Make mine a Boilermaker

Billy Robin was the contractor's name and I know that he was unable to discern from my appearance that I was adverse to any form, degree, or manner of work, because he hired me.

I began work the very next morning at seven o'clock. They drove us from Natchaug to New London in a rickety dull-colored pickup truck. Five other similar vehicles followed us, loaded with other burly construction workers. It was late in October and the Connecticut weather was crisp and biting. Huddled in one corner of the "dump" portion of the truck I listened passively to the unintelligible grunts of the other men. They seemed to have their own special language; a crude Esperanto of abbreviations, aborted sentences, and strange sounds which were like nothing I had ever heard as speech. They perhaps would have been able to communicate with pithecanthropus erectus or with the crawlers and the creepers which bridged the gap between Tree Man and Fire Man.

When we arrived at the partially completed housing project, I was surprised to see that it was directly across the street from three taverns, which were aligned in a straight row. Feeling ill at ease, I stood around for what seemed to be ages, my hands in my pockets, walking back and forth, gaping at the movement, and listening to the buzz of activity. Finally, Billy Robin put me to work. My first day as a constructor worker was spent moving long boards which were two inches thick and twelve inches wide. At one end of each board stood a giant who could easily have passed for Paul Bunyan and I was at the other end.

Like a damn fool I hadn't bothered to bring gloves and by noon my blisters were like the tiers comprising the houses of Pueblo Indians. The noon whistle blew and everyone adjourned to the taverns, so I followed suit. Now I had brought a packed lunch, but most of the men, to my astonishment, were devouring pickled sausages which looked as though they had been decomposing on the bottom of the ocean for decades, and from the odors which emanated from them it would seem that their looks were not deceiving. They also munched on greasy potato chips. They washed down these units of nourishment with shots of whiskey chased by tall, cold, perspiring steins of cheap, draft beer. Some of them varied their "meal" by pouring the whiskey into the beer before consuming it. These were variations of the "boilermaker."

Not wishing to set myself apart from the others, I followed their lead. By the time the whistle was again blown to resume work, most of us were well on the way to becoming inebriated. It took me until about four o'clock to regain my sobriety, so I had only a short while to become aware of the painful blisters on my hands.

At five thirty only one truck left for Natchaug. The rest of the workers went back to the bars and I went with them. Once again I couldn't help but notice the tremendous business the bars were doing.

I did not go to work the second day. I called in and resigned my job. Billy Robin said that I was a "one day wonder."

If you are ever on Wall Street in New London you will notice that across from the big housing project are four taverns. Four bars in a row is an unusual sight. I am the proprietor of the one called Boilermaker's Bar.

Signed Higgins

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