Special Kindle Edition
ODD JOBS
by
Ben Lieberman
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ODD JOBS
Special Kindle Edition
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Copyright © 2011 by Ben Lieberman. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
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Originally published by: SterlingHouse Publisher, Inc.
ISBN: 978-1-935670-61-2 (eBook)
ISBN: 978-1-935670-62-9 (Paperback)
Version: 2012.02.21
To Debbie — My wife, best friend and a great editor as well. Evan, Jamie and Rachel — I’m so grateful for all your encouragement.
CHAPTER 1
Just when I thought I could pull it off, I let out a double tequila burp. I can’t stop tasting the shit. I’m in the ultimate purgatory: that place simultaneously blending being hungover and being drunk. What seemed pretty manageable last night has a whole different view from this bus. Man, I just went out to meet Ray and Cindy for a few Margaritas at Rio Bravo and just like that, it’s two in the morning and I’m doing shots of Wild Turkey in the Blarney Stone, arguing politics with some toothless 80-year-old guy.
The sun is coming up, and somewhere someone is thinking how beautiful this is and what a great day it’s going to be. That’s not me. The bus turns left onto Industrial Road and passes a huge cemetery that is jam-packed with acres and acres of tombstones all on top of each other. It’s fuckin’ packed tighter than the six-train. Some low budget tombstones are actually outside the metal fence. I guess they got a discount. A guy is walking his dog and the dog is taking a leak on one of the exterior tombstones. This gives me a degree of satisfaction, as someone is having a worse day than me.
When I graduate from State and get a real job, I’m buying a Maserati GranCabrio. That’s what I tell my friend Cliff Tsan sometimes. He keeps me down to earth and tells me to start liking buses, because I’ll never have any job but odd jobs, like the one I have now, carrying beef carcasses. “You know why they’re called odd jobs?” he says.
“Because they’re really strange?” I answer.
“No, asswipe,” Cliff says solemnly. “Odd comes from an Old Norse word meaning the tip of a spear. Therefore, an odd job is a job that makes you feel like you’re being stabbed with a spear.” Cliff is an English major whose father is a famous novelist, so maybe he’s right; then again, maybe he’s just busting my balls.
The bus hits a pothole, and my neck goes right through my brain. That’s what it feels like, anyway. I don’t know why I go out drinking with my friends on a work night, but sometimes I do. Like last night. It’s not like I can even afford it; I’m supposed to be saving money for school. But I don’t want the guys to think I’m an asshole.
Through a red haze of pain I see the dairy factory on the left, pink and gold in the light of the rising sun. I wish I had a job there. I could run the machine that separates the milk from the cream, or drive a tanker truck. Nice clean jobs. But no, the part of Maspeth, Queens, that I claim as my little piece of heaven is staring right at me. In front is a honkin’ big sign in hemoglobin red and raw bone white reading Kosher World Meat Factory: The highest standards in this world and beyond.
I don’t belong on this bus, and I don’t belong at Kosher World. But I don’t belong with the hard-drinking, money-hemorrhaging crowd either, like Cliff and his friends. So where do I belong? That is the million-dollar question, Regis. But first I’ve got to try to do something about my current situation.
My watch reads 6:15 a.m. as I enter the building and get struck in the face with the stench of blood, tripe and oozing intestines. Miraculously, my stomach stays where it’s supposed to be. Better yet, I’m on time. It’s June 23rd and I’m bundled in long underwear, flannels and a thick orange jumpsuit, the uniform of the serious meat handler. I’m sweating like a racehorse. Christ, this is so unnatural. But the money’s good, real good. There’s no one back at college making this kind of money, at least not legally. Cliff and Mike Katz have internships at a swanky law firm, but you can’t eat prestige. I’m pulling down $18 an hour, plus time-and-a-half for each hour of overtime and double time for Saturday nights and holidays. I know if I bust my ass and stay focused this summer, I can cover a decent nut on my school expenses for a semester or so. Finish my last year of school and start making some real money. Hell, I’ve handled this crap for a whole month so far. Now, if I just get through the day without getting fired, and hopefully without puking, I’ll be golden.
A couple of guys pass by and mutter ‘hi’ under their breath. I say ‘hi’ back, still trying to hold down the contents of my gut. There’s a lot of noise — men yelling, trucks roaring into the yard, the thumping of the packing machines. My head feels like a boiler under way too much pressure. I shuffle off in the direction of my workstation, but I’m taking my time, trying to ignore the damn smells and noises.
The essence of my job is twofold. I am a grunt. I unload sides of beef off trucks in the mornings and in the afternoons take huge racks of hotdogs off a washing apparatus and load them onto a conveyer belt for wrapping.
I got this job through a connection and basically get paid as a union guy but don’t belong to the union. The union, by the way, is poetry. They have negotiated time off, vacations, breaks and benefits out the wazoo. You don’t want to work too hard or you can hear it, “Hey fuckin’ college boy, are you getting paid by the box or the hour?” You see, all the nice gentlemen here would like to work at least one hour of overtime a day. At time-and-a-half, working one hour extra a day means getting paid six days for five days of work. Seems pretty slimy to me, but I don’t have a wife and kids to support. Plus, management ain’t exactly angels either.
My stomach gurgles menacingly. I know for a fact that I am so sick that I’m not going to make it today unless I get away from the stench that’s weaving its way into my nostrils and into my digestive tract. Maybe I should have called in a
nd taken my chances, but they just don’t take that weak stuff from grunts. I’d be gone and I need this job. But if I get sick on the meat, I won’t have much of a future either.
I decide to face up to my problem. I see Severan Reynard giving directions to two guys carrying a crate of ribs. Sev calls the shots on the floor. Sev doesn’t say much and he really doesn’t have to. He’s 5’11” but seems bigger. He’s got a body as wide as a truck with a decent size gut and skin so dark it actually looks black. His goatee is black and so are his eyes. His eyes are what do the commanding. When he wants something done, he opens those black eyes wide and points. The whites of his eyes are such a contrast to his other features that it shakes people. It’s fuckin’ freaky.
The funny thing is, Sev runs the place but he’s not the real boss. Supposedly, there’s a foreman. I haven’t seen him yet but I heard he’s some lazy sack of shit that got “put” in the job. Sev doesn’t have the title, but I guess running the place beats taking orders from someone else. Everyone, including the foreman, knows Sev’s the best guy, so it just works. Word is he did some wild stuff in the Marines like 15 or 20 years ago. Obviously the guy has been around. Supposedly he’s a pretty straight shooter; I figure that if I go and talk to him and let him know how sick I am, maybe I can pull some other duty today.
Sev is talking to Sal and Frank in the doorway of the employee lounge. The lounge is a large room with 20 foldout cafeteria tables. In the corner there is a soda machine, a candy machine and a table with a microwave. It doesn’t look like the guys are saying anything monumental, so I figure this is as good a time as any to talk to Sev.
“Sev, can I grab you for a minute?” I ask.
Sev shoots me a glance and then quickly turns back to Sal and Frank. Frank is telling Sev that we are behind in June production. But this is good news for Sev because being behind schedule means overtime and some double time. The boys in the trenches are going to be happy.
A minute or two later, Sev looks over and says, “What’s up?”
“Sorry to hassle you,” I answer. “Uh, look, I’m having a little trouble today. I’m uh, kinda sick. Is there any other area I can work today?”
Sev is staring straight at me and his mustang eyes are getting pretty wide. He’s not saying anything, but something is going on. Frank looks surprised and Sal grins. Immediately I know that I’m making a mistake.
“Motha-fucka!” Sev says in the loudest voice I have ever heard him use. “What the fuck do you think you’re pullin’ here?”
“Really Sev, I’m not trying to pull anything,” I answer, trying to avoid those eyes.
“You think I’m a moron? You think I don’t smell the liquor on you? You think I’m blind and I don’t see you stumbling like a fool?”
I don’t answer him. Even if I were on my game, he is pretty much right.
Sev is really going now. “What? You think this is a damn joke?”
I try to recover. “I’m really sorry, I made a mistake. I’m not looking for any.... ”
Sev interrupts. “Look, you want to go out late, fine. But don’t go out at night barkin’ like a dog if you’re gonna be pissin’ like a puppy in the morning. It don’t happen like that in my house. Now get the fuck outta here, you’re done.”
I look around. It’s pretty quiet now. I seem to be the center of attention, and everyone seems to know what just went down.
“Get the fuck outta here,” Sev barks.
Sal steps up and says, “Sev, maybe we should wait a minute.” Sev’s eyes close just a little. “The kid got the job through Jimmy Balducci,” Sal reminds him. “Why piss him off if we don’t have to?”
“I got a floor to run and this little snot deserves to be canned.”
“No doubt,” Sal agrees. “But the kid’s actually been doing all right. He’s a hard worker.”
“So I’m suppose’ to put him on the line where he can kill himself or, more importantly, one of my guys?” Sev growls, “Look at ‘im! He can barely stand up!”
“Why don’t we give the kid a break from the hard labor and give him a nice, easy job today?” Sal says. “I got a great place to nurse a hangover that always needs a few more workers.”
Sal pulls Sev to the side and mutters something. I can’t hear what they say, but whatever Sal says causes Sev to do something I haven’t seen since I began working here. Sev smiles.
Sal and Sev talk for a few more minutes while I just stand there like an asshole. Eventually Sal walks past me and says, “C’mon kid.”
He’s walking pretty fast — at least it feels like he’s walking fast — but eventually I catch up to him. “Thanks a lot for saving my job back there,” I say.
Sal laughs. “You are so fucked up, you have no idea what you’re in for. Don’t be thankin’ me, kid. I’d ask your name but it doesn’t matter. It’s just a matter of time before you quit.”
“I’m not going to quit, and you know my name is Kevin.”
“Whatever.”
“Why do you think I’ll quit?”
“You, young stallion, are on Sev’s shit list. You are past the point of no return. You can’t possibly imagine the shit detail you are going to be pulling. I’ve been working here 12 years, I know exactly what’s going on, and all you are right now is sport.”
“What do you mean?”
Sal tells me that the guys are making book on my estimated time of departure; lots of money changing hands as we speak. In here, he says, they bet on anything they can think of; it helps the day pass quicker. “And today we got you.”
“Just great,” I mumble to myself. A small man in a black outfit and a long dark beard bumps into me. Or maybe I bump into him. “Sorry,” I say. He just mutters something to himself and walks on. I can see he’s wearing a skullcap.
“What’s up with him?” I ask Sal.
“Rabbi,” he tells me. “You’ve never seen him before, wandering around? I wonder if he has any action on you yet.”
We continue to walk past different huge refrigeration and freezer rooms. They all have names, like pickle box and curing room. We are walking in areas I’ve never been before.
“Why is there a rabbi here?” I ask.
“It’s his job. This is what he does.” Sal pauses. “He blesses the meat.”
“Really?”
I’m not sure if Sal is starting to like me or, he just likes the sound of his voice, but for whatever reason, he explains the situation to me. “Kid, it’s Kosher World, right? Someone has to make the meat kosher. Now, you have your all-star rabbis that lead congregations and save souls. Your B-team rabbis do other stuff like performing a bris on baby boys. I think they’re called moguls. Then you have guys like our Rabbi Silver. He spends his day blessing meat. He has a congregation of dead carcasses.”
Sal and I pass the smokehouse and finally get to the last room on the floor. Sal opens the door and immediately I’m engulfed by a strange smell. It’s a cooked smell, almost like sanitary cleanser, but definitely cooked. It actually seems a lot tamer in here than the loading dock and the sides of beef I usually haul. I can pull this off.
Sal and I are the only ones in the room. He looks at his watch and informs me the gang will be here in less than two minutes. They start at 7 a.m. today. I ask what they’ll be coming in to do, exactly.
“Kid, you are going to help in bringing a popular and special Jewish delicacy to your local restaurant and delicatessen. You should feel very honored.”
“What delicacy?”
Three people walk into the room, all wearing big white smocks over their orange jumpsuits. “Heya Sal, what brings you to our corner of the world?” one of them asks.
“Morning, Georgie; wanted to bring you a little help today. You’re always looking for a little help, aren’t you?”
Georgie starts looking me over. Georgie is maybe 5’5” tall and could possibly be 5’5” wide as well, but his most noticeable characteristic has to be his ears. They are the hairiest ears I have ever seen; there’s a fo
rest coming out the sides of his face. I stare at him dully.
“What’s the matter with him?” Georgie asks.
Sal tells him I am a college intern who just wasn’t up to the heavy labor today, so he thought Georgie’s line of work might be a better match for me. Then Sal excuses himself, leaving me in the capable hands of Georgie Skolinsky, who introduces me to Felipe Cortez, Ramon Pizzaro and Lily. They are talking and getting ready for what must be the task at hand, but the whole thing has a weird feel to it. After all, Sal did say something about a shit detail. I look around and notice that everyone is a little...odd. There’s Georgie with his hairy ears, and Felipe, who walks with a bad limp, as if one leg was 12 inches shorter than the other. Ramon isn’t talking at all and I’m not sure if he doesn’t want to be part of this group or just can’t follow the chatter. And then there is Lily, who is extremely heavy and has the most god-awful dyed red hair ever. It’s more orange than red. She has on orange lipstick that perfectly matches her hair, but there’s more lipstick on her teeth than on her mouth. What is this, the detail of the damned?
Georgie barks, “Let’s get started.”
Ramon wheels in a huge, tall vat while the others circle around a stainless steel table. There is steam coming from the vat and something is obviously boiling. Between the boiling vat and the cold of the refrigerated room it looks as though the vat is on fire and smoking up a storm. Felipe has a ponytail, and it looks pretty funny when he puts on the plastic sanitary hat that they all begin pulling on. Everyone looks pretty silly; it’s like an operating room.
“Here you go, sweetie,” Lily says as she gives me a hat.
“Don’t try too hard, Lily. I don’t think he’s ready to marry you yet,” Georgie says with a yellow-toothed grin.
I put on my hat and watch as Ramon wheels the vat next to the table. He gets on a step stool and, wielding a huge spoon the size of a shovel, begins scooping something from the vat. The water strains from the holes in the gigantic spoon and he dumps these slimy things on the table. They just slide toward the middle. Within about three minutes there are dozens of huge pink blobs on the table, roughly the size of an NBA basketball player’s foot. Then I recognize them. They are rock-solid huge tongues. I might still be a bit buzzed, but it looks like these tongues are aimed at me, taunting me.
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