Go look for a tall red-headed giant.
Illustrations by Aurora Andrews
I made myself comfortable at a light post across the street and down a bit from the power plant’s front. Every man of working age and shape in Vinegar Hill was inside that factory, and I guessed that when the whistle blew they’d all be coming out of that door. I’d just have to make myself inconspicuous at around five til five, then I could trail the guy home to get my girl. I had a little time to kill before the 5 o’clock whistle, so I busied myself with remembering a nice story my buddy had told me about lollipops, tangerines and a lady named Justine.
Five came around faster than I expected it, but the shrill tweet of quitting time kicked me out of my reverie and behind a four-stair stoop. From there, looking over a ratty “welcome” mat, I had a straight shot of the door. A stream of men came out, big ones good for hauling cables, little ones good for hitching them up, skinny ones good for slipping down the man holes, fat ones good for sitting at desks. They all wore the same look of relief as they spilled out the entrance and onto the cobblestone. This time of day sidewalks were disregarded and the men took to the streets. The mass of foot soldiers could have overturned any Ford in their way, so eager they were to get to the bar, to the club, or heaven forbid, to home and the dinner table.
The initial burst lessened to a steady stream, then a trickle, as the last men, those that cared about their work more than the punchclock, finished the day’s tasks and made their way. There was an executive, his suit as crisp as the day it left the store, an engineer, revealed by the tortoise-rimmed glasses and creased brow. Three friends, line workers that had gotten distracted by some joke or other, came out the front, guffawing so loud the cabbies could probably hear it on the Manhattan Bridge. Then, at last, my man. He just about had to stoop to get out the front door.
The giant headed straight up Hudson and I followed, across the street and back enough that he’d have to fully turn to see me there. He walked slowly, with the resoluteness that told me he was heading to his family. I guessed, based on the loosening of his skin along his jowls, that he was about 40, and by the sag of his shoulders, that he’d been working on the line for twenty-five years. The steps—weary, but determined, with a slight limp—told me he had kids at home, probably three or four, and that he was a good father, or at least as good a father as he could manage.
We walked three blocks before he stopped. I followed suit, and froze behind a ginko. He looked around, and turned into a bar. Guess I’d read him wrong... He was more interested in those amber-colored uncles Jim, Johnny, and Jack.
I waited five minutes, then ten. How long’d he plan on spending in there? Didn’t he know his dinner was getting cold?
After twenty minutes, I decided to be a little reckless, and edged my way up to the establishment. It was glowing orange and green with soft-light Edison bulbs and green-glass bottles. The windows were grimy from a few decades worth of grease, but I could see in well enough. Blurry figures danced to no avail. Where’d he go?
Ten more minutes of hugging the windowsill passed. I saw a couple coming up the slate sidewalk, and released my grip, straightened, and pretended to be interested in my watch. They passed me, and stopped at the door. The woman entered, but the man remained on the street. “You coming in?”
I didn’t quite know what I’d do inside, but to continue standing on the sidewalk, looking conspicuous, wouldn’t get me anywhere, so I accepted the gentleman's offer, pulled down my hat’s brim and stepped inside. The man followed me, slipped around my side, and to the table where his lady was waiting. I stood just inside the door, scanning the scenery. I got from wall to wall, with no sight of my big red.
“You looking for someone?” a plump little thing came up to me. Pretty cute, with pronounced—and announced—curves spilling out the top of her blouse, I stopped my survey to look down at her. She might have looked sweet, but her eyes said that she carried a knife in her garter.
“That redhead who came in here a few minutes ago. He leave?”
The woman motioned to a door in the back. I looked through the screen—it was still open in the winter, on account of the line of stoves, ovens, and a broiler working overtime along the back wall—and through the mesh I saw a little house, alight in the dusk and piping out woodsmoke. The backyard bungalow, of course! It only happened in Brooklyn—no yards in Manhattan or the Bronx, while Staten Island and Governor’s were practically pastures, and in Queens, it was one-yard-per home. Only in Kings County did you get the solid green belt between apartment backs ... and only in the more enterprising yards did the landowner construct another unit behind his building. The detached structures tended to be under-insulated, and rarely up to code.
I had to think fast. “I liked his hat. Wanted to ask him where he got it.”
“You want me to go ask? He’s right out back.”
I didn’t think my excuse would hold up to six and a half feet of tired, aching, brawn—also, the hat he’d been wearing was a banged up, fifty-cent cap—so I graciously declined. I’d gotten the answer I wanted...I knew where to find my girl. “I’ll just have a Scotch, rocks back.” When the glass came out, I lifted the amber, and toasted my victory.
