Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Marcus Hook 1957 Rough Draft, Raw Concept
A fetid dog’s breath breeze blows off the Delaware. Toxic water slaps against rotting kerosene-coated pylons as a rust-streaked tramp cinches her mooring lines easing up to the wharf in Marcus Hook.
The Load Master, a scoliosis-ridden fellow, with gray hair, clipboard under arm comes out of the harbor house. Eyeing the ship behind wire-rim glasses he writes down the ship’s entry into port on a manifest: 1:14 pm; May 3, 1957.
Two men on the wharf dressed in dark sport jackets, white shirts, straw fedora’s smoke, watch as the ship’s crew lowers the gangway. The men are armed. Their jackets protrude at the side.
A little further down another man waits. Wearing a deep purple Banlon shirt, light tan sports jacket, dark green pants, pointy black shoes, he rests a foot on weathered crate. His slicked back black curly hair is thick with Vitalis. Pock marks pepper his cheeks and neck, a gold cross hangs complimented by a gold ID bracelet on the left wrist. His street name is Rabbit because he moves around town quickly; born Anthony ‘Tony’ Fenza: he waits patiently for the ship’s crew to disembark.
Rabbit squints dragging on his cigarette. The crow’s feet around his eyes and scooped out cheeks become accentuated as he sucks in the nicotine like a Hoover. The ship’s crew stomp down the gangway a few men at a time. The two men in dark sport jackets toss their butts grinding them into the concrete with their black bovines. They edge toward the ramp. Rabbit stands erect flicking his smoke in the Delaware. He observes how the two men look at the faces of each passing seamen.
John Rohrbock balances a dark blue duffle bag over his shoulder. He’s about the tenth seaman to grip walk down the gangway. Eyeing Rabbit near the pump house Rohrbock gives a cool nonchalant nod. The men muscle in alongside Rohrbock and flash their county badges. They lead him towards the exit. Special County Investigators Fred Jack pats down the seaman while his partner stands ready in case Rohrbock tries to bolt. Rabbit watches the shake down. Jack pilfers Rohrbock’s wallet, seaman’s papers, passport, and dungaree pockets. A pack of Charros, El Buen Tono, Tabaco Suave Extra Fino top left shirt pocket is ripped open and dumped out. The Mexican cigarettes act as decoys for the five fat, hand rolled marijuana cigarettes. Handcuffed Rohrbock is led to a black coupe and taken to Media to be booked.
Disgusted Rabbit spits on the wharf. Son-a’va bitch, somebody tipped em,” he says under his breath. The marijuana was payoff to clear a debt. * * *
Friday’s at Pat’s Barber Shop are busy: gleaming straight razors scrape against leather and canvas strops, shaving lather fluffs into the barber’s hands from black electric lather machines. On west Tenth Street, the men come in to look their best for the weekend. By the end of the day Pat, Vince, and Mike will have their customer’s looking good for a night of drinking and getting laid. Chester’s Mayor Joseph Eyre gets a trim from Pat Lenzi. They’re talking about the Phillies. The shop is crowded as Rabbit walks in jingling the bell above the door. He tips his chin up at the barbers and mayor, “how are ya’s; Mayor Eyre?” Metal ceiling fans spin lazily circulating warm air, mixing aromas of Mennen Talcum powder, Bay Rum, and Jeris Hair Tonic.
The Negro shoe shine man beats out a rhythm with his shine rag as he polishes a business man’s cordovans on the stand. The man works at the bank across the street. Sections of the Chester Times, Marcus Hook Herald and Life magazines are scattered across a small reading table. Rabbit recognizes two seamen from Rohrbock’s ship waiting alongside a couple of Sinclair Refinery and an American Viscose man. They’re reading the newspaper.
Rabbit walks to the back wall, drops a coin in the pay phone slot. Inside his jacket pocket he digs out some crumbled paper slips and writes a series of numbers using a stubby chewed up pencil. “Yeah, sure. They pinched him. Yeah, when he got off. Musta’ got a tip. Somebody snitched. Son-a’va’bitches. Yeah… ok, alright, I’ll take care of it” Rabbit says quietly into the receiver. Taking a seat he reads the sports. Ralph the shop boy sweeps piles of hair into a dustbin, straightens up the magazines and papers. Father Rafferty comes out from the back room. Bold patterned curtains separate the room from the shop where the barbers change clothes, store bottles of hair tonics, extra clippers, spare scissors, new razors, and a box of Bazooka bubblegum for the kids. Off the room is a short narrow hallway that leads to the restroom. An old gray weathered wooden door opens up to an old timey toilet connected to a pull chain. An ancient cracked pedestal sink with a yellow bar of soap rests on top of a dark green cement floor. A pillbox frosted window above the toilet opens out into an alley behind the barbershop. The restroom smells like Mr. Clean. Tacked along light green walls in the room is a gallery of nude pinups from Stag, Cavalier and Argosy men’s magazines. Blonde, dark, brown haired dames with big bouncy tits and hairy pussies pose looking seductive.
The barber’s chuckle: every time Father Rafferty gets his haircut he goes back to pee and takes a long time to come back out. Mayor Eyre pays for his haircut tipping Pat he wishes everyone a great weekend. A fresh group of men step up for their haircuts. Rabbit takes Vince’s chair. “Hey Vin how are ya, let’s do a shave today” says Rabbit. Vince cranks the side hand lever on the chair elevating Rabbit. He mashes a foot pedal and reclines the back so he can apply a hot shaving towel. “How you been man?” asks Vince. “Good, good, Devil’s Dust at Jamaica today; 3-to-1 buy ya’s a few rounds. What’d ya say?” “Nah, not today, thanks” says Vince. The barbers never take the bets. They know the cops watch the shop for bookies and hoods. * * *
Joe Jacona’s ‘Big Tree’ taproom bartender Frank De Cinque rinses out beer mugs and shot glasses under a dim bar light. Soap bubbles float and pop in time to Johnny Mathis’ “The Twelfth of Never” on the juke. Four Greek sailors throw darts off in the corner. Pool balls crack dropping on top of one another corner and side pockets. Wispy blue cigarette smoke hovers under the low lit landscape like an Allegheny Mountain morning haze.
The table near the back exit a Sun Oil worker gets a hand job under the table. The gal’s arm muscles move up and down rhythmically. The lunch crowd evaporated like spilled tonic water. The Big Tree is empty for a handful of patrons. Bookie Sid Gruberman sits at the bar drinking a beer taking bets from Frank for the day’s last race. Eddie Pariso, Rabbit, Frenchy Elam, and Bobby ‘Sax’ Benson huddle around a table full of beer mugs, ashtrays, and cigarettes talking. “They gave Rohrbock $100 fine and four months in Graterford. Son’a va’bitches” says Rabbit. “Goddamn shame they put him in there that long. John’s an addict,” says Frenchy. “Somebody tipped them goddamn cops,” pipes in Rabbit. “Had to. I went with him one night to see Pedro at the plaza. In the evening Pedro watches the boats deliver fruits and vegetables from across the river in Santiago de la Pena. If you’re a regular Pedro’s the man. John and him work out a deal. He pays him dollars, that way Pedro gets more Peso for the buck on the black market. He’ll fix us up with as much as we need.” “Me and Frenchy ship out on the SS Wagon Box Thursday to Tuxpan” says Benson. “There’s a spot off the foc’sle door beam where you can hide a small package. Once them customs dicks leave the ship we go back and get it. Be a good pay-off.” “Yeah, I can move that shit up in Newark easy” says Pariso. “Yeah, but who’s tippin’ off the cops?” says Rabbit.
The Load Master, a scoliosis-ridden fellow, with gray hair, clipboard under arm comes out of the harbor house. Eyeing the ship behind wire-rim glasses he writes down the ship’s entry into port on a manifest: 1:14 pm; May 3, 1957.
Two men on the wharf dressed in dark sport jackets, white shirts, straw fedora’s smoke, watch as the ship’s crew lowers the gangway. The men are armed. Their jackets protrude at the side.
A little further down another man waits. Wearing a deep purple Banlon shirt, light tan sports jacket, dark green pants, pointy black shoes, he rests a foot on weathered crate. His slicked back black curly hair is thick with Vitalis. Pock marks pepper his cheeks and neck, a gold cross hangs complimented by a gold ID bracelet on the left wrist. His street name is Rabbit because he moves around town quickly; born Anthony ‘Tony’ Fenza: he waits patiently for the ship’s crew to disembark.
Rabbit squints dragging on his cigarette. The crow’s feet around his eyes and scooped out cheeks become accentuated as he sucks in the nicotine like a Hoover. The ship’s crew stomp down the gangway a few men at a time. The two men in dark sport jackets toss their butts grinding them into the concrete with their black bovines. They edge toward the ramp. Rabbit stands erect flicking his smoke in the Delaware. He observes how the two men look at the faces of each passing seamen.
John Rohrbock balances a dark blue duffle bag over his shoulder. He’s about the tenth seaman to grip walk down the gangway. Eyeing Rabbit near the pump house Rohrbock gives a cool nonchalant nod. The men muscle in alongside Rohrbock and flash their county badges. They lead him towards the exit. Special County Investigators Fred Jack pats down the seaman while his partner stands ready in case Rohrbock tries to bolt. Rabbit watches the shake down. Jack pilfers Rohrbock’s wallet, seaman’s papers, passport, and dungaree pockets. A pack of Charros, El Buen Tono, Tabaco Suave Extra Fino top left shirt pocket is ripped open and dumped out. The Mexican cigarettes act as decoys for the five fat, hand rolled marijuana cigarettes. Handcuffed Rohrbock is led to a black coupe and taken to Media to be booked.
Disgusted Rabbit spits on the wharf. Son-a’va bitch, somebody tipped em,” he says under his breath. The marijuana was payoff to clear a debt. * * *
Friday’s at Pat’s Barber Shop are busy: gleaming straight razors scrape against leather and canvas strops, shaving lather fluffs into the barber’s hands from black electric lather machines. On west Tenth Street, the men come in to look their best for the weekend. By the end of the day Pat, Vince, and Mike will have their customer’s looking good for a night of drinking and getting laid. Chester’s Mayor Joseph Eyre gets a trim from Pat Lenzi. They’re talking about the Phillies. The shop is crowded as Rabbit walks in jingling the bell above the door. He tips his chin up at the barbers and mayor, “how are ya’s; Mayor Eyre?” Metal ceiling fans spin lazily circulating warm air, mixing aromas of Mennen Talcum powder, Bay Rum, and Jeris Hair Tonic.
The Negro shoe shine man beats out a rhythm with his shine rag as he polishes a business man’s cordovans on the stand. The man works at the bank across the street. Sections of the Chester Times, Marcus Hook Herald and Life magazines are scattered across a small reading table. Rabbit recognizes two seamen from Rohrbock’s ship waiting alongside a couple of Sinclair Refinery and an American Viscose man. They’re reading the newspaper.
Rabbit walks to the back wall, drops a coin in the pay phone slot. Inside his jacket pocket he digs out some crumbled paper slips and writes a series of numbers using a stubby chewed up pencil. “Yeah, sure. They pinched him. Yeah, when he got off. Musta’ got a tip. Somebody snitched. Son-a’va’bitches. Yeah… ok, alright, I’ll take care of it” Rabbit says quietly into the receiver. Taking a seat he reads the sports. Ralph the shop boy sweeps piles of hair into a dustbin, straightens up the magazines and papers. Father Rafferty comes out from the back room. Bold patterned curtains separate the room from the shop where the barbers change clothes, store bottles of hair tonics, extra clippers, spare scissors, new razors, and a box of Bazooka bubblegum for the kids. Off the room is a short narrow hallway that leads to the restroom. An old gray weathered wooden door opens up to an old timey toilet connected to a pull chain. An ancient cracked pedestal sink with a yellow bar of soap rests on top of a dark green cement floor. A pillbox frosted window above the toilet opens out into an alley behind the barbershop. The restroom smells like Mr. Clean. Tacked along light green walls in the room is a gallery of nude pinups from Stag, Cavalier and Argosy men’s magazines. Blonde, dark, brown haired dames with big bouncy tits and hairy pussies pose looking seductive.
The barber’s chuckle: every time Father Rafferty gets his haircut he goes back to pee and takes a long time to come back out. Mayor Eyre pays for his haircut tipping Pat he wishes everyone a great weekend. A fresh group of men step up for their haircuts. Rabbit takes Vince’s chair. “Hey Vin how are ya, let’s do a shave today” says Rabbit. Vince cranks the side hand lever on the chair elevating Rabbit. He mashes a foot pedal and reclines the back so he can apply a hot shaving towel. “How you been man?” asks Vince. “Good, good, Devil’s Dust at Jamaica today; 3-to-1 buy ya’s a few rounds. What’d ya say?” “Nah, not today, thanks” says Vince. The barbers never take the bets. They know the cops watch the shop for bookies and hoods. * * *
Joe Jacona’s ‘Big Tree’ taproom bartender Frank De Cinque rinses out beer mugs and shot glasses under a dim bar light. Soap bubbles float and pop in time to Johnny Mathis’ “The Twelfth of Never” on the juke. Four Greek sailors throw darts off in the corner. Pool balls crack dropping on top of one another corner and side pockets. Wispy blue cigarette smoke hovers under the low lit landscape like an Allegheny Mountain morning haze.
The table near the back exit a Sun Oil worker gets a hand job under the table. The gal’s arm muscles move up and down rhythmically. The lunch crowd evaporated like spilled tonic water. The Big Tree is empty for a handful of patrons. Bookie Sid Gruberman sits at the bar drinking a beer taking bets from Frank for the day’s last race. Eddie Pariso, Rabbit, Frenchy Elam, and Bobby ‘Sax’ Benson huddle around a table full of beer mugs, ashtrays, and cigarettes talking. “They gave Rohrbock $100 fine and four months in Graterford. Son’a va’bitches” says Rabbit. “Goddamn shame they put him in there that long. John’s an addict,” says Frenchy. “Somebody tipped them goddamn cops,” pipes in Rabbit. “Had to. I went with him one night to see Pedro at the plaza. In the evening Pedro watches the boats deliver fruits and vegetables from across the river in Santiago de la Pena. If you’re a regular Pedro’s the man. John and him work out a deal. He pays him dollars, that way Pedro gets more Peso for the buck on the black market. He’ll fix us up with as much as we need.” “Me and Frenchy ship out on the SS Wagon Box Thursday to Tuxpan” says Benson. “There’s a spot off the foc’sle door beam where you can hide a small package. Once them customs dicks leave the ship we go back and get it. Be a good pay-off.” “Yeah, I can move that shit up in Newark easy” says Pariso. “Yeah, but who’s tippin’ off the cops?” says Rabbit.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Life Along the Delaware: An Introduction to Hog Town Moon
I lived near Chester, PA. Delaware County. Used to get my Easter outfits at Speare Brothers every year. We bought our Ukrainian food at Timinski’s Market on Third Street between Ward and Wilson Streets.
My old man was born in Chester in the ‘30s. His family lived on the West Side. My grandfather sailed on several tankers, boxed at Saint Hedwig. He probably knew hometown great fighter Bobby Burman. Later on he ran the boilers at the Philadelphia Electric Company.
Once upon a time Chester was a lovely town: quaint, elegant, wealthy; now it’s a toxic dump. Everything is gone. Ok… they’re making a resurgence with the new Harrah’s, and the new soccer stadium built over the grounds of Sun Ship. These are small increments. And a long time coming. Poor William Penn must be turning over in his grave.
You’d never know some of the most important industries, industrialists and their contribution to the U.S. came out of Chester: Sun Shipbuilding and Dry Dock creators of the T-2 tankers, Baldwin Locomotive Works, the Ford Assembly Plant, American Viscose, Baldt Anchor, Westinghouse, Penn Steel Casting Company, Ranger Joe Breakfast Cereal, South Chester Tube Corp., Wetherill Plant, and the list goes on.
Writers write what they know. It’s true. I grew up around Italians, Ukrainians, Jews, Irish, Blacks, Poles, Russians, a melting pot of ethnicity. “Hog Town Moon” is real. It’s tough, gritty. You can smell rust covered hulls of greasy tankers as welders stand around steel barrels with fire burning keeping warm in the winter. Almost everything in “Hog Town Moon” happened. Some truths have been stretched – makes for good fiction.
I continue to create short stories, novellas about the area. I hope to see one of these babies published soon. Contact me if you’re interested in publishing my work.
My old man was born in Chester in the ‘30s. His family lived on the West Side. My grandfather sailed on several tankers, boxed at Saint Hedwig. He probably knew hometown great fighter Bobby Burman. Later on he ran the boilers at the Philadelphia Electric Company.
Once upon a time Chester was a lovely town: quaint, elegant, wealthy; now it’s a toxic dump. Everything is gone. Ok… they’re making a resurgence with the new Harrah’s, and the new soccer stadium built over the grounds of Sun Ship. These are small increments. And a long time coming. Poor William Penn must be turning over in his grave.
You’d never know some of the most important industries, industrialists and their contribution to the U.S. came out of Chester: Sun Shipbuilding and Dry Dock creators of the T-2 tankers, Baldwin Locomotive Works, the Ford Assembly Plant, American Viscose, Baldt Anchor, Westinghouse, Penn Steel Casting Company, Ranger Joe Breakfast Cereal, South Chester Tube Corp., Wetherill Plant, and the list goes on.
Writers write what they know. It’s true. I grew up around Italians, Ukrainians, Jews, Irish, Blacks, Poles, Russians, a melting pot of ethnicity. “Hog Town Moon” is real. It’s tough, gritty. You can smell rust covered hulls of greasy tankers as welders stand around steel barrels with fire burning keeping warm in the winter. Almost everything in “Hog Town Moon” happened. Some truths have been stretched – makes for good fiction.
I continue to create short stories, novellas about the area. I hope to see one of these babies published soon. Contact me if you’re interested in publishing my work.
Hog Town Moon: Chester, PA 1949 ~ 1969
Synopsis: Hog Town Moon
The year is 1949: Delmar ‘Kid’ Kanky awakes to an overcast Chester, Pennsylvania, morning. He strains to see the world outside his grime-crusted bedroom window while pondering the attributes of becoming a man as he shaves his pubescent face.
Kid introduces us to the Kanky family. They share stories about their ancestral heritage. Kid’s father, Otis, tells us about working at Sun Shipyard and the racial problems he encounters with his Ukrainian boss and his varied ethnic crew.
Across town things start to heat up. Kid, Wuzzey, and their buddies blast Michael Kuzmenko in the face with a basketball while playing HORSE. Kid’s pals circle around Michael spitting, kicking, and harassing him for coming over to “their turf,” even though it’s one of the white schools in the Slavic West End.
Anger spews and festers from the Kuzmenkos and their neighbors as more and more black families continue to move in and stake their claim within white neighborhoods. Kid senses the momentum of his people as prominent black leaders start to question equality and equal rights for black students and workers.
On Smith Street, Jersey peach juice isn’t the only thing dripping down Vince Muscolino’s wrist. Soon he’ll catch the wrath of Kid and Wuzzey. Kid absconds with Otis’s pearl handle switchblade and plants it in Vince’s stomach. Kid gets away with murder. It’s Al Muscolino who avenges his brother’s death while Johnny Mazza supplies the snub-nose 38. Johnny delivers the goods as promised in the men’s room of Royal’s Pool Hall.
Outside the Temple Baptist Church, the Reverend White runs toward the pandemonium on the sidewalk. Al Muscolino has taken care of business. Three shots fired: one barely misses Kid and instead kills bride groom Walter “Wuzzey” Swiggert and his bride Cora Staglin who are ready to embark on their honeymoon.
The sixties have not been kind to Chester. The town is a wasteland of abandoned homes, businesses left vacant and covered with graffiti while drug addicts and their dealers control the streets. The once-smoke-billowing factories line the waterfront like mausoleums. And the Delaware River is so toxic you dare not light a match near it.
Kid takes umbrage with the treatment from the white faculty of Chester High School. His childhood friend Mutt Coleman has returned from Viet Nam. The school won’t hire a black teacher. Inside the 1631 Bar, along with his friends, Kid decries to burn down Chester High School, a national landmark built in 1901 by local architect William Provost Jr. — a symbol enshrined to privileged “whites” only.
It’s 1968.At 3:10 a.m., on a bitter cold January morning Kid Kanky sets Chester High School ablaze. In less than three hours, sixty-seven years of history and the memories contained of thousands of students who attended are destroyed. Does it bring about the change Kid seeks? Only time will tell.
The year is 1949: Delmar ‘Kid’ Kanky awakes to an overcast Chester, Pennsylvania, morning. He strains to see the world outside his grime-crusted bedroom window while pondering the attributes of becoming a man as he shaves his pubescent face.
Kid introduces us to the Kanky family. They share stories about their ancestral heritage. Kid’s father, Otis, tells us about working at Sun Shipyard and the racial problems he encounters with his Ukrainian boss and his varied ethnic crew.
Across town things start to heat up. Kid, Wuzzey, and their buddies blast Michael Kuzmenko in the face with a basketball while playing HORSE. Kid’s pals circle around Michael spitting, kicking, and harassing him for coming over to “their turf,” even though it’s one of the white schools in the Slavic West End.
Anger spews and festers from the Kuzmenkos and their neighbors as more and more black families continue to move in and stake their claim within white neighborhoods. Kid senses the momentum of his people as prominent black leaders start to question equality and equal rights for black students and workers.
On Smith Street, Jersey peach juice isn’t the only thing dripping down Vince Muscolino’s wrist. Soon he’ll catch the wrath of Kid and Wuzzey. Kid absconds with Otis’s pearl handle switchblade and plants it in Vince’s stomach. Kid gets away with murder. It’s Al Muscolino who avenges his brother’s death while Johnny Mazza supplies the snub-nose 38. Johnny delivers the goods as promised in the men’s room of Royal’s Pool Hall.
Outside the Temple Baptist Church, the Reverend White runs toward the pandemonium on the sidewalk. Al Muscolino has taken care of business. Three shots fired: one barely misses Kid and instead kills bride groom Walter “Wuzzey” Swiggert and his bride Cora Staglin who are ready to embark on their honeymoon.
The sixties have not been kind to Chester. The town is a wasteland of abandoned homes, businesses left vacant and covered with graffiti while drug addicts and their dealers control the streets. The once-smoke-billowing factories line the waterfront like mausoleums. And the Delaware River is so toxic you dare not light a match near it.
Kid takes umbrage with the treatment from the white faculty of Chester High School. His childhood friend Mutt Coleman has returned from Viet Nam. The school won’t hire a black teacher. Inside the 1631 Bar, along with his friends, Kid decries to burn down Chester High School, a national landmark built in 1901 by local architect William Provost Jr. — a symbol enshrined to privileged “whites” only.
It’s 1968.At 3:10 a.m., on a bitter cold January morning Kid Kanky sets Chester High School ablaze. In less than three hours, sixty-seven years of history and the memories contained of thousands of students who attended are destroyed. Does it bring about the change Kid seeks? Only time will tell.
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