The Boys in Their Own Words
For the past months we've brush stroked the neighborhood and Danny's; we will sketch a few of the boys and give stories about them and the three greatest events of their lives (birth, marriage, and death). However, let us now spotlight the men themselves. Let each man tel his story - his feelings, his job, his dreams, how the Depression has affected him.
Bill Flynn, Bartender
"I worked as an Editorial Assistant for Boston Book Publishers for six years until my layoff in 1934.
"How did I feel when I got axed? If happened two years ago, but it seems like only yesterday. The rumors began to fly in 1932, around July. I easily remember the date because business was so bad everywhere. I took no genius to know that. Newspapers, radios - a thousand workers on the bricks here, ten thousand idled over there, shuts downs, closings, 25 percent unemployment in Boston, abstractions which bothered me none. Like a cancer statistic, it'll never happen to me but it did."
"I worked as an Editorial Assistant for Boston Book Publishers for six years until my layoff in 1934.
"How did I feel when I got axed? If happened two years ago, but it seems like only yesterday. The rumors began to fly in 1932, around July. I easily remember the date because business was so bad everywhere. I took no genius to know that. Newspapers, radios - a thousand workers on the bricks here, ten thousand idled over there, shuts downs, closings, 25 percent unemployment in Boston, abstractions which bothered me none. Like a cancer statistic, it'll never happen to me but it did."
Timothy "Booker" T. Brennan, Owner
He so well fits the image - dresses like a dandy; a man-about-town, easy with money - and the most incredible luck with a deck of cards. With him on any given night you'll meet a newspaper man, a baseball star, a hooker, ex-cons, gamblers, bombers, thieves, a dentist, college professor, and maybe a priest. Booker knows everyone. And they trust him. Tell him a secret and be comforted that it's locked in an impregnable vault. He wears a large bushy mustache - like a British sergeant major.
"My old man worked fifty - sixty hours a week in a damn sweatshop in Chinatown. Made only a few bucks - slowly watch ya family go down the drain. And I know what I'm talking about. You understand? My Depression was a long time ago down off Dudley Street, wearin' my cousin's hand-me-downs. I never owned a bike. Still pisses me off! Every kid in the world, in the whole-wide world, should own a bike.
"Depression, huh? Nineteen and eleven, that when I saw the Depression. My depression. That dumpy cold-water flat in Roxbury, leaky roof district; three families using the same toilet, damn thing always leaked. Hadda use newspapers to wipe my ass. Bet I still got newsprint or even a headline inked on my ass."
He so well fits the image - dresses like a dandy; a man-about-town, easy with money - and the most incredible luck with a deck of cards. With him on any given night you'll meet a newspaper man, a baseball star, a hooker, ex-cons, gamblers, bombers, thieves, a dentist, college professor, and maybe a priest. Booker knows everyone. And they trust him. Tell him a secret and be comforted that it's locked in an impregnable vault. He wears a large bushy mustache - like a British sergeant major.
"My old man worked fifty - sixty hours a week in a damn sweatshop in Chinatown. Made only a few bucks - slowly watch ya family go down the drain. And I know what I'm talking about. You understand? My Depression was a long time ago down off Dudley Street, wearin' my cousin's hand-me-downs. I never owned a bike. Still pisses me off! Every kid in the world, in the whole-wide world, should own a bike.
"Depression, huh? Nineteen and eleven, that when I saw the Depression. My depression. That dumpy cold-water flat in Roxbury, leaky roof district; three families using the same toilet, damn thing always leaked. Hadda use newspapers to wipe my ass. Bet I still got newsprint or even a headline inked on my ass."
Chico, Seaman
"Couple of years ago, delivered rice to West Indies; people so hungry there was a riot on the pier. Machine guns mowed 'em down. Musta been a hundred bodies. You know how they got rid of them? Poor slobs. Pushed them off the pier. Shark food. Something's gotta be done. People gotta have the balls to stand up and be counted. All over the world. Us workin' slobs gotta get a fair share. We do the work for Christ's sake. In China. they're so poor and exploited a landlord can execute a worker - must cause he don't like him, have his head chopped off. Everywhere - in Asia, Africa, South America - working guys breaking their asses for a few cents a day. Meantime all the rich princes, kings, or whatever ya call them, living a life of leisure. Feasting while people grub for garbage. Starving."
"Couple of years ago, delivered rice to West Indies; people so hungry there was a riot on the pier. Machine guns mowed 'em down. Musta been a hundred bodies. You know how they got rid of them? Poor slobs. Pushed them off the pier. Shark food. Something's gotta be done. People gotta have the balls to stand up and be counted. All over the world. Us workin' slobs gotta get a fair share. We do the work for Christ's sake. In China. they're so poor and exploited a landlord can execute a worker - must cause he don't like him, have his head chopped off. Everywhere - in Asia, Africa, South America - working guys breaking their asses for a few cents a day. Meantime all the rich princes, kings, or whatever ya call them, living a life of leisure. Feasting while people grub for garbage. Starving."
Ritchie Quinn, Meat Packer
21 year old ex-boxer. Single. Works as a loader in a meat packing plant, and on special occasions, as a bouncer in Jack Sharkey's Tavern on Friend Street, under Buckley's Gym. With a few exceptions, the sports buffs rate Ritchie as the finest athlete to ever come out of this block: boxing , baseball, football, track - the important sports.
"The Depression? To tell ya the truth, Bill, I never know how had it was 'til I quit the ring. I mean I've been makin' three, four grand a year since I been seventeen. Johnnie Buckley always made sure I hadda couple bucks in my kick. And I useta make a few in the packing plant. I ain't never thought about the future before but now it bothers the shit outta me. I mean I ain't got nothin' going for me. No real future. Boxin's ok when you're young'n full of piss and vinegar. But after a while you just get hit with too many punches."
21 year old ex-boxer. Single. Works as a loader in a meat packing plant, and on special occasions, as a bouncer in Jack Sharkey's Tavern on Friend Street, under Buckley's Gym. With a few exceptions, the sports buffs rate Ritchie as the finest athlete to ever come out of this block: boxing , baseball, football, track - the important sports.
"The Depression? To tell ya the truth, Bill, I never know how had it was 'til I quit the ring. I mean I've been makin' three, four grand a year since I been seventeen. Johnnie Buckley always made sure I hadda couple bucks in my kick. And I useta make a few in the packing plant. I ain't never thought about the future before but now it bothers the shit outta me. I mean I ain't got nothin' going for me. No real future. Boxin's ok when you're young'n full of piss and vinegar. But after a while you just get hit with too many punches."
Joe Scarletta, Truck Driver
23 year old truck-driver. Born in Salerno, emigrated when four years old. Joe's a chunky 5'6", 175 lbs., barrel chest - too much spaghetti, he claims. His big broad face and his slightly protruded dark eyes with drooping lids cause him to seem sleepy much of the time., like a tired dark brown St. Bernard stretching by the stove. His calm and easy nature, his soft unhurried speech add the the illusion. Joe wears a skully cap pulled down the bridge of his slightly hooked nose. A St. Christopher medal and a union button ornament the side of his cap. Because of his left arm constantly hanging out the truck window, a large patch mends the hole in the elbow. An inseparable stogie, chewed and often unlit, sticks out of his mouth. I'm sure you'd agree that Joe, indeed, looks like a truck driver.
"The Depression? Whaddya want to know, Bill? I don't worry about it but, Mama Mia, if I did, you'd crack up. You see the bad times everywhere. We got the good times too. Great guys, I work with. Maybe sometimes you're forced to do things that ya ain't proud of. But when a guy's gotta family, he'll do 'bout anything. Mama Mia, the things guys'll do when it comes to work and jobs and union. I never listen to reds, politicians, even Chico; they're all full of shit. But I believe in unions. Thank God, I'm in local twenty-five. Crazy bunch of bastards. That's what ya need if ya wanna protect ya job.
"I tell ya 'bout the picket last month - Jesus, you musta heard 'bout the scab meat truck bein rolled over in Field's Corner. All the meat stolen. Damn cops lookin'. A guys gotta be careful 'bout finks. You're solid, Bill, so I'll give you the inside on what happened..."
23 year old truck-driver. Born in Salerno, emigrated when four years old. Joe's a chunky 5'6", 175 lbs., barrel chest - too much spaghetti, he claims. His big broad face and his slightly protruded dark eyes with drooping lids cause him to seem sleepy much of the time., like a tired dark brown St. Bernard stretching by the stove. His calm and easy nature, his soft unhurried speech add the the illusion. Joe wears a skully cap pulled down the bridge of his slightly hooked nose. A St. Christopher medal and a union button ornament the side of his cap. Because of his left arm constantly hanging out the truck window, a large patch mends the hole in the elbow. An inseparable stogie, chewed and often unlit, sticks out of his mouth. I'm sure you'd agree that Joe, indeed, looks like a truck driver.
"The Depression? Whaddya want to know, Bill? I don't worry about it but, Mama Mia, if I did, you'd crack up. You see the bad times everywhere. We got the good times too. Great guys, I work with. Maybe sometimes you're forced to do things that ya ain't proud of. But when a guy's gotta family, he'll do 'bout anything. Mama Mia, the things guys'll do when it comes to work and jobs and union. I never listen to reds, politicians, even Chico; they're all full of shit. But I believe in unions. Thank God, I'm in local twenty-five. Crazy bunch of bastards. That's what ya need if ya wanna protect ya job.
"I tell ya 'bout the picket last month - Jesus, you musta heard 'bout the scab meat truck bein rolled over in Field's Corner. All the meat stolen. Damn cops lookin'. A guys gotta be careful 'bout finks. You're solid, Bill, so I'll give you the inside on what happened..."
Casey, Meat Packer
29 year old who claims he was toughened up by his Marine brother; beat him with a "Garry" belt. A loner, lives with his mother on Columbia Road. No means of support but always flush. Very cold, hostile. Something evil or deranged about him. No friends. Doesn't fit in Danny's or probably anywhere else. Served over ten years in various reform schools and jails.
He's heavy, thick, powerful. Dark scowling face. Black hair, black eyes glowing with dark fury. When he tears at a sandwich with his heavy jaws, it reminds you of a shark tearing and ripping with a savage lust.
"Depression! I got a headache, and you ask me about the Depression? Screw the Depression! Whaddya wanna know for anyway? Nosey bastard! Writing all the time. Ya better not write about me. I don't like you - spying for the cops. I'll bust your God-damn fingers. Ya hear? You're all alike. The cops trying to get me back in the can."
29 year old who claims he was toughened up by his Marine brother; beat him with a "Garry" belt. A loner, lives with his mother on Columbia Road. No means of support but always flush. Very cold, hostile. Something evil or deranged about him. No friends. Doesn't fit in Danny's or probably anywhere else. Served over ten years in various reform schools and jails.
He's heavy, thick, powerful. Dark scowling face. Black hair, black eyes glowing with dark fury. When he tears at a sandwich with his heavy jaws, it reminds you of a shark tearing and ripping with a savage lust.
"Depression! I got a headache, and you ask me about the Depression? Screw the Depression! Whaddya wanna know for anyway? Nosey bastard! Writing all the time. Ya better not write about me. I don't like you - spying for the cops. I'll bust your God-damn fingers. Ya hear? You're all alike. The cops trying to get me back in the can."