Blasted Apes!!

One sad day always comes to my memory when I muse back on those bitter sweet days: It was in the bleak December and a faintly glowing ember of hope appeared; of a job in the offing - somewhere.  A big snowstorm had hit the village and school thus was closed.  Even St. John’s grammar school (1 through 8), which always stayed open, was shut down due to lack of heat on this especially nasty day.  In the cold kitchen of 1912 West 7^th St., Dunellen, N.J.  I watched my Pop getting dressed to head out to “somewhere” to get in line and vie with other destitutes for a one to one hundred chance to score. 

He was somewhat “up beat” about his chances this day for he had some “political” edge going for him, and the terrible weather, (the storm was raging) would probably keep the crowd of hopefuls down.  These sad uncertain victims of the times, all praying and hoping against the odds to secure a “job” which would pay 10 cents an hour and last on the very short side of “indefinity”, made ready to compete for the crumbs of sustenance.  I watched him fixing up his long-john covered lower legs with several layers of holey socks and then cover all below the knees with newspaper neatly wrapped and tied down with pieces of string (from the string ball of course).  Then the trousers covered this cozy foundation and were tucked into the broken-clip and patched up “goo-lashes” making his mode of transportation; “shanks mare”, ready for the trip to yet another Waterloo.  He was proud of his sartorial engineering.  I knew he was because he said: “There!” as he stood up to test his creation and further stated: “I’m ready for ‘em, Mom”.  Now he bundled up with an old sweater, covered by a suit vest which when buttoned up made a seemingly cozy package of his upper torso, an old suit jacket next, all covered with a large black overcoat made this man a formidable contestant for any job!  “That’s my Pop!”, said I to myself as he covered his head and ears with a scarf, (Babushka style), topped it off with an old gray fedora with a small hole in the crease which he had worn on his honeymoon trip to Niagara Falls, kissed Mom adieu, asked us to pray for him and off he went into the howling wind and snow.  I watched him gingerly make his way down the “stoop”, careful not to slip and having a little trouble with the bulk of his preparations.  The road to Plainfield was about 100 yards away and he stopped to look back to all he had, and all he was, at about 75 yards.  I knew then, that he knew then, that this too was a forlorn hope.  He turned and in the blinding, howling storm disappeared, shuffling off; the original “abominable snowman”. 

He came home about dusk (4:30?) His “snow suit” leaking out of his “goo-loshes” in paper streamers, a button off his overcoat, an abrasion under his left eye (He usually dropped his left after throwing his jab) and the usual litany of reasons for why he failed: Those @#$!! Jews, those @#$!! Republicans, those @#$!! Protestants.  Those were the high inside fastballs on which he always struck out.  He disencumbered himself, peeling off “stuck stuff” and cutting the twine, which by now had gathered around his ankles.  The scarf and hat, he tossed on a kitchen chair.  The hat was wet again but not from the Niagara Falls mist, which had given it it’s first bath, as it had served well aboard the “Honeymoon Boat”, now it too sat forlorn and beaten.  Indeed....”made of the missed.”

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Now I stood, a real fierce warrior who hadn’t even begun to shave, wrapped so tightly in the flag that I would not even think of alternatives to the awesome business we had gotten into.  Nor would I even be tempted to deviate from the responsibility that had been so overwhelmingly engendered by the powers that called us to arms.

The whole family was there on the platform of the New Brunswick, New Jersey, railroad station to see me off to glory.  Mom had that wistful look that said, “I’m proud of you, my little boy, but please don’t leave.  War is not a good reason to die.  Please don’t go!”  And Dad stood there tall and proud and all dressed up in his Sunday-go-to-meetin’ suit with white shirt and tie with gravy stain all topped off with his well-blocked but sweat-stained fedora.  He too had the tell-tale wide wistful eyes that belied his resolute encouragements, “You’ll be alright, son.  We’ll get those bastards.  We did it before and we will do it again.”  And as he reached for me to hug me in protective patronage, I could smell the wonderful, comforting odors that had always meant “Daddy” to me:  the tobacco smell, the stale semi-clean scent of the family wash rag which carried the toiletry traces of us all, the stale smell of the sweat of his brow and all the other olfactory factors that make every man unique.  Then he hugged me and patted me powerfully on the back so strongly that I could hear the tacit message saying, “Goddamit, I love you, son.  You’d better be sure that you come back.  I love you, you beautiful Blasted Ape!!”  Then he stepped back to hold me by the shoulders with his powerful calloused hands, tipped with the semi-clean fingernails that mark the true working man.  Now, unable to hold back the tears, he choked up, sobbed a grunt or two and hugged me like the Papa Bear he was.  Then, as he released me from the ever-loving vise-grip, he shook my hand as real men do with real men and I knew then, for the first time, that I had become a man. 

W