Benjamin Corcoran, Hustler - The First Day

           Benjamin Corcoran was a born hustler.

He was adept at the short-con. He cheated at cards, he carried a set of fixed-dice, he had a double-sided coin and he played the shell game with tourists in the red-light district on account of he was deft at slight-of-hand.

Benji was a hustler, but he always did the right thing and kicked up to the street-boss, he kicked up no matter what…you have to pay to play, he told himself.

            Tonight, it was raining hard, and the only action to be had was honest work delivering brown paper bags to the cars that pulled-up looking for a score, and holding doors open for the dames that were jumping into the back seats of cars to turn a trick.

            On a lucky night, a big-spender might hand Benji a tip for his troubles, or he might get an offer to turn a trick himself.

            He was happy to make a dollar anyway he could; because he knew that if he wasn’t earning, he was spending, and he was always a day away from being broke. If there was no other action to be had he would take it, whether the interested party was a woman or a man.

            Benji watched the street like a predator watches a flock of sheep, he followed a group of college guys as they parked their car, a whole gang of them climbed out and went into the Round-up. They looked to be his age, and they were neatly dressed. He figured they were stupid as hell and would be easy to fleece if the storm would let up and the street dried out.

            He kept his eye on the Round-up, in case they should leave and go somewhere else; if it was opportune he determined to follow them and see what might come of it. 

            Beji looked down the block and saw a strung-out, needle thin, skinny blonde-girl, she was soaking wet and shivering; theoretically trying to turn a trick, but she was standing off the corner, in the shadow of an awning.

            She was young and new to Lake Street, she looked hungry and sick, sick enough to die right there on the corner. She was sick enough so that her rooming house matron wouldn’t let her in if she didn’t have the money she was expected to earn.

            It won’t be long for her, Benji thought.

The poor in St. Anthony weren’t just the great unwashed, they were the great unloved. She’ll be forgotten when she’s gone.

            Benji scanned the street again, and from where he had posted he recognized someone he knew, Johnny Holiday, a fellow he grew up with at the Washburn Home for Boys. They had lived in the same dorm for a time.

            Benji recognized him right away but didn’t want to let on, or be the first to say hello; when the moment came that they made eye contact, Johnny looked right through him as if he was invisible.

            They had both come up through the orphanage, they had been on the streets together. Johnny hustled newspapers, while Benji hustled anyone and anything he could, and he was bothered by the fact that his old pal had not given him a nod of the head or even a hello.

            He didn’t think Johnny was being rude, he didn’t think his old friend was snubbing him on purpose. He was self-conscious and thought perhaps he had changed too much from his years of grifting, and no-longer looked like the same person, while Johnny looked like he had only became more himself.

Benji considered the disappearing girl on the corner and had a moment of self-doubt, like maybe he had disappeared.

            He watched Johnny buy a flask of whiskey in the drug store and take a long shaky pull off the bottle.

            Johnny has his demons too, Ben thought, with a little bit of satisfaction. He’s a drunk, He’s my age and he’s a drunk…

            He made a mental note of it, like scratching NB in the margins of a book…it was something to take advantage of.

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Zebulon Zenith, Working Class Man - The First Day

           Zebulon Zenith was glad to hear the whistle blow, the long-low signaled an end to the workday, when he heard it, he and his crew headed for the gates without delay.

            Zeb hung up his work hat, goggles and duster. He washed his face and hands, donned his bowler, grabbed his lunch box and thermos, punched his timecard and left the flour mill off Main Street by the river.

            He and the boys walked up to Hennepin Avenue, on their way to the polka bar for a pint and a shot or two..

            It was raining hard, so they walked swiftly, but Zeb didn’t run. The wet-weather felt good to him after a hard-hot and dusty day at the mill turning wheat into flour.

            As he passed Our Lady of Lourdes, he stepped inside to put a penny in the offering and light a candle for his children. He did this every day; it was his way of showing thanks for getting through another shift with all his fingers and toes in the right place.

Zeb dipped his fingers in the marble basin with the holy water in it and crossed himself like a good Catholic boy. Then he waited in the front alcove for a minute while a hard bit of wind passed by. He lit a Chesterfield and took a couple of puffs while he watched a long black car roll down the Avenue until it stopped at the polonaise, next door to the polka bar.

            He watched a tall-thin-and-awkward looking man get out of the driver’s seat and go around the car to open the door for two ladies who had been riding in the back seat and were in too much in a hurry to wait for the valet.

            The two women who emerged from the sedan looked like movie stars when they got under the lighted canopy at Nye’s.

They wore clear plastic raincoats that gathered beads of water along the surface, each one shining like a diamond through the storm; they appeared to be wearing little else underneath.

            Zeb felt his heart pounding like a man in love.

He walked toward them like he had a date with destiny; they were going to the same establishment, if not the same place, and he was mesmerized by their luster.

            Zeb was headed to the polka bar for some suds and a song. The starlets were going for fancy cocktails at the adjacent lounge.

He went in through the smaller door down at the foot of the hill, while they walked the red carpet through the lighted entrance.

Zeb was dazzled and almost collided with them.

He nearly lost track of where he was going and followed the until their ostrich-like chaperone blocked his path and pushed him off, and then the glamour began to fade.

The two beauties had entered the building and were no longer in sight. Zeb took the measure of the fop who stood in his way, knowing that he could have turned the guy into a pretzel if he had wanted to…which he did not.

            He shook his head like he was shaking the water from his hat, got his wits about him and laughed at himself. Now he could hear the band playing in the polka bar, and he knew there would be a glass of beer waiting for him on the table.

When he got to it he raised it to his friends, and they all shouted hurrah!

Zeb didn’t know what they were cheering for, but he joined along, while he silently raised his glass to the two dames who were just on the other side of the wall from him, and then he raised it again to his wife and kids.

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Willie Longfellow, Ferry Pilot - The First Day

          Willie Longfellow sat in the boathouse at the Excelsior pier listening to the rain pound the tin roof of his little shack.

The wind was ferocious and Willie wouldn’t go out until the storm had abated. There were plenty of people waiting, wanting to take a ride to the casino on Big Island, but he knew the wind was too strong and the chop too high for the paddlewheel he drove to make it safely across the water.

He had to ignore them, for their own sake.

Willie might have been a drunk but he was a competent sailor, and he wasn’t going to risk his life or the lives of his passengers, he had too much respect for the forces of nature to play with her that way.

The boathouse was cramped.

There was a small desk with a kerosene lamp and a phone, a wood burning stove that was cold at the moment, but there was a small gas-burner on top of it that he used to boil water for coffee. In the space between those fixtures there was barely enough room for Willie to turn around.

He leaned against the door jamb of the little shack smoking a Navy Cut, drinking coffee and brandy (mostly brandy) from the tin cup hooked around his fingers, blowing smoke through a the narrow crack he held in the doorway.

Willie tolerated the weather coming into the shack because it would be too hot inside and he knew that if he didn’t have a little ventilation he would not be able to breath inside his chamber. He also knew that if he went to the boat, where it would be more comfortable to sit the people gathered at the dock would expect him to make way for the island; they would pester him until he did something stupid like acquiesce to their demands.

He didn’t want the pressure, and for that same reason he had taken the phone off the hook. One of the fellows at the Casino had been calling again and again, demanding that he bring people over…and to do it now.

Willie Longfellow had his own agenda, and he was too salty to care what anyone else had to say about the matter. He had been a boatswain in the Navy for twenty five years, and he had dealt with much tougher men than the Norwegian gang that had recently taken over the operation on the island…that’s what Willie believed, though he frequently had to remind himself of it.

He was in the process of doing just that when he watched a small boat pull up to the pier with its running lights on, and watched the slender silver-haired man people called The Wolf, get out of the boat and approach his little shack. He made eye contact with him as he toward the boathouse and a chill went up his spine.

Willie wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything, but he knew enough to see this man for what he was…a killer, a guy who walked through the storm as if the rain couldn’t touch him.

He took the last swallow of his coffee, flicked the butt end of his cigarette out the door, pulled on his raincoat and hat, turned on his flashlight and went out into the storm, and he decided it might be best to make a run with the ferry.

Willie tried to ignore the Wolf’s approach and kept his eyes on the people waiting beneath the shelter, he waved to them to let them know that it was time to board, then he rang the bell for anyone else who might be nearby, and when he did people began to file out of the tavern on the corner of Water Street.

The Wolf stopped him as they passed each other, he held his arm in a grip that felt like ice, and said, “You’re an hour late.”

 “Better late than dead,” Willie mumbled.

Lightning struck the water with a long flash and rolling thunder.

 “You know…the weather,” Willie said as he shook himself loose and moved on.

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Roy Decker, Shipping Magnate – The First Day

          Roy Decker was having his dinner at the Saint Anthony Club as he did on most nights.

             There was a bloody steak on his plate, half eaten, with the obligatory potatoes and a platter of sliced tomatoes, lightly dressed with salt and pepper.

Roy ate slowly while he talked with his guest, the Commissioner of Parks, Ermes Batelier, who hadn’t even touched his soup, and had only taken one sip of wine at which he wrinkled his nose.

The commissioner’s reaction caused him to become self-conscious, he wondered if the wine was corked, and he was not able to tell,

Roy drank throughout the day, he poured whiskey into his coffee at breakfast and drank ale with his lunch. He had two Manhattans before dinner and now he was on his second bottle of Bordeaux, and he would continue to drink until he passed out.

            The commissioner was one of the most powerful men in the city, and Roy had significant gambling debts to a man who reported directly to him, the notorious gangster, Karl Thorrson. Roy was hoping that there was some service he could perform for the man in order to satisfy the sum.

            Roy was not from Saint Anthony, but he had been living in the city for several years, having been charged with overseeing his father’s shipping interests between the Port of Saint Anthony on the Mississippi River and Duluth Harbor on Lake Superior.

            Shipping and rail were the family business, shipping and rail and iron ore.

            The Decker Company was millions of dollars in debt, debt which it had acquired while financing a canal project between Lake Superior and the Mississippi north of Saint Cloud. It was a project that did not make sense to Roy because the harsh winters in Minnesota, while posing no impediment to locomotives, would only allow the canal to be used six or seven months out of the year, if it was ever completed.

            The commissioner however, was a big proponent of the canal, and for some reason that Roy did not properly understand, his father was beholden to him.

Roy would have liked to know that reason, he was curious, but at the same time he did not really care, and he found the massive project was an easy vehicle for him to hide his losses at the casino, while only requiring him to visit his office for 1 – 2 hours a day.

He let the project run itself.

            Tonight, the commissioner’s mood seemed excitable.

            Roy sensed that something transformative was afoot here in the city, and perhaps for the nation; the commissioner wanted to discuss a new project along the Minnesota River, the scale of which made Roy’s head spin.

            It would be subject to the same problems the current project had, only this project would extend farther north, into Canada, to Winnipeg and Hudson Bay.

            Roy thought it was crazy; unless the weather changed dramatically and Minnesota winters became as mild as Missouri, it would be practically useless as a transit route, and it would be exposed along its length to the dangers of the Dakota frontier, where there were occasional incidents of hostility between the United States and the Lakota Federation.

Roy did not care how his father spent his fortune, so long as the old man didn’t ask too much of him on the day to day. However, it seemed to Roy that a project like this might threaten his own inheritance, and that made Roy uneasy because the thought of being poor terrified him, and being afraid was something Roy felt he could not abide.

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Aaronsyre “Jackie” Lord, Valet, The National Hotel – The First Day

           Aaronsyre Lord was the lead valet at the National Hotel; he worked the mid-shift from late morning to early evening and spent his nights at the free Masonic Lodge on Franklin Avenue, between Hennepin and Dupont, on top of Lowry Hill.

            His friends called him Jackie.

He worked six days a week in the hotel lobby, opening doors and carrying packages for wealthy people, while at the Scottish Rite Temple he was a leader of men, a Son of the Revolution and an advisor in high demand.

Jackie was a black man, as black as strong coffee.

He had the high cheekbones and straight hair that whispered of native blood. His family had been in Minnesota for more than two-hundred years, having arrived in the lake lands with the French when the land was still wild and free.

Jackie’s grandmother was a Lakota woman, his grandfather had fought in the War Between the States. He was among those Minnesota Volunteers who helped put a decisive end to the conflict with victories at Bull Run, Antietam and the Battle of Gettysburg.

Like Jackie, his grandfather had been a leader of men, he was instrumental in negotiating the peace that ended the Lakota uprising and led to the recognition of the Lakota Confederacy as a sovereign nation, a free land for native peoples, north and west of the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers, west of the Minnesota and Red River valleys and north of the snake.

Nevertheless, as a black man in the United States, Jackie was treated like a a second-class citizen, even in Minnesota it was nearly impossible to get a fair shake.

However that might be, in the lodge Jackie was chief, he was the first among equals.

It was 5:00 in the morning when he left the temple and locked the door behind him; as usual he was the last man to leave.

Walking east from Lowry Hill on Franklin, Jackie had about a mile in front of him before he would get to his apartment in the square across the street from St. Steven’s church.

He saw blind Arnie setting up his newsstand with the help of a tall young man who seemed vaguely familiar to him. He stopped at the paper shack with a nickel in his hand, picked up a paper and said “good morning” to the white-haired old man.

“Good morning Jackie,” he replied.

He might only see Arnie at this hour once a month, but Arnie never failed to recognize him. Whether by the sound of his voice, the shuffle of his feet or by some other sixth sense, Arnie “knew” what was going on in the world around him, and he could talk at length about the headlines, about all the news of the day…more than what was in print; Arnie knew what was happening in the city, he was a living cipher, and sharp as a tack.

The tall fellow who took his nickel was dressed in a fairly decent suit, and though he smelled faintly of whiskey, his hands were steady.

There was a slight wobble in his knees.

He wasn’t drunk but Jackie knew that he had been drinking.

Arnie introduced him as Johnny Holiday, proclaiming that the lad was his protégé at The Star, a writer who was about to take on a serious assignment for a significant patron.

It was clear to Jackie that Arnie was proud of him, and if he was good in Arnie’s esteem, then he was likely a good person indeed.

He extended his hand, and they shook; Jackie looked him in the eye as they did, and could see that the Johnny was not as confident in himself as his friend was.

Jackie thought this spoke well of him too.

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Don (D.C.) Claire, Taxi Driver - The First Day

            Don Claire was a hack, and he was proud of it.

He owned his own car. He paid his dues to dispatch at the end of each shift; he worked when he wanted, which was often seven days a week. Like a postman, come rain or sleet or snow, D.C. was on the road; the weather did not matter, even on a stormy night like tonight, with the rain flooding the gutters on Lake Street, he was ready to go roll.

            He didn’t have a family, he was just an Irish orphan, supposedly from County Claire in the old-country; everyone who knew him called him D.C..

Don Claire liked going by his initials, not because they were his, which they were. It was not because he had any connection to the District of Columbia, which he did not. He like the moniker because he was fast, like an electric-current; like a charged battery, he plugged in all day and all night.

He preferred to work the southside of the city, in the neighborhood where he grew up. He enjoyed thee nostalgia of pass the Washburn Home for Boys on the hill above tangle town where he was raise.           

At that very moment D.C. was waiting on Lyndale Avenue for a fare to come his way. He sat in his cab with a thermos of coffee watching the rain fall-thick as a velvet curtain from the dark and starless sky.

            There won’t be much money to make tonight, he thought to himself…but whatever money was to be had, D.C. was determined to get his piece of it.

            So he waited.

            He read the funny pages.

            He smoked.

            He listened to a little Glenn Miller on the radio.

He waited some more...

            Eventually a call came over the radio. It was just a courier’s gig, but D.C. didn’t mind, running packages paid a lower rate, but it meant he was working. And there was a pick up down Lake Street, off 3^rd; pick up and deliver to a hotel downtown/ D.C. knew the drill, the dispatcher trusted him to be professional and so he often took these kinds of calls…it might be a package of powders or it might be a live-girl. More often than not it was both, and though the rate was low, there was usually a good tip at the end, which made it more than worthwhile.

He rolled to a stop in front of Miller Field where the game had been called off. Traffic was backed up for a few blocks, but not because of the storm. There was some kind of police action taking place in front of the Round-up.

D.C. called it in, and the dispatcher informed him that a kid who worked at the Round-up had been struck by lightning and killed out on the street in front of the bar.

D.C. felt a little mystified by that, it’s the sort of thing you read about in the paper’s not the kind of thing that happens down the street.

The dispatcher told him that the kid was trying to make Karl Thorrson pay his bill after getting tossed out of the bar, “The balls on him,” he said.

“Oh great…,” D.C. said to the dispatcher. “That means the bullets might start flying…you might have warned me.”

“Not until the storm is over,” the voice crackled over the radio.

D.C. figured he was right.

He slowly pushed his way to a parking spot near Franky’s and waited a moment for the package, which came in a brown paper bag with an address smudged on it in pencil.

Just the powder, he thought to himself as he backed up and pulled away.

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Darel Pleasant, Moving Man – The First Day

            Darel Pleasant was his own man. He owned his own truck, he kept his own schedule and he minded his own business. 

He kept a room at the Francis Drake, he enjoyed listening to a Miller’s game on the radio, he liked playing a hand of cards and placing a bet from time to time.

Darel didn’t have a job lined up for the day, so he spent the morning fishing at the river, off Main Street above Saint Anthony’s Fall. 

If he caught a good fish he would bring it home to fry for his dinner, which he didn’t, so at noon he packed up his rod and tackle and drove south through downtown to Lake Street, where he parked his rig across the street from Nicollet Field.

Darel liked to park set-up in the lot across from the ballpark, he figured the sign on the side of his truck was good advertising, like a billboard, only it didn’t cost him anything.

It was a hot day and Darrel was over heated in the thick-humid air that had taken hold of the city, but it was laced with cool-swift currents that provided some relief.

It felt to Darel like a storm was coming, but Lake Street was busy nevertheless, and he thought it was worth his time to stay on site at least until the storm came in.

A little after 2:00 pm, Darel decided he wouldn’t get any work for the day; so he walked the block and half to the Round-up for a bucket of beer and a ham sandwich. They served the bottles on ice, and put that good Everett’s smoked pig, on soft Swedish bread from Ingebretson’s. He liked his ham sandwich with butter, mustard and pickles, which at the Round-up, they made in house.

Darel took his bounty back to the truck and turned the radio on, hoping the baseball game would at least get started, maybe-even finished before the rain came through. 

He carried a couple of folding chairs and a card table in the back of his truck for days like this. He set them up on the shady side, with his beers and his sandwich and a paper bag filled with kettle chips. 

He uncapped a beer, shuffled a deck of cards and started a game of solitaire. 

Before he began to eat he crossed himself and said a little prayer.

Darel was content to watch the world go by, it was a pleasant afternoon and he was enjoying himself with nothing on his mind but the hit parade playing on the radio; before too long he saw his diminutive friend, Hank Jeffers, walking his way, heading east on Lake Street. 

With a wave of his hand he motioned for Hank to come over and join him

Hank was his friend, and also his bookie. 

Darel opened a beer for the little fellow as he climbed up into the open chair. Hank took the beer, said “Thank you,” and pulled a long swallow, then he helped himself to a quarter of Darel’s sandwich…Darel didn’t mind.

Hank started talking about his tall-blonde girlfriend, a dame named Angela, who was more than twice his height. She worked up the street at a bookstore and looked like a movie star. 

Darel had seen them together, he didn’t think she was really his girlfriend, but he knew that they were friends.  

He enjoyed Hank’s stories, they went well with the music and beer.

Together they played a few hands of gin for a penny a point and talked about the weather, they kept talking until the big-heavy drops of rain, the size of silver dollars began to fall hard soak the pavement.

Hank excused himself and headed for the Round-up.

Darel said, “So-long,” packed his things and went home.

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