Old-Timers Day
Lee Conrad
Sleet pecked at Brian Donahue’s 4th floor apartment window like angry birds demanding entry. Slate grey clouds scuttled across the sky, darkening the land. Brian rose from his well-worn chair to turn on a light, leaving behind a substantial imprint on the cushion. He groaned as he stood. His six foot, 78-year-old body creaked from long ago battles. The table lamp illuminated the wall and framed photos of his wife, now passed. An old black and white picture of a group of people holding a banner that said: Strike! was next to them. He looked out the window at the people on the street, their heads bowed down from the onslaught of the sleet or life itself.
The apartment building was in the neighborhood Brian grew up in. When he was eleven his father died in an industrial accident and Brian, aimless and angry, began to run with the local Irish gang. His mom worried he would be in jail or worse. “If your father was alive, you wouldn’t be doing this,” she preached. Brian would slam out the door and into the night ignoring her pleas. At eighteen, Brian, one step ahead of the law, met up with a friend who told him there was work for them at a steel fabrication factory. They both were eager to get out of the street life. Little did they know their battles had just begun.
The owners treated the workers like shit, so the workers started organizing. They won their union, but not without taking some beatings and giving some back. A few broken ribs and cracked bones, a concussion and a bullet just missing Brian’s head almost ended his life. He fought the company and the cops. As shop steward and then as vice president of the union, he took no prisoners. The company called him a troublemaker.
On Saturday, Brian got a call on his cell from the person who turned his life around.
“Hey, old-timer, how about joining me for a brew? I’m over at Maguire’s. I can pick you up if that decrepit body of yours can’t make it.”
“You do remember, Mike, that you are older than me. Besides, I need to walk. Keeps the arthritis at bay.”
The voice on the other end broke out in laughter and then a coughing fit.
“Got it. See you in a bit tough guy.”
Mike Flanagan sat in a booth. His clothes hung on his body and his face looked grey. His green eyes though sparkled with a mischievous look.
“There he is. How are you, Mike?”
Mike gripped the cane nestled against the side of the booth and stood up.
“You don’t have to get up, Mike.”
“Don’t tell me what to do. Remember, I was your union president. Now give me a hug, ya big galoot.”
Brian hugged Mike and felt the bones under the shirt.
“How are you? I haven’t seen you in months.”
“Ah, the big C is back. Thought I had it licked. You look good.”
“You should talk to my doctor. She doesn’t think so, and you should see me in the morning, just a mess, and…”
“Brian, remember when we said that when and if we got old, we wouldn’t talk like the old timers spouting off about their ailments?”
Brian laughed. “Yep.”
Tommy Maguire came over to the booth.
“How are you, Mike?”
Tommy turned to Brian and held his hands up in mock surrender.
“You brought your muscle with you I see.”
“Hi, Tommy. Not much muscle anymore,” said Brian as they shook hands.
“What will you have? First one is on the house. You guys in Local 7 always brought in a lot of business.”
“Guinness and shots each of Jameson. Alright with you, Brian?”
“Fine with me.”
“I drove by the old factory. Might be the last time I do. My kids want me to stop driving. They’re already eying hospice for me. Anyhow, where was I… oh yea, the factory. Just pisses me off about the shape it’s in. Empty, busted windows, falling apart. Bastards had a good business, then they had to bust the union and ship everything to China. Just to make more money for themselves and the stockholders.”
Brian watched his friend’s face get more color. Maybe we need more passion to keep the blood flowing, he thought.
“Mike, remember when we first organized the union back in ’65?”
“I got cancer for fucks sake, not dementia, of course, I do.”
Mike’s eyes came alive.
“When those cops and company goons attacked our picket lines, there you were Brian right in front. Wow, did you take a beating, and not for the last time either.”
“You wonder why it ain’t easy to get this body moving in the morning? Took a few hits yourself.”
“Boy, how those people in the head office hated you, Brian. An overall pain in the ass to them. You would march up to them, union contract in hand and read them the riot act.”
“Mike, when we retired, the fire and brimstone of the early struggle to build the union faded away. The new officers let their guard down, thinking the company would play nice. They forgot history. The bastards never play nice. They just wait for the right moment and then stick it to the workers. Hell, the union even forgot about us.”
Brian downed his shot and slammed the glass down.
Mike pointed a shaky finger.
“None of that, boyo. We fought the good fight, even if no one remembers.”
They talked of the past and of today, not a diminishing future. They finished two rounds of drinks and Brian walked his friend to his car.
“Take care of yourself,” Brian said as he hugged Mike.
Mike's eyes glistened. “We’ll get together again… troublemaker.”
Brian turned so Mike couldn’t see the tears forming. Sleet fell again as Brian, head bowed, walked back to his apartment and pictures on the wall.
Lee Conrad
Sleet pecked at Brian Donahue’s 4th floor apartment window like angry birds demanding entry. Slate grey clouds scuttled across the sky, darkening the land. Brian rose from his well-worn chair to turn on a light, leaving behind a substantial imprint on the cushion. He groaned as he stood. His six foot, 78-year-old body creaked from long ago battles. The table lamp illuminated the wall and framed photos of his wife, now passed. An old black and white picture of a group of people holding a banner that said: Strike! was next to them. He looked out the window at the people on the street, their heads bowed down from the onslaught of the sleet or life itself.
The apartment building was in the neighborhood Brian grew up in. When he was eleven his father died in an industrial accident and Brian, aimless and angry, began to run with the local Irish gang. His mom worried he would be in jail or worse. “If your father was alive, you wouldn’t be doing this,” she preached. Brian would slam out the door and into the night ignoring her pleas. At eighteen, Brian, one step ahead of the law, met up with a friend who told him there was work for them at a steel fabrication factory. They both were eager to get out of the street life. Little did they know their battles had just begun.
The owners treated the workers like shit, so the workers started organizing. They won their union, but not without taking some beatings and giving some back. A few broken ribs and cracked bones, a concussion and a bullet just missing Brian’s head almost ended his life. He fought the company and the cops. As shop steward and then as vice president of the union, he took no prisoners. The company called him a troublemaker.
On Saturday, Brian got a call on his cell from the person who turned his life around.
“Hey, old-timer, how about joining me for a brew? I’m over at Maguire’s. I can pick you up if that decrepit body of yours can’t make it.”
“You do remember, Mike, that you are older than me. Besides, I need to walk. Keeps the arthritis at bay.”
The voice on the other end broke out in laughter and then a coughing fit.
“Got it. See you in a bit tough guy.”
Mike Flanagan sat in a booth. His clothes hung on his body and his face looked grey. His green eyes though sparkled with a mischievous look.
“There he is. How are you, Mike?”
Mike gripped the cane nestled against the side of the booth and stood up.
“You don’t have to get up, Mike.”
“Don’t tell me what to do. Remember, I was your union president. Now give me a hug, ya big galoot.”
Brian hugged Mike and felt the bones under the shirt.
“How are you? I haven’t seen you in months.”
“Ah, the big C is back. Thought I had it licked. You look good.”
“You should talk to my doctor. She doesn’t think so, and you should see me in the morning, just a mess, and…”
“Brian, remember when we said that when and if we got old, we wouldn’t talk like the old timers spouting off about their ailments?”
Brian laughed. “Yep.”
Tommy Maguire came over to the booth.
“How are you, Mike?”
Tommy turned to Brian and held his hands up in mock surrender.
“You brought your muscle with you I see.”
“Hi, Tommy. Not much muscle anymore,” said Brian as they shook hands.
“What will you have? First one is on the house. You guys in Local 7 always brought in a lot of business.”
“Guinness and shots each of Jameson. Alright with you, Brian?”
“Fine with me.”
“I drove by the old factory. Might be the last time I do. My kids want me to stop driving. They’re already eying hospice for me. Anyhow, where was I… oh yea, the factory. Just pisses me off about the shape it’s in. Empty, busted windows, falling apart. Bastards had a good business, then they had to bust the union and ship everything to China. Just to make more money for themselves and the stockholders.”
Brian watched his friend’s face get more color. Maybe we need more passion to keep the blood flowing, he thought.
“Mike, remember when we first organized the union back in ’65?”
“I got cancer for fucks sake, not dementia, of course, I do.”
Mike’s eyes came alive.
“When those cops and company goons attacked our picket lines, there you were Brian right in front. Wow, did you take a beating, and not for the last time either.”
“You wonder why it ain’t easy to get this body moving in the morning? Took a few hits yourself.”
“Boy, how those people in the head office hated you, Brian. An overall pain in the ass to them. You would march up to them, union contract in hand and read them the riot act.”
“Mike, when we retired, the fire and brimstone of the early struggle to build the union faded away. The new officers let their guard down, thinking the company would play nice. They forgot history. The bastards never play nice. They just wait for the right moment and then stick it to the workers. Hell, the union even forgot about us.”
Brian downed his shot and slammed the glass down.
Mike pointed a shaky finger.
“None of that, boyo. We fought the good fight, even if no one remembers.”
They talked of the past and of today, not a diminishing future. They finished two rounds of drinks and Brian walked his friend to his car.
“Take care of yourself,” Brian said as he hugged Mike.
Mike's eyes glistened. “We’ll get together again… troublemaker.”
Brian turned so Mike couldn’t see the tears forming. Sleet fell again as Brian, head bowed, walked back to his apartment and pictures on the wall.
