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Authors: Harry Grey
Tags: Literature
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said, “What the hell you laughing at?”
“Go ahead, punk, beat it before I give you a workout,” he answered me.
I looked at him. I was on the verge of taking him on. Something inside me kept repeating, “Use your noodle, use your noodle, this guy is too big for you.” I walked away thinking: so this is what you have to contend with to make a lousy miserable living? This ain't for me. I had my belly full. What the hell am I going to be, a helper on a laundry wagon?
That night I met Maxie, Pat, Dominick and Cockeye.
We waylaid my driver and his helper on the third floor of a house on Henry Street.
I slashed out at fate by cutting my driver's cheek with my spring-knife. I took his collection money away. We beat them both into insensibility. We drove away with their horse and wagon to an open East Side pier. We unharnessed the horse and pushed the wagon and bundles into the East River. The horse vigorously nodded his head, as if he thought it a good thing. He kicked his heels and ran away.
That night we ate good at Katz's delicatessen.
Fat Moe came looking for me. He said, “The bulls were around. They asked questions about you. Better not go home.”
Luckily I found the Professor in his basement. I explained the pickle I was in. He went for a blanket. It was the first night I had ever been away from home.
I couldn't sleep too well. I wasn't scared, just nervous. I spent most of the night reading Don Quixote in the toilet.
In the morning the Professor brought me a container of coffee and hot cross buns. He gave me a key to the store and said, “Make this your hideaway until things cool off.”
He slipped me two bucks. He was a swell guy.
I heard that the union delegate was looking for me. I got in touch with him.
He said, “Good work, Noodles. One more job like the one you did on your driver, and the strike will be over. The scab drivers are afraid to go to work.”
That slash on the driver's face gave me the reputation of being a good man with a shiv. I was referred to as Noodles, the shiv, from Delancey Street. I was proud of the title.
We waylaid one more scab driver and helper. I cut them up and put them both in the hospital. It did something to me. I felt wonderfully exhilarated and happy. I found I had enjoyed the experiences immensely. When I clicked the knife open, people jumped. They showed me a new respect.
The other drivers were afraid to go out on their routes. The boss called the union. Grudgingly, he signed a fifty-four hour work week contract with an overall ten percent increase.
The delegate met us in the Professor's basement. He had a proposition. “Do you boys want to work for me and the union as sort of union organizers? Ten dollars a week, apiece?”
That was our first steady racket payroll.
We organized many of the workers in that laundry teamsters local thereafter. In our experience as organizers, we saw all the cruelty, greed and irresponsibility employers unrestrained by the union were capable of. It justified our hatred for all authority. Their standards were, in our eyes, society's standards.
Most of the time the cops were looking for me, so I kept away from home, but I sent money every week to Momma, by messenger.
CHAPTER 6
President Wilson declared war on Germany. An aura of adventure enveloped everything. Glory and brutality went together. They were the order of the day. The five of us tried to get into the swing of authorized violence by joining the Army. We were laughed at; we were too young. The exciting tempo of the country was exhilarating, like the speeding up of an immense carousel. We jumped on our own private little carousel, and took firm grips on the rails. We operated the speeds faster and faster.
With our union ten dollar a week payroll as a beginning we sought and found other means of increasing our incomes in the toughest and most competitive field of all, general hoodlumism. We entered the field pretty well equipped, for we had already taken our
“Go ahead, punk, beat it before I give you a workout,” he answered me.
I looked at him. I was on the verge of taking him on. Something inside me kept repeating, “Use your noodle, use your noodle, this guy is too big for you.” I walked away thinking: so this is what you have to contend with to make a lousy miserable living? This ain't for me. I had my belly full. What the hell am I going to be, a helper on a laundry wagon?
That night I met Maxie, Pat, Dominick and Cockeye.
We waylaid my driver and his helper on the third floor of a house on Henry Street.
I slashed out at fate by cutting my driver's cheek with my spring-knife. I took his collection money away. We beat them both into insensibility. We drove away with their horse and wagon to an open East Side pier. We unharnessed the horse and pushed the wagon and bundles into the East River. The horse vigorously nodded his head, as if he thought it a good thing. He kicked his heels and ran away.
That night we ate good at Katz's delicatessen.
Fat Moe came looking for me. He said, “The bulls were around. They asked questions about you. Better not go home.”
Luckily I found the Professor in his basement. I explained the pickle I was in. He went for a blanket. It was the first night I had ever been away from home.
I couldn't sleep too well. I wasn't scared, just nervous. I spent most of the night reading Don Quixote in the toilet.
In the morning the Professor brought me a container of coffee and hot cross buns. He gave me a key to the store and said, “Make this your hideaway until things cool off.”
He slipped me two bucks. He was a swell guy.
I heard that the union delegate was looking for me. I got in touch with him.
He said, “Good work, Noodles. One more job like the one you did on your driver, and the strike will be over. The scab drivers are afraid to go to work.”
That slash on the driver's face gave me the reputation of being a good man with a shiv. I was referred to as Noodles, the shiv, from Delancey Street. I was proud of the title.
We waylaid one more scab driver and helper. I cut them up and put them both in the hospital. It did something to me. I felt wonderfully exhilarated and happy. I found I had enjoyed the experiences immensely. When I clicked the knife open, people jumped. They showed me a new respect.
The other drivers were afraid to go out on their routes. The boss called the union. Grudgingly, he signed a fifty-four hour work week contract with an overall ten percent increase.
The delegate met us in the Professor's basement. He had a proposition. “Do you boys want to work for me and the union as sort of union organizers? Ten dollars a week, apiece?”
That was our first steady racket payroll.
We organized many of the workers in that laundry teamsters local thereafter. In our experience as organizers, we saw all the cruelty, greed and irresponsibility employers unrestrained by the union were capable of. It justified our hatred for all authority. Their standards were, in our eyes, society's standards.
Most of the time the cops were looking for me, so I kept away from home, but I sent money every week to Momma, by messenger.
CHAPTER 6
President Wilson declared war on Germany. An aura of adventure enveloped everything. Glory and brutality went together. They were the order of the day. The five of us tried to get into the swing of authorized violence by joining the Army. We were laughed at; we were too young. The exciting tempo of the country was exhilarating, like the speeding up of an immense carousel. We jumped on our own private little carousel, and took firm grips on the rails. We operated the speeds faster and faster.
With our union ten dollar a week payroll as a beginning we sought and found other means of increasing our incomes in the toughest and most competitive field of all, general hoodlumism. We entered the field pretty well equipped, for we had already taken our
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