Part Three
Chapter Seven
Shannon O'Day was seeking out work. He was a man who used his hands more than his mind in such matters. He went back to the foundry, Malibu Iron, over on the eastside of town. He looked through the window, it was inviting, all those people running to and fro to get this and that done. True, it was a dirty, messy job, all foundries are, but they paid well. Men running around naked after being washed up in the showers, and putting on long underwear, so the winds of Minnesota would not freeze them, or get frostbite.
Inside the foundry doors, Shannon beckoned to a woman in the office, "I say do you have a supervisor?"
"Can I help you, sir?" asked the woman.
"What do you think I just said, where is the boss man, do you have a boss man?" Shannon knew the foundries and factories quite well, like the palm of his hand, he worked in enough of them. He was on his guard, they were not going to fool him one iota. He waited by the office door. He read a sign a little ways down the isle:
"Forman, Knock before entering!"
Heck with this noise, he told himself, I'll go right to the main-man, and he walked down the isle, and saw the door was slightly opened, knocked on it, then walked in.
"Can't you read the sign," said a voice behind a desk.
"It said Knock, and I did," said Shannon, standing in front of the Forman's desk. Outside in the isle, he could hear the workmen going back and forth, humming, and talking, and whistling, and cussing.
He was a little man, but well-built, with broad shoulders and big hands, and a harsh face.
"So what can I do for yaw, as if I don't know?"
"What you do best, hire and fire, today it is hire me, and I can do anything these young whippersnappers can do, and do it better, faster."
"So you want a job, do you, all right, I got one for you." Said the foreman, "we'll put you up by the burner, and you can pour the metal into the molds: how's that?"
"Just dandy," said Shannon.
"Poggi, come over here," he called to a middle aged man, tall and healthy looking, and when Poggi got to the foreman, he looked Shannon up and down.
"I'm a German," said the Foreman, "do you mind working for a German boss?"
"One kraut's just as good as the next, or bad, I've got nothing against them, we kicked their butts twice, and they are slow learners, that's all I know, why do you ask?"
"Well that's honest and good talk, I see you're Irish, and I don't have a thing against you potato pickers over there in Ireland either, as long as you do your work here."
The man called Poggi Ingway, just kept looking and staring at Shannon, as the Forman stepped aside for a moment to talk to one of the workers.
"Glad to meet you Poggi," said Shannon. He was looking at his chunkiness, he was as round as he was tall, but solid in the right places.
"We don't usually see your sort around here," he said.
"Your Foreman's the first German I ever met, I didn't shoot," said Shannon.
"Oh, he's really just a good ole American boy, his father came from Austria, and his mother from Germany, but he was born here in St. Paul," Poggi said, as he showed him around the foundry, the Foreman still talking to the worker.
"Were you in the war too?" he asked Shannon.
"Yup, the First Great War, I was in France, in those trenches."
"I bet that was quite an occurrence," said Poggi.
"It was cold and wet, men peeing in their pants, and waste piled high as horses, rats all over, it was nasty, but they died brave, awkward, wall-eyed, then one day they just up and stopped the killing, as if they lost the goat, and didn't want to lose the rope, but they did, the German's lost it all in WWII." Then he remembered his rat, he left it in his apartment, forgot to leave out some food for it. "We were all misfits back then, not like the Army nowadays."
"Aren't you kind of old to be working?" he asked.
Shannon didn't answer.
"Don't take anything out with you, they check you naked after you take a shower, and if they find anything in your locker, or on your person, or in your cloths, it's curtains, finished for you here."
"I suppose many men get fired because of that?"
"No," said Poggi, "not many try, or are so foolish to attempt it."
"My wife left me," said Shannon to Poggi.
"Well, I'd not worry about that anymore, it looks like you still got some getup and go, a good job, a place to rest your head, and perhaps a dog or two, right? And finding a good or bad female is no harder than finding a good or bad steakhouse."
"Yup, I suppose so, everything but the dog, I got a rat."
"I wouldn't say that too loud Shannon, people might think you're wacko."
"I heard someone once say, 'No wife is better than having the wrong wife' something like that."
"I heard something different, 'If there are no good wives to pick from, any wife is better than no wife at all,' but I'd not look forward to that."
"You listen up Poggi, a piece of advice for you; you're much younger than me. Get yourself a fat ugly wife, and you'll be happy all the days of your life. Or some South American gal, they like to take care of their husbands."
"Shannon," said Poggi, "it sounds like you know a thing or two, I'm glad we've met, and we'll be working together."
Poggi put Shannon to work right away, putting him on the second shift, from 4:00 p.m., until midnight; introduced Shannon to most of the workers.
He worked next to Poggi for the following months, shifting iron weights onto molds, holding them steady as the molten metal was poured into them, and when he wasn't doing that, he was pouring molten metal into the molds, and it seemed Poggi and Shannon got along quite well, working side by side.
o
The Foreman's Nightmare
Believe it or not, I have no intentions to vilify poor Mr. Schultz, and I have tried to use utmost care in his tragic circumstance, for there is nothing new under the sun; but perhaps had he not had bad habits, this scarce action produced, would not have come about. Who or what do we blame, God?
It was back in 1945, twenty-six years ago, at the end of the Second World War, he, Hans Schultz was drunk, and so was his wife, Marylou, celebrating the end of the war, he took out a package of cigarettes, fumbled with his matches, he had two left in the little box, and he bent over to shelter the flame, with his hands blocking the breeze coming off the Mississippi River, they were walking alongside the edge of the High Bridge, the sides made of wood and iron framed, built in the late 1880s.
Marylou, had taken one of the cigarettes out of his package, he lit his cigarette, leaned against the wooden railing of the bridge, she did likewise, he put his cigarette in his mouth, and lit the second match, with intentions to light her cigarette, she had long hair, she coughed, leaned forward, her hair caught on fire, she fell backwards as Hans tried to put out the fire, pushing her backwards more, unintentionally hard against the railing, the fire was put out, but unexpectedly, his weight hitting her's was too much for the old wooden railing, and in the late coolness of the night, she dropped to her death, deep into the rivers current, never to be found.
It was a nightmare, and always the same one for him.
He quite smoking that very day, desperation came and left a dark weariness in his soul! Work, work, it was the simplest solution, his eternal medicine, to block those ongoing nightmares. Sometimes he got too tired to sleep, "Things like that sometimes happen," said the priest, at his local church, what more can you say to a grieving man, except you know where I'll be if you need a listener.
Chapter Eight
The first day, lead into 364-more days, endless hours to Shannon O'Day, shifting iron weights, and pouring molten metal, and looking at naked men, washing and cleaning, and often brining his pet rat in, and keeping him in his lunch bucket in the dressing room, and eating lunch alone in that very room, concealed him a few times in his pants pocket, and everyone wondered what he had in that pocket, it bulged so heavily, and wiggled. Poggi had told him: bringing the rat was not the wisest of decisions, but he missed his pet ever so much, even though it made Poggi uncomfortable.
Oh, Shannon was happy he was working, but it took much of his time. Now the week was finished, it was Friday night. And Shannon was on his way to the diner to see Maribel, his new girlfriend; he was spending a lot of time at the diner, socializing with new friends. Her story had kind of bothered him, so he asked Poggi about San Francisco, he knew he had been there. He got him drunk and then got him to talk, drew out some information. He was pretty wise in knowing when and how to get a man drunk then ask the right questions.
After they got drunk, Shannon and Poggi went out to Como Park, by the lake, sat in the car, watched twilight move into place, the lake was starting to freeze up, some kids were ice skating on it, "No reason to rush the relationship with Maribel," Poggi told him. "All things come in good time, all things come to those who have patience," said Poggi.
Shannon looked at him mysteriously. Who was Poggi anyhow, I mean, he was no middle aged Plato, just a foundry worker, with a lot of advise to an old man, who was getting older by the day, and perhaps a little undernourished with sex, and missing his cornfields, and the sounds of the trains. Of course Poggi, who had no girlfriends couldn't understand his needs, isn't that how it always is, a one way street, on a two way highway, and one driver don't have a license because he never drove before. He never lived through a war, had four marriages, a kid in high school, living with his brother. Shannon O'Day, opened his car door, the air was cold, "Plato, get out of my car, go tell your bean head girl friends to wait for their next fix with sex, they'll drop you like a hot potato." And then he put the car in gear and took off. Shannon didn't know Poggi didn't have any girlfriends, he just assumed he did.
"Good evening," he said to Maribel, at the diner.
"It's nice to see you this evening; I'll get off in an hour." She told Shannon.
"He sat down at the counter, had a cup of coffee, started reading the St. Paul Pioneer Press, he often read it, liked the paper. Poggi's comments stirred inside of him.
"I've been thinking all day long," he told Maribel as she walked by-he looked at the other folks in the diner, a few young folks with girlfriends, an old man falling to sleep in his eggs and taste, a woman staring at his rat peeking at her, "hurry up," he added.
"How cute," she commented, "a blue ribbon around Rata's neck. And then she smiled at Rata, the official name Shannon had given him, in lack of a better one that came to mind.
He grabbed Maribel by the skirt, but with dignity, she turned around sharply, "Yes, yes, Shannon what is it?"
"You are my old lady, right?" he said. Tears came down her eyes, "Of course dear," she responded, "why?"
He hesitated, she said, "You are my old man, correct?" and he nodded his head up and down, giving the yes signal.
"Now what is the matter?" she asked sternly.
Shannon said the word in a whisper, "I'm...you know what, let's get married, the sooner the better?" He knew he couldn't keep it any longer a secret; it was what he wanted to say for a while now.
"If we get married, are you going to take Rata every place we go?" she asked (the rat looked at her unhappily, and then at Shannon).
"No, not every place, we'll look for a Mrs. Rata for him," and they started laughing, laughing so hard it reminded him how he used to laugh in the cornfields, unabated, with his ex-wife, drunk as a skunk, his long gone, disappearing now ex-wife.
So off they went to make plans. Shannon grabbing his paper, folding it and putting it in his back pant's pocket.
"I really like that paper, I've not read it all the way through yet!" he told Maribel.
She had buttoned her coat up, carried her apron in her hands to wash later on.
"Here, put my hat on, you'll get a cold," said Shannon to Maribel.
"No, I don't like hats, I'm fifty-seven years old, never wore a hat, and it isn't goin' to start with you either."
"It's your wedding gift," said Shannon.
"Oh," commented Maribel, "that's different," and she took the hat and put it on her head, and smiled.
Chapter Nine
It was early in the morning of the next day they got married, Shannon O'Day, and his waitress, Maribel O'Day, were one like two peas in a pod. They walked into the diner as man and wife, said hello to Old Josh Jeremy Brown, the Negro cook, he liked playing the banjo when no one was around, he liked his wine also, a bottle hidden here and there, he was about the same age as Shannon, between 65 and 70, not even Shannon knew his correct age, he guessed it at 68. No spring chicken. There was also, the young fancy looking waitress, who wore yellow like Maribel, her name was Annabelle Henry, and the young man who was always sitting at the end of the counter with his guitar, thinking one day he'd be another Elvis, or Rick Nelson, or Johnny Cash, he'd join in playing and singing with Old Josh Jeremy Brown, normally around 3:00 a.m., when it was quiet at the eatery, after the drunks came in for a Porterhouse steak, or early morning breakfast, and staggered back out of the diner trying to find their way back home.
The old black cook asked Maribel, "Youall wants some breakfast, lunch or whatever?" he came up from Alabama back in the early 50s, so he still had some of the southern drawl in him left.
"I'm not going to feed that Rata, of yours," said Annabelle, with a disgusted look on her face. It was warm inside and Shannon and his new wife sat in a booth, put in a dime for a song on the little booth jukebox, it was Rick Nelson singing "Lonesome Town," and it brought a tear to Maribel's eyes.
"I love that song so very much," said Maribel, "you got that pint of whiskey? Pour some in my coffee before Annabelle comes back." She told her husband. She liked to drink, not quite as much as Shannon but nearly as much, and Shannon was wondering if she'd like to get drunk in the yellow cornfields, like he and his ex used to do, but he'd not tell her yet-there is a time for everything under the sun, that was one of his many one-liners.
He, Shannon, picked up the Minneapolis Star, newspaper, read the front page, then looked at Maribel, said, "Yes, we are man and wife now, it feels good, and I want to get good and drunk to my heart's content."
"We don't need to say that so loud, dear, we just do it, everyone around here has three ears, if you know what I mean."
"Yes, dear," Shannon agreed.
"Would you like a breakfast or a Porterhouse steak dear?" Maribel asked her husband.
"I'll just take a warm bowel of tomato soup with crackers," Shannon told his wife.
Annabelle Henry, the young waitress, placed the soup and crackers on his table, as she laid the plate down she saw the head of the rat, her hand almost touched him, he was so far out of Shannon's pocket.
"Really, do you got to carry that beast around wherever you go?" she remarked to Shannon.
"Let's hear it Ricky!" Shannon shouted, and now he was playing another of Rick Nelson's songs, it sounded like "Be-Bop Baby," and was not paying Annabelle any attention.
"What does he call his rat?" Annabelle, asked Maribel.
"Rata, a simple name," remarked Maribel.
"Why not something with a little pizzazz to it, like Picasso, or Dali or Elvis Junior?"
"Or why not Annabelle?" said Maribel.
"Because it's a male," remarked Annabelle.
"How would you know?"
"Because Shannon refers to the creature like it's a male."
"I don't think Shannon even knows if it is a he or she," said Maribel.
"I think we got to go, talk to you another time, Annabelle, Shannon's little beast is getting hungry, and he has to be fed."
The black cook, Josh, started laughing, he heard everything, and he was sitting at the end of the counter, having his lunch.
"What's so funny?" asked Annabelle, to Old Josh.
"Rata," he said, "Rata! Rata! What a name."
Then she said, "Josh, Josh!" (mockingly), as her voice was rising, "please Josh talk to Shannon about getting rid of that rat!"
There was no answer just the sound of him eating and breathing. He was a man content to leave well enough alone.
Chapter Ten
Shannon's life seemed to take on a new dimension, working at the foundry now on the morning shift, attending to a new wife, and Rata, his pet rat. Not much time for reading the St. Paul Pioneer Press newspaper, not much time to read anything, not even politics, or war, he liked reading about war, especially the new war in Vietnam, and that fellow called Ho Chi Minh skinny as a bean pole, but he thought he was smart as a whip. I mean, here was a guy washing dishes in Paris one day, and now ruled a jungle and its countrymen, like trained rodents, what more could you ask for in life. He fought the French, the Japanese, and now the Americans. If anything he was a 'go getter.' The Vietnamese were a strange people indeed, he concluded. Maybe someday someone will write a book about him and his exploits in the trenches of France during WWI, like Hemingway did about the first war, in 'A Farewell to Arms' and Faulkner did in 'The Fable,' and that German guy did with "All Quiet on the Western Front."
Oh well, that's how it was now, not much time for debating things out. She took on a husband, and he took on a wife, but now the trick was, and she was thinking this, it was written all over her face, anyone could tell she was thinking, "Can I hold onto him now, keep him for my own!" Oh yes, she, Maribel, was wondering this indeed.
Mr. Shannon O'Day, formerly a retired old man, who got drunk weekly in the cornfields of Minnesota, in the summers, springs and falls, now the husband to Maribel Adams, now Maribel O'Day, was working in a foundry, had a good income. But the real reason she was questioning her get up and go, her womanhood, was because Annabelle Henry, was making eyes at him, at her man, her man and husband, she had her own intentions and she was not telling anyone verbally of them, but women can tell such things. And every time Maribel looked into the mirror, she saw Annabelle laughing. This was not good for her morale. The question had come to mind, 'Could Maribel quit her job, after so many years?' I mean Annabelle even flirted with Rata occasionally, to appease and get closer to Shannon.
She couldn't iron those wrinkles out, she knew that, and she couldn't break mirror after mirror, so for the mean time she simply had to live with the awful thought 'could she or couldn't she hold on to her man, her husband?' Every night at the diner, when Maribel would look at Annabelle, a knot came into her stomach, made her feel oozy. She knew Annabelle had a blueprint on Shannon O'Day, yes him, him, the very him, she married, Shannon.
As far as Maribel figured it, Annabelle was no more than a whore, yes, and a cagey one at that. Couldn't she find her own boyfriend? She was twenty-seven years old, trying to come between husband and wife that was a whore to Maribel, a cagey one. Be that as it may, Shannon was fascinated by Annabelle giving him the time of day, an old yank like him, never got such devoted attention from such a young shapely pretty girl. She was some southern gal from North Carolina, came up with old Josh, got off the same train, must have met on the same train, and they both got a job at the same diner, at the same time. Maribel admitted to herself, that was mysterious, maybe they had something going, maybe the same game. The only thing that mattered now was finding out the truth, and seeking out her intentions. She had to hang onto her treasure, her man, her husband. Make him want to stay no matter what. When summer came around, perchance the cornfields would do it. He always talked about drinking in the cornfields with his ex-wife, another whore in the eyes of Maribel. She looked into the mirror in the bathroom at the café, another wrinkle appeared.
The cold was starting to freeze up the streets solid, they crack and have to be mended in spring, as usual, as the silent snows drifted lightly down, oh, she, Maribel, dreaded winter, hold it back, tell it to wait. At first the snows seemed to be natural, and then a burden, as Maribel trekked to work each day. Neither she nor her husband, Shannon drove a car, too expensive, and Shannon, feared he was too slow to react nowadays. It was turning out to be a slushy November, and Shannon was still her man, her only man, the man of all men. She even brought him the St. Paul Pioneer Press paper home every night, after work, some customer would normally leave one on the counter, and that made Shannon happy.
Chapter Eleven
Winter was coming. Winter was in the atmosphere.
(Author's Note. -This is the same day on which the story began, back on the first page, where Shannon and Poggi were looking into the window at the foundry.)
A chill was in the air, men were busy as bees, Poggi was by one window and Shannon by the another, "Are you going to go into work?" asked Poggi.
"Are you still mad at me for kicking you out of my car?" Shannon, asked-his rat moaning from his pocket, perhaps too cramped.
"No, I'm not mad," said Poggi, "how are you and Maribel doing?"
"I think she doesn't feel she can hold me, and is like a hawk, always by my side, she wants to take Rata if we separate I think!" said Shannon.
He, Poggi touched Shannon's shoulder. It was a sign that he understood, life had its ups and downs. "There's more fish in the Sea," said Poggi.
"Yaw, my mother used to say that, did you know her?" asked Shannon.
"No, of course not, it's just one of those old sayings, you know, like that Chinaman used to say, Confucius, 'Out of sight, out of mind,' something like that, and so and so and on and on...you know what I mean."
Then the wind started to blow, a chilled wind, and then a warm wind, and the weather didn't seem like it knew what it wanted to do, slush and mush, and ice mud, all over the place, grim pushed into more grim making it thicker grim, what little snow was on the ground looked horribly dirty, Shannon's shoes among them. Then he noticed Maribel coming down the street, she was faint in the distance, but he could tell by her walk, that it was her, she had that wiggle. She hoped he would be glad to see her, she hadn't been sure all night, since she got off work, and he was sleeping on the coach, and he had not come to pick her up.
Shannon was stirred up by her constantly becoming his shadow, or so it seemed. She now was waving hello at him, a half block away. Poggi still looking in the window, "I think I'm going to work, see you in there," he said and took off before Shannon's wife arrived; Maribel coming nearer.
"Good morning, dear," said Maribel, "are you going into work, or what?"
"Hello Miracle," Shannon answered. He sat down on the iron rounded fence that was below the windows. She looked at him, tired and with more wrinkles. He could afford to be any-which-way he wanted to be to her but was polite, "What brings you all the way over here dear?" In a way, his wife leaving him, and his trip to Erie had hardened him. His look at her was more eclipsed. More darkened had he shown more than his profile: his mind was near the same.
"Would you like me to buy you a paper?" she asked.
"How about us going down to the diner, forgetting work today?" he suggested.
"Ok," she said reluctantly, and then with tears from her eyes, she said, "If only I could quit that job, you'd have no reason to go there and see her...!" said Maribel. She wiped her cheek with her sleeve, "I'll carry Rata, if you want me to," she suggested.
Maribel hadn't been out all morning she was hungry, but was afraid to let Shannon know, then that would give him a good excuse to stay longer at the diner, and that was to the contrary of what she wanted.
They caught a bus down Seventh Street, to the diner, never once holding hands, as if they had been married for fifty-years. Shannon kept a sharp eye on Rata, thinking Maribel might try to grab him out of jealousy and runaway with him.
Many folks now knew of Shannon and his pet Rata, they were becoming a team, well known and well liked among his crowd.
As they got off of the bus, they stepped into a pile of slush, ankle deep, ice and mud and just old fashion sludge, Minnesota slush, that has a sting to it, a cold numbing like sting, then onto the narrow sidewalk, up a few steps into the eatery.
Perchance, it was the way Shannon walked ahead of her, or too far behind her, or a distance to her side, whatever it was, it told Maribel, she had too many wrinkles, she was soon to be history, replaced in the life of Shannon O'Day, god forbid, she conjured up in her mind.
Once in the diner, Annabelle looked at Shannon, they gave each other a smile, and that did it, she knew now, her days were numbered with this man she called her husband. Even Old Josh, who was cooking, saw them catch each other's eye, or perhaps it was all in her brain, and she imagined it, but truth be told, you could not have convinced Maribel to the opposite.
A Note for the Reader, not the printer or publisher: if there are misspelling in this book, or typo errors, it shouldn't make an elephant's difference in the long run, every author has them, especially in their first editions, to include Hemingway, and Faulkner, two Nobel Prizes winners for literature, and we can put Fitzgerald into this category, the one who wrote the 20th Century's greatest novel, "The Great Gatsby" but be assured, the author did not make the error (s), it was either the printer, or the publisher, too many times, it comes back to the author as a lacking to his structure, or impatience to edit his work, when in reality, it is the indolence of the printer, or publisher; enough said on this matter, back to the story.
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