I had Mexican food for lunch today, then went to see the following movie... Thanks for the inspiration, Brit!
Snyder Leather Days
I used to live in Boston while I was between colleges, and I worked in this place that was like a factory. The building stood in the middle of the bridge that linked the Puerto Rican section of town to Southie, where the Irish live. The water below the bridge was Aim-blue and opaque, and it was dangerous to cross to the "other" side, depending on your accent.
The other workers and I climbed six flights of stairs to meet a freight elevator that delivered an endless supply of boxed, smashed leather coats from China. The freight elevator was strictly for freight. We stretched the car coats, blazers, dusters, bombers, and motorcycle jackets over bedraggled cloth manekins that inflated with steam at the press of a pedal. I only worked there three days before I got third degree burns. Then, like my coworkers, I took up the practice of bandaging my hands before work each morning, and wearing boots to protect my legs from the hot jets that shot out of the holes in the manekins. We arrived at seven a.m. in the winter dark, avoiding the deep, icy puddles. We knew what it was like to work all day in wet boots. There were no breaks at that job.
I used to think no one talked there because we spoke different languages, unless you counted the two brothers who worked next to each other, and sang along with the constant, almost inaudible Latin radio. My Spanish wasn't too good when I started, but after a few months, I began to notice that the boys (they might have been 18 or so) weren't singing the same words as the songs. In fact, what they were singing didn't even rhyme, and didn't repeat with any sort of chorus. By summer, I could tell they weren't singing at all. They were holding coversations. One Friday, I decided to join in.
I took their stunned expressions as surprise and delight that I could speak their language - that's usually the response I got when I'd attempt my fledgling Spanish. They answered my bubbly questions about Puerto Rico in clipped, one word answers, and in low tones. I started to get a different read on their acceptance of me. I quit talking to them, and went back to my punishing manekin, feeling shut out. That day marked the onset of the summer heat, and sweatshop (a word I'd thought arcane) became the way I described my work.
The following week, another woman started work there. Her name was Isabel, and she was from Brooklyn. She was Puerto Rican as well, but spoke English. We laughed and shared bagels and dried mangos the rest of the morning, and I actually got more coats steamed into shape as a result, enjoying the respite from tedium.
That afternoon, Leon came back from the loading dock, where he had checked in our most recent shipment - 4000 women's and men's trench coats in brown and black. He was our superviser, as well as the shipping clerk. An older man with dark eyes, thick plastic glasses on the end of his nose, and a gray crewcut, Leon was quiet to the point of sullen. He read German newspapers, and ate his lunch alone. He dressed no better than the rest of us, and kept his head low when Marty Snyder was around. Marty was the big boss, with radio commercials announcing his wares in his own whining voice.
Leon heard Isabel and I laughing and mimicking Marty's ad, "Hello. This is Ma-a-wty from Snydah Leathah..." He approached like a cat who suddenly advances on its prey, with increasing speed. "Vat eez all zees talking?", he whispered, barely holding back spit as his lips trembled. Isabel and I giggled nervously, still not understanding how serious Leon meant to sound. He actually seemed strangely terrified. He got closer to me, an inch or two from my face. "Anozah eenceedent like zees and you are fired!"
Fired. I couldn't get fired. I'd have to move home, and even my meager urban existence beat life at my parents' house in the deep south, with no seedy clubs or good beer. The day, the week, and the long summer stretched out in front of me like a bed of coals. The brown, half-opened windows behind my manekin revealed a half sunken barge, and hid the Boston skyline. I had never felt more isolated.
The temperature of the sixth floor loft increased each day, and the steam mixed with the smoggy humidity. The Puerto Rican boys cut their twin afros, and Isabel and I came early and traded French braiding and hand-bandaging in the morning while we could still chat a little. She had to pick up her son each day after work, and Leon had effectively curtailed any daytime conversations. He came to work in stained old tee shirts now, tucked tightly into his shabby pants. Leon kept his nervous distance, but his hawking scrutiny never wavered.
One Friday, I stayed to clean up a bit before meeting some friends for pints. I changed into my clean, carefully torn vintage dress and added a fresh layer of duct tape to my winter-worn cowboy boots. I rung up my eyes in the black liner that was standard for my peer group, and decided to sneak down the freight elevator. After a long day on the concrete floors, my toes dreaded the pounding of six flights down as much as the seven a.m. six flight climb. The whole place was silent, and I could actually see the pink panorama of Boston harbor and Southie through the cage as I sank past the fifth, fourth, and third floor windows. Then the motor stopped. I stood stiff while the great horizontal doors opened, and Leon's silhouette emerged between their jaws in front of the second floor lights. He stepped into the elevator, carrying his dog-eared newspaper and leftovers.
We rode in silence, and he stood ahead of me, pointedley ignoring my presence, just as if we were strangers in some high rise office building. I scanned him carefully. He shifted his folded newspaper, and I saw the tattoo for the first time - not some trendy design or military memento, but a series of digits on the inside of his forearm. I'm not sure how big the number was now - more than the average person could memorize at a glance. More than a million.
Snyder Leather Days
I used to live in Boston while I was between colleges, and I worked in this place that was like a factory. The building stood in the middle of the bridge that linked the Puerto Rican section of town to Southie, where the Irish live. The water below the bridge was Aim-blue and opaque, and it was dangerous to cross to the "other" side, depending on your accent.
The other workers and I climbed six flights of stairs to meet a freight elevator that delivered an endless supply of boxed, smashed leather coats from China. The freight elevator was strictly for freight. We stretched the car coats, blazers, dusters, bombers, and motorcycle jackets over bedraggled cloth manekins that inflated with steam at the press of a pedal. I only worked there three days before I got third degree burns. Then, like my coworkers, I took up the practice of bandaging my hands before work each morning, and wearing boots to protect my legs from the hot jets that shot out of the holes in the manekins. We arrived at seven a.m. in the winter dark, avoiding the deep, icy puddles. We knew what it was like to work all day in wet boots. There were no breaks at that job.
I used to think no one talked there because we spoke different languages, unless you counted the two brothers who worked next to each other, and sang along with the constant, almost inaudible Latin radio. My Spanish wasn't too good when I started, but after a few months, I began to notice that the boys (they might have been 18 or so) weren't singing the same words as the songs. In fact, what they were singing didn't even rhyme, and didn't repeat with any sort of chorus. By summer, I could tell they weren't singing at all. They were holding coversations. One Friday, I decided to join in.
I took their stunned expressions as surprise and delight that I could speak their language - that's usually the response I got when I'd attempt my fledgling Spanish. They answered my bubbly questions about Puerto Rico in clipped, one word answers, and in low tones. I started to get a different read on their acceptance of me. I quit talking to them, and went back to my punishing manekin, feeling shut out. That day marked the onset of the summer heat, and sweatshop (a word I'd thought arcane) became the way I described my work.
The following week, another woman started work there. Her name was Isabel, and she was from Brooklyn. She was Puerto Rican as well, but spoke English. We laughed and shared bagels and dried mangos the rest of the morning, and I actually got more coats steamed into shape as a result, enjoying the respite from tedium.
That afternoon, Leon came back from the loading dock, where he had checked in our most recent shipment - 4000 women's and men's trench coats in brown and black. He was our superviser, as well as the shipping clerk. An older man with dark eyes, thick plastic glasses on the end of his nose, and a gray crewcut, Leon was quiet to the point of sullen. He read German newspapers, and ate his lunch alone. He dressed no better than the rest of us, and kept his head low when Marty Snyder was around. Marty was the big boss, with radio commercials announcing his wares in his own whining voice.
Leon heard Isabel and I laughing and mimicking Marty's ad, "Hello. This is Ma-a-wty from Snydah Leathah..." He approached like a cat who suddenly advances on its prey, with increasing speed. "Vat eez all zees talking?", he whispered, barely holding back spit as his lips trembled. Isabel and I giggled nervously, still not understanding how serious Leon meant to sound. He actually seemed strangely terrified. He got closer to me, an inch or two from my face. "Anozah eenceedent like zees and you are fired!"
Fired. I couldn't get fired. I'd have to move home, and even my meager urban existence beat life at my parents' house in the deep south, with no seedy clubs or good beer. The day, the week, and the long summer stretched out in front of me like a bed of coals. The brown, half-opened windows behind my manekin revealed a half sunken barge, and hid the Boston skyline. I had never felt more isolated.
The temperature of the sixth floor loft increased each day, and the steam mixed with the smoggy humidity. The Puerto Rican boys cut their twin afros, and Isabel and I came early and traded French braiding and hand-bandaging in the morning while we could still chat a little. She had to pick up her son each day after work, and Leon had effectively curtailed any daytime conversations. He came to work in stained old tee shirts now, tucked tightly into his shabby pants. Leon kept his nervous distance, but his hawking scrutiny never wavered.
One Friday, I stayed to clean up a bit before meeting some friends for pints. I changed into my clean, carefully torn vintage dress and added a fresh layer of duct tape to my winter-worn cowboy boots. I rung up my eyes in the black liner that was standard for my peer group, and decided to sneak down the freight elevator. After a long day on the concrete floors, my toes dreaded the pounding of six flights down as much as the seven a.m. six flight climb. The whole place was silent, and I could actually see the pink panorama of Boston harbor and Southie through the cage as I sank past the fifth, fourth, and third floor windows. Then the motor stopped. I stood stiff while the great horizontal doors opened, and Leon's silhouette emerged between their jaws in front of the second floor lights. He stepped into the elevator, carrying his dog-eared newspaper and leftovers.
We rode in silence, and he stood ahead of me, pointedley ignoring my presence, just as if we were strangers in some high rise office building. I scanned him carefully. He shifted his folded newspaper, and I saw the tattoo for the first time - not some trendy design or military memento, but a series of digits on the inside of his forearm. I'm not sure how big the number was now - more than the average person could memorize at a glance. More than a million.
posted by K at 11:36 AM
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