by Tom Sheridan
The other longshoremen got a kick out of Franco. They’d watch a game at the Elks back in The Wood, drink, and bullshit about what’s good. They’d say Franco was the only fuckin guy that liked doin the fuckin job no matter the fuckin day no matter the fuckin weather. And how the fuck could he like it so much? Not only was it a fuckin hump buster to begin with, Franco got all the worst fuckin shifts. Franco would respond by asking if they all suffered from a speech impediment. Fuckitis. It was easier than telling them what he really thought. That they were the true heroes. All in on the gig. All in on socking away college and retirement cash. Walking the line like they were Johnny Cash.
Franco in ’08, meanwhile, was starting to lose the gig altogether. The economy was in the toilet, and hours for temps were now few and far between. The hours Franco did get were thanks to The Frog. So there were the favors for The Frog. Pick up some pesos here. Prop up a poker night there. Rough up some roughnecks anywhere. No big deal. Franco figured the favors like the dock position. Temporary. All until he made it in MMA. A jack of all trades. Trying to master one.
Franco pulled into the dock parking lot. Had it really been ten years since he first entered an octagon? Ten years. Fuck. Ten years since 23. His Michael Jordan year. When he was on top of the world. Married to the baddest B in the world. (He could never bring himself to call Julie the B-word.) Father to the cutest kid in the world. Clocking dough down the dock. The Frog’s favors on lock. And. Embarked on creating the capstone that completed the Great Pyramid of Franco: Full-time fighter.
Now? Parking the same Mustang he bought back then. Thirty-three. His Larry Bird year. And it had been bleak. The Great Pyramid of Franco suffering a seven-year sandstorm. The broken ankle. The broken family. The broken bank account. The pyramid’s capstone decapitated. And not only unsettled at 33, less settled than he was at 23. Living in reverse like he was Benjamin fuckin Button. Once he had wrapped his Jordan year, he had set his sights to 33. His Larry Bird year. The year he always had in mind when he imagined his future. Imagined down to a single image. A still shot of him with his arms around Julie and T. All smiling in front of a big-ass house in Bridgewater. Just kickin it. Instead, life was doing the kicking. And on March 30, it would kick his ass another year down the curb. Thirty-four. His fight set for the night before.
Franco moseyed over to his slip where a handful of longshoremen stood and stewed at the locked entrance. Franco’s skull-capped compadres exhaled cold breath. A brotherhood that looked nothing like brothers. Fat, skinny. Tall, short. Dark, light. They filled Franco in. A freighter of Colombian coffee was waiting to dock. Yet they were locked out.
Then the gate opened. The longshoremen were about to herd in when they heard the officer. On a megaphone from the lead car of a police escort. Droning about how the dockworkers were not permitted onto the slip and to please step aside. The borough police, under orders of the slip owner, had to escort in the newly hired help. The newly hired help packed into a burgundy Astro Van. Its occupants nodded at Franco for the second time that day.
Franco bit his lip. Fuck. What a Lemony Snicket. Franco had no idea who the fuck Lemony Snicket was, but that’s what he called a series of unfortunate events. Never saw the movie but caught the commercial a couple thousand times. And labeling a shitty situation something silly helped take the sting out of it.
None of the docked dockworkers noticed the nods to Franco. They were too busy shouting—How am I gonna feed my family! Fuckin illegals!—as they shook the van.
“Can you believe these fucks?” croaked The Frog, having hopped up the highway behind Franco.
Franco was pissed no doubt. Felt bad for his fellow longshoremen no doubt. But he also remembered when he was 18 and needed a job. He walked into the old C——’s on Route 1 over by Woodbridge Mall. Got made waiter like that. Walked right into the gig slinging food alongside middle-class college kids. Carry some trays around. Listen to the surround sound. Bang a shot with the bartender. Trade shifts, bullshit, count tips. It was nice in the front. But Franco spent just as much time in the back. Helped out with the dishes when it was slow. With the grunts in the fluorescent lit, steaming, stinking kitchen. Backbreaking work back there. Cleaning cauldrons. Frying food. Bleaching bathrooms. And who was doing it? “Mexicans.” Every single one of them. It was funny to Franco. No one in the front gave a shit about their great jobs while everyone in the back took great care with their shit jobs. People with seniority back there. One day off a week. Supporting families whether they be in an overcrowded apartment in Avenel or in another country altogether. Working their culos off just to survive.
Franco stood frozen as he sucked on the Lemony Snicket.
The Frog meanwhile had plenty to croak about. “Fuckin illegals. Takin our jobs. Our jobs.” The Frog’s lower jaw protruded as he watched the Mexicans roll onto his fuckin docks in his fuckin country in an American fuckin van escorted by American fuckin authorities. American authorities that closed the 20-foot barbed wire fence on him. Him! The kid that came up with nothing. Held his hand over his heart for every salute since kindergarten. Coached Little League. Community organizer for events year-round. Paid every last local, state, and federal tax dollar. Donated to troops in Iraq and Afghanistan. And now? The bombs were being dropped on him.
Franco looked past the fence. Past the laborers. To another person. Georgie Sachs, Jr. Aka Boy George. All of about 30. His baby face belied by a receding hairline that turned his forehead into a fivehead. The white whale was kept dry by an umbrella held by his bantam brown driver. They stood before some kind of stretch Mercedes Franco didn’t know the name of.
The Frog rubbed his lucky 1955 D/S edition nickel. Thumbed over Thomas Jefferson like he was Tom Thumb. “And don’t think it ends here. There’s a domino effect. Everyone’s wages. Our schools. Our healthcare. Taxes.”
To Franco, the guys didn’t look that different than the pictures he saw of the Newark project back in the ’50s. The pictures of The Frog’s one grandfather’s side in the summer sun. In front of a brick slum. The Frog showed them to Franco once. He was always talkin about how they were real Americans who came here with nothing and thrived as a people. Integrated. Assimilated. His most recent rant had come over Tex-Mex at the hopping Tejada’s.
Franco watched as Boy George waddled over to an escorted-in Escalade. Tinted on 22s. Franco had heard the stories from the old-timers. From back in the day when it was little Georgie’s father’s importing business. George Jr. would run around the docks in the summer. Gonzo would strain his body, thud down on one knee, find a dollar behind George Jr.’s ear. Miggy would look around the slip then slip little Georgie a Monopoly board that “bounced off a boat.” The Mikes—black Mike White and white Mike Black—would swing Boy George by his arms and legs and pretend to throw him off the docks.
Well, Boy George was now all grown up. And he had bad news for his almost-retired buddies. Thanks to his shrewd vertical integration and multi-million-dollar investments in the area, he had full authority to operate his slip however he saw fit. (And being as that he had made so many millions off Mexicans in his restaurants and hotels, why not slip some over to his slip? But this part’s just between you and Boy George. Same for the part where George Jr., his father before, and their pocketed politicians all turned a blind eye as the “illegals” integrated. So keep it all under your hat if you don’t mind. Boy George knows it’s a lot. Hopefully you have a hat as big as Abe Lincoln’s.)
The someone new Boy George was in business with stepped out of the back of the Cadillac. Like the Escalade, he was tall, dark, and handsome. Unlike the Escalade, he wasn’t American made. Mr. TDH stood with his hands cupped at his crotch like a soccer player in wall formation. Cleated in alligator Guccis. Looking slick with his slicked-back hair. Put together in his slim-fit mocha suit. And his caramel tie broke the wardrobe tie with Franco’s forestalled foreman. In fact, he was a step above the rung altogether. He spit commands in Spanish that lit a fire under his own fo
reign foreman who in turn got the Latino laborers going. Franco didn’t know much about this mystery man. Except for one thing. He was some fuckin jefe.
The Frog turned to Franco. Not a word from his guy. Zip. Zero. Nada. “Hello? This ain’t the news no more. This is your fuckin life.”
Franco watched as the Mestizos got moving a mile a minute. As El Jefe and his foreman strategized. As the driver saw Boy George into the back of the stretch Mercedes. As his fellow longshoremen stood… Locked out.
The fucked-up situation busted Franco’s brain so bad, he started having flashbacks. To those other battles he had as a boy on Bunns Lane. Playing chess with old Charles and his chestnut chessboard. Franco coulda swore he saw a king get escorted into the back of the Benz. A king who left someone with all of the moves of a queen in charge. A queen who hung back and strategized with a rook as they scattered their pawns about the front lines. Franco was hallucinating so bad…that next to him stood a knight. Was it dark or was it white? the Alice in Wonderland wondered. And that’s when it dawned. Franco too had turned a pawn. You shoulda sawn. There were pawns all around. Just like the ones on old Charles’s chess board. The ones first to get slayed in the fight. The ones that came in both colored and white.
When the pawn and the knight had to make way for the king’s carriage, the pawn finally pawned up a response. “Fuckin Boy George. Like he unloaded all these boats all these years by himself.” The pawn motioned to his fellow captureds. “Miggy shoulda never given him Monopoly. Shoulda given him cement shoes. And the Mikes shoulda tossed his ass in.”
“We have to force Boy George’s hand. Take away his options,” said the knight. “Do something about these fuckin illegals.”
Franco bit his lip back to reality. Toggled his creased face. Between the locked-out longshoremen and the Latinos laboring at breakneck pace. Toggled his creased face. Between a rock and a hard place.
The toad toed the line. “I’m sure all those guys over there are just great. Those guys who illegally entered our country and stole our jobs. But let me ask ya something. When I gave ya the ball. At the mound in our Little League championship game. Did ya lob any pitches in to the other team?”
“Nah.”
“But I’m sure awl the kids on the other team were just great. Just a-okay,” said The Frog with the appropriate hand gesture. “Life is a fuckin war. And it’s time to pick a fuckin side.”
Franco’s toggling head landed on his fellow longshoremen. “What do you wanna do? Renegotiate? I’ll take a pay cut,” offered Franco the temp.
“Junior’s bled us enough,” said the foreman who made the salary of four men.
“You wanna picket? I’ll be the first one here—”
“Picket? We got a better chance of playin the Pick-It.” The Don grilled El Jefe across the way. “It’s time we take the bull by the fuckin horns.” The Don squared to Franco. “KnowwhatImean?”
Franco took a breath. Knew exactly what the fuck he meant. Meant he was asking Franco to get into some shit so crooked, he might never straighten out.
Franco gazed past the docks. Gazed at that fuckin hole in the sky. Where the Twin Towers once stood. Seven years later and still a hole there. But. Workers were in there prepping the foundation. Just like Franco rebuilding at the bottom of the MMA barrel. Ready to go sky high. So long as he could afford his next fight. Franco paid his team, his mortgage, and his child support like he was Ja Rule. Always on time. He turned to The Frog. “What do you want me to do?”
The Frog’s jaw retracted like the roof of the Rogers Centre. “I’ll meet you at your house tomorruh.” The Frog stared at Franco. They were of the same stature. He smiled as he stuck a cig between his tobacco-stained teeth. Rapped as it flapped. “This nasty habit, huh? They start me on candy cigarettes when I’m six. Then tell me to cut it out when I’m 56. Thefuckoutofhere.” He ran his pockets for a light. “Go ahead,” said The Frog. With a friendly slap to Franco’s face.
Franco hobbled in the wake of Benz taillights departing the docks.
Inside, Boy George was already on the phone dialing Dad. He told him all about how he was an excellent businessman that day. All about how he looked The Frog right in the eye, shook his hand, and thanked him for his service. And not only that. When he let The Frog know he was out of business with his crew and in business with the bargain basement one, Boy George didn’t smile at all. Not even once. He even feigned disappointment as he shrugged and told The Frog his hands were tied. He was so proud, he hung up and popped a bottle of Dom Pérignon. Just a $500 bottle, though. It was only 9 am.
At least the knight left in a conundrum dark as night had found himself a light. A knight who, by rule, had the ability to make a first move himself. But why do that when you can push out a pawn? The knight lit his cig. Exhaled toxic air. Didn’t dare leave his square.
Franco hobbled over to his blue beater. Precipitation always irritated the ankle. So he moved one step at time. Like one of them pawns on old Charles’s chess board. Still. It was his cheek that really bothered him. The Frog’s single slap somehow more irritating than all the pounding paws of Coach Nelly.
Franco was back to enjoying hands to his face later that day. His fancy footwork in the ring made the gym spin. A whirlwind of cinder blocks, broken clocks, abs full of rocks. Franco was whirling down to welterweight right on time. His turquoise tank soaked sapphire.
Boxing with Joey Yo. The only Puerto Rican Franco knew who went tanning. Half-Puerto Rican but still. His gelled-out curls hampered by headgear. The big man’s only upper body coverage was the Puerto Rican and Italian flags—one etched on each shoulder. And TRUE JERSEY tatted across the Latino’s lats. Franco’s Boricua goomba would gleefully call himself a guido. He’d heard his old Italian uncles’ diatribes about how it was derogatory. But they didn’t get that it had become a culture. A badge of honor, even. Worn by everyone in guido nation from FBIs (full-blooded Italians) to Guindians (Guido Indians). They had taken the term and turned it on its head. Joey would say it was like what Cube and the rest of the crew did with the N in NWA.
Franco was light on his feet against the tan man. Had to be. Couldn’t afford getting fitted with one of Joey’s pipes. His homie was two bills and two percent body fat. Franco could have his way in MMA, but Yo knew how to throw. So comfortable, he gabbed as he jabbed. “Can’t believe I lost that bet last night. Fuckin Coach K. Playin his white boys so much. They should call him Coach KKK.”
Franco grinned—until Joey jabbed it away. “And the fuckin Cameron Crazies. They should come around here. Meet the Crazebey crazies.”
Franco parried a flurry from Joey. Bounced back with a jab of his own. “That shoulda been your boxing name. The Keasbey Crazy.”
“Fuck yo! You’re right!” Joey went on the offensive. “Can’t fuck with the Keasbey Crazy, son!”
The Bunns Lane Brawler met the Crazy’s aggression as the two went toe to toe, blow for blow. Franco’s favorite position. In the pocket. Trading rockets. Until the challenger blew up. Like when him and Joey were watching in fifth grade. When Mrs. V had to turn off the TV.
Joey cornered Franco.
Franco deked. Ducked. Uppercut.
“Oh shit. Barbosa better be ready!” Joey shook it off as Franco chased him around the ring. Feelin it.
Until a new challenger across the gym caught Franco’s eye.
Julie. The straight-from-work manager ordered TJ to stay like a puppy in training. She then marched with her short hair and high heels over to the ring. Iced Franco out with her ice blue eyes.
“Oh shit. Sparring’s over. Time for a real fight,” said Joey as he hopped out of the ring. Added a departing “Wooo!” with the flair of Ric Flair.
Franco looked down to those frosted eyes. Goddamn did the last seven years harden his sweetheart. He didn’t really wanna think about whose fault that was, so he cut to the chase. “What do ya want from me?”
“I got a call from Miss Lane.”
&n
bsp; “And that’s my fault?” said Franco with a roll of his eyes as he rolled out of the ring.
“The apple doesn’t fall too far.”
“Right. Right. When he does good shit, he’s your son. When he does bad shit, he’s my son.”
Franco watched as the little general crossed her arms. Napoleon in her pantsuit. The Emperor of TJ. She unfurled her arms and fired her weapon. A wagging finger that riddled Franco with insults. “He’s your son when he spends his nights listening to that gangster rap garbage. Watching mafia movies. Hanging with hood rats. Doing who the hell knows what at school.”
“What can I do for ya?”
“There’s a storm coming.”
When TJ turned two, Julie had finally gotten the chance to start taking college classes. Aced them all. Only the prospects for the 25-year-old mother from Local U weren’t exactly the ones in the alternate universe she imagined. The alternate universe where she never met Franco and his wrong side of the track pack. The one where she went off to college and met the Brat Pack. Met boarding school kids like the one woman who actually cracked her company’s executive board.
The energy company where 25-year-old Julie was a customer service rep taking down ten bucks an hour. Listening to Jersey hotheads wonder why their goddamn bill was so high. I know. Mine, too. Do you have a pool? Heaters can really run it up, she’d say with a smile. And others wondering when they’re gonna get their fuhkin powuh back. No, I understand. You said you were a plumber? You know what it’s like. When you get those disasters you work around the clock on. We’ve got our linemen double-shifted. Out there 24-7. We even brought some in from out of state. Sleeping in trailers we set up. I’ll be here until midnight myself as a matter of fact. What’s your number? I’ll call you and let you know when our linemen are on the way. Nine out of ten times, they called in as her sworn enemy and hung up as her old pal. Of course, one out of ten times even the Jewels couldn’t calm em down. Your company’s a fuhkin joke. You’re awl shit. And her favorite. They should drop a bomb on ya whole building.