10,826. RUDIMENTS, pt. 323

RUDIMENTS, pt. 323

Making Cars

When they threw those fish,

the way they caught them was

like cradling, not catching. It

was more the entire arms were

used, not the hands alone; the

airborne path of the fish was

approximated and that's where

the cradling arms would be. I

never knew how they did it  -

one is certainly not 'born' with

such a talent, so along the way I

figured there must be numerous

misses, fish to the floor, or fish

that slipped away during the

catching motion. It guess they

'wrote them off' as instructional

losses. The fish themselves were

always wet and slippery; nothing

was ever let to dry out and, in

fact, one of the entry-level

fish-market jobs was as a 'hose

boy' as the category was called.

I almost did it for a while but the

guy was gruff and not so keen

on me  - for this job at minimum

wage or near to it (maybe $1.25

an hour, then), you'd get a hose

and be told to keep busy going

around misting/spraying everything

so as to keep it all moist.  You had 
to wear slop boots, and some guys
had plastic rain jackets on too. There

would be buyers walking around,

checking the fish, looking closely,

touching scales (both kinds) and all

that - all pretty weird because I was 

sure it meant nothing at all  -  the

haggling over prices per pound, 

volume discounts, payment terms

and restaurant quotas. It was all

business, and there were very many

small-sized refrigerated trucks

around (usually as early as could

be, 5am). A lot of noise, a big,

echoey chamber, water hoses

and the noises they made, and carts

and metal shelves, and trucks and

horns. There were a hundred things

to do a minute  - loading trucks,

crating or uncrating, moving

things. Day work was easy to

come by, but I hated all that smell

and slime too much to get involved.

Any day-work I ever took, and I

did, always was on the west side

but I hated the meat stuff too, blood,

and vegetables and all that was

taken care of; my favorite and most 
constant things were the nearby

truckyards and the westside wharves

and piers. That was much more fun

to me, and I'll tell you why when

I get to it.

-

There are old photos of NYCity in

which you can see all the tall sailing

ships of those early days tied in

along the numerous waterfront

freight houses, counting houses,

pier warehouses, and ship repair

yards, chandlers, rope merchants

and the rest. An entire bevy of

commercial enterprises dedicated

to the great East River docks of yore.

There were also, in profusion,

whorehouses, betting parlors, dog

and rat fighting pits, buildings

dedicated to both, adding in

drink, rum, filth, slop, mayhem,

moneylenders, brokers for slaves

and humans. The street was as if

in a perpetual shade, with the grand,

tall, ships and their long, pointed

fronts jabbing over the street from

where they were tied. Strange people

wandered everywhere  - Africans,

Jamaicans, Haitians, escaped, and

not, slaves, criminals, murderers

on the run. Police protection was

minimal and mostly the two

differing police forces fought

themselves and fought the fire

brigades too  -  which brigades,

early on, often were the law,

or thought they were and acted

as if. Albany had imposed one

police force on the city, and the

Metropolitan Police Force  -  made

of locals, and mostly brawling,

Irish and not, immigrant thugs  -

maintained their own constabulary.

It was war, in the name of Law.

And, sad to say here too, a woman

found here was assumed (careful

now) to be good for, and there

for, one thing only. Runway

and abandoned children, and

street urchins roamed in packs.

Eventually NYCity formed the

'Children's Aid Society' to try

and round them up, feed and give

comfort to them, and maybe even

some learning. All it ever really led

to was them becoming newsboys,

newsgirls, corn and chestnut sellers

on the street (the 'hot corn girl' of

New York Street legend was a

famed icon). Still abused and

used, and neglected  -  just in

different ways. Most often, boys

grew some and just ran off to sea

on whichever ship they could get

on. A few years later, they'd arrive

back, worldly, wise in the ways of

crime and infamy, and oftentimes

turned into pirates or brigands

as well. Along the wharves there

were 'piracy offices' for people

looking for work  -  watching what

entered and left the harbor, they

selected (and took orders) for

goods later to be stolen at sea  -

a line of work and opportunity

for budding pirates and certain

swashbucklers of note. Look

up 'Blackbeard' some day, and

see. Schools for sea-crime.

-

Those early days must have been

grand. 1967, still grand enough,

was much different and that year

was the cutting edge of the new. It

was about that time that hard-brained

schemes starting popping up, like the

'theming' of areas, historic 'preservation'

(anything but), Rangers and society

officers, and even docents and guides,

under the auspices of 1970's things

like 'The South Street Seaport' faux

museum and operation, which in

about 5 years had merely become

a name only. In all other aspects

it was a shopping mall (multi-level

and fairly high-end), [funny, I just
wrongly typed that as 'shipping-malls'] 
a series of eateries and restaurants, 
national-name taverns and party

places, with all the usual panoply of

souvenirs and touristy gimmicks

for folks from Idaho, Kansas, and

Indiana  -  who took their big-day

there as a real New York City

humdinger experience.

-

The rest of the Fulton Fish Market

and the piers and the seaport itself

was endlessly fascinating  -  and

important too. Right on up to

Corlears Hook there had once been

an entire channel of maritime repair

shops, re-rigging shops, retro-fitters,

barrel-makers, lumber yards;

everything those old ships needed.

Portside repairs during the layovers

were a big deal. Around 1967, this

was just beginning to dwindle  -

obviously as the entire shipping

industry had changed, sails were

long gone, and freight was handled

differently. I caught it just as the

'sense' of the old was whirling away,

but the fish market people yet

inhabited that world and the world

of their own quite nicely. Things of

'wood' still existed. The little bars

and eateries had wharf-front, large

windows allowing you to just sit

and stare out to the harbor. No one

bothered you; people came and went.

Old, grimy regulars, pattering about

their newspapers and shipping

journals; cigar guys, older, sitting

mute and totally engrossed in

whatever held their minds 

together, or not. There was a 

seven-foot giant of a guy. I'd 

see him often  -  he lumbered

around like a mystery, knowing

people but acknowledging none.

I often wondered about him and

thought he probably held a

million stories, tales of fire and

woe. Is it a drawback, or a plus,

I'd wondered, to be more than 

seven feet large and be on a 

ship? You either take up too 

much space, or you are valued 

for strength, brawn. and potential. 

I never knew. But, at the same

time, it was all conjecture because

I never even really knew if he had

been a sailor-guy in any way.