day and the days after that next day at work were gruesome. I may have been making three dollars and forty five cents an hour but no amount of money could compensate the physical pain and misery of that job. Shovelling gravel into those inanimate buckets, hour after hour, day after day, for the hottest summer on record was pure unadulterated torture. I was dreaming of them.  My bucket list! The only sound heard, besides Zal’s taunts for more “fucking pitch” being the grunts and groans from our bodies and the huffs and puffs of our laboured breaths with every shovelful of gravel taken.  Sweat just poured down every crease and crevasse of our beings. Taking stints up on the flat roof itself provided no relief with a hot glaring sun beating down mercilessly on our lithe bodies.  The humidity was a killer. The hard physical work and the potential for dehydration made it harder and harder to keep our pants above the waist.  As roofers we had the plumber’s crack in spades. It was kind of comical watching everyone on the crew continuously pulling up on their pants or tightening their belts as if stricken by a nervous twitch.  On top of that, by the end of the day, our calloused hands were the worse for wear as newly formed blisters would crack then burst, then sting, as the flayed skin would shed and coagulate with the pus and the blood, which became an ugly brownish red in colour.  The soles of our work boots expanded vertically, about 2-4 inches, as the tar and gravel stuck to the undersides of our boots as we walked around by the area of the hot tar kettle, the conveyor belt and the adjacent pile of gravel. It would take us some time to scrape the gooey mess off of our boots at the end of the day. We felt so tall in our high gravel heels! 

End of the day? Sore and bruised and filthy dirty in sweat and dust. The long ride home on the bus and subway, lost in thought, dead to the world and praying hard and fast for rain on the morrow or watching the clock, counting hard the seconds, minutes and hours before the whole miserable routine would repeat itself. Please, dear God, let it rain tomorrow for when it rained roofers didn’t work. It was Murphy’s Law and not God’s law that ran the day for it only rained on the weekends.

The summer finally ended.  I was in great shape physically, well tanned and had a few bucks saved in the bank. I helped out at home financially, naturally, but I didn’t have to give the majority of my earnings to my parents as I no longer went to the Catholic private high school for boys. I thank God for that! Looking back on that hot and humid summer, my first real well paying job, I could have easily said that life was good. In some respects that summer was Pitcher (sic) Perfect.

 

Zal is dead. His crew is gone. The Maritime Foreman died relatively young. No one could understand his eulogy.

My uncle’s roofing business no longer exists. Jimmy Hoffa disappeared never to be seen or heard from again.  Hal Banks was discredited for corruption and is also dead. 

Everyone has the right to work, union or otherwise.

Pitcher Perfect…4

…Excitedly, I told them the whole story. They were very pleased for me yet I sensed a bit of disappointment, sadness, or melancholy perhaps from my mother as I related the story, especially about my new hourly wage.  My pop just seemed to take it all in stride. Later, on the front stoop, alone with my mother, I questioned her about my bit of good news.

“Are you not happy about this” I said.

“No, no, no, not at all, I mean of course I am happy for you” she reassured me.

“Then what’s the problem” I pressed

“It’s your dad” she said. “Sometimes I feel so sorry for him.  This is nothing against you, don’t get me wrong, but he has been working all of his life and all he has to show for it now is ninety dollars a week. While I am very happy for you, as I am sure your Dad is, it just seems so unfair to me that you are making almost one hundred and forty dollars a week – in this your first real job.”

Suddenly, I wasn’t too excited any more. It did seem so unfair. I was so proud of my dad. He did work hard all of his life. It wasn’t his fault that circumstances beyond his control dictated the path he would take in life.  He was a product of the great depression, a World War Two vet, fought for us and his country then had to make do with whatever non skilled work there was in the big city after the war.  He and thousand upon thousand of other vets were vying for too few good paying jobs. And while he did luck out as a junior accounts shipping and receiving manager for a very large aerospace company, he became a victim of the vagaries of the cold war with its politics and policies and geopolitical mumbo jumbo and smoke and mirrors.  What was lost in translation in all of this political posturing was delusion and the reality that thousands upon thousands of highly skilled professionals, skilled and non skilled workers, lost their jobs in what was to become the city’s, the country’s “Black Friday,” a precedent setting day of a bargain basement deal in the global aerospace industry. The country bowed to international pressures and cancelled a highly sophisticated interceptor aircraft that out performed anything that currently existed or was even planned for.  The aircraft was well ahead of its time and that was its problem.  No, Black Friday, 1959, was not a day of bargain basement deals but a day of financial mourning.  Fourteen and a half thousand direct jobs were lost that day with another fifteen thousand indirect jobs gone that were tied to the company’s supply chain.  On top of the financial and employment woes the country lost a great deal of intellectual property and prestige as well as a great many aerospace engineers and technologists as they ran for the exits never to return again.  My dad was no engineer but no less vulnerable as a human being as these highly skilled men and women. 

I never thought of money, really, or the disparities of a working wage or the harshness, unfairness of life until that very moment.  A sixteen year old shouldn’t have to think about these things. To me it was all a lark. We were living the life.  Our school, the priests, the nuns, my friends, sports, play, have a good time, smokes, and the movies and on and on she goes. I never contemplated where or how we had the means to have a house in the burbs, a car, food on the table, clothes, or the ability to attend the private catholic high schools at St Basil’s and St Mary’s. Never to want for anything! Always excited and never to be let down at birthdays or at Christmas. Looking back on those days now I marvel at the financial ingenuity and discipline of my parents.  How did they do it while managing a host of demands from us kids and responsibilities on such a meagre wage?  How did they get by without granite?

Even at a young age in 1959, I sensed that something terrible had occurred to my dad. After all, I remember one of my boyhood friends, “Nibs” Van Vlyman, left our neighbourhood suddenly with his family for California. I couldn’t connect the dots, of course, and I wasn’t exactly sure what it was that happened. To their credit, my Mom and Dad kept this away from us.  We did not know or fathom how close we were as a family to losing it all, the house, everything.  

My Dad could not afford to be choosy. He had to do anything and everything that came his way to make ends meet. Digging ditches, yes, working for the municipality as a manual labourer, yes, an Orderly in a mental hospital? Yes. Praying hard? Yes. I can clearly visualize his big boots and canary yellow rain gear drying out in the furnace room in our basement. I remember our teachers stressing to us all in those days that if we didn’t get an education all we could hope for in the future was to be a ditch digger for the city.  Imagine my thoughts and horror, shock and utter sadness, in seeing my own father doing just that.  It wasn’t that my dad wasn’t smart or lacked education. No, he was very smart. He was just a product of his times, a discarded remnant of his government’s folly. Not a real person just a statistic.  Yet he was a member of the greatest generation this country ever had.  It is no wonder to me, or surprise, that he threw all of his war medals into the city’s harbour.

After a few years of doing many manual and soul destroying jobs, he did manage to get a junior position at one of the country’s major banks. He acquired this position through his brother-in-law, who convinced him to swallow his pride and accept the job. Being a bank it didn’t pay all that well but it was a living wage and being a bank it was very secure.  In those days, bankers, especially investment bankers, were not the rock stars or the amoral financial wankers that they are today. At best or worst they were extremely conservative, boring and pedantic…