Flash

Baskind," the foreman roared, "You'll work with Pop McCloud on the Skyway this summer."

It was the summer of 1980, and I felt lucky to land a summer job at Wennerholm Bridge Inspection Company. I grabbed my new hard hat and nearly tripped as I hustled over to him. "Yessir."

"Yessir, Yessir, three bags full sir!" Pop's wrinkled brown face split in a sly grin. "All these school boys are useless, but at least this one's polite."

The other workers guffawed. Nobody liked working the Pulaski Skyway. Nobody that is, except Pop McCloud. Pop knew every inch of the 1.3 mile span that linked Newark to the Holland Tunnel. He'd been an apprentice ironworker in the thirties when the monstrous elevated highway had been built and he swore that he knew every rivet by name.

Pop was a tough taskmaster, but as the summer progressed we became friends. On my last day, we ate our lunches in the girders far above the Hackensack River.

"The War department made sure this bridge had 135 feet of clearance at high tide so Navy ships could pass under it. That's a helluva drop if you're careless." Pop said between mouthfuls. "16 men died building this old witch, but only 15 were accidents."

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. My sandwich stopped, halfway to my mouth. I was dumbfounded. He smiled at me and continued.

"It was 1933, and I was just a boy carrying coal and water to the wooden platforms where the crews work. There weren't many colored men working here, but except for some stupid jokes, most of the guys treated me OK. Butch Masters was the exception. If I brought him coal, it wasn't good enough. If the water bucket wasn't full he made sure to tell the boss. Some of the older guys made him lay off but he still took every opportunity to make my job harder. One of his favorite tricks was to accidentally kick over the water bucket so I 'd have to hustle to get more." Pop sounded as bitter as if it had happened yesterday. "One Friday I watched Butch working alone right here on this spot. When he took a break, I got out a bar of soap and rubbed the wood real good. After that I figured what happened when he got back was up to Butch."

"But Pop," I asked. "Didn't he notice anything when he got back?"

"Naw, kid" Pop replied. "Soap on a dry wooden board ain't slippery. It wasn't until he did his old trick with the water bucket that the trouble started. When his feet hit the wet spot, he slid right off into space."

The last of my lunch went down like a stone. "Didn't the police catch on when they saw the soapy board?"

"By the time they finished fishing his body out of the Hackensack, the board was dry and covered with coal dust." Pop gave a sly grin, "For forty years I've had to chuckle whenever anybody talked about how Butch Masters kicked the bucket!"