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My hammer swung to its own cadence: ... tap, tap, Bang!... tap, tap, Bang!... tap, tap, Bang!...
Golden oldies played on the boom-box that sat on the peak. I worked the back of a split-level ranch-styled house in Whitestone, Queens. My roof buddy, Dom the foreman, banged out the front.
My name is John Tettouomo. I roof therefore I am.
“Yo Dom,” I called. “Only got four more days of this shit! I swear to God I’ll never bang another fucking nail for the rest of my fucking life!”
Dom’s voice thundered across the peak. It drowned out the old time rock & roll: “Get it while it’s hot, Omo! Ha! I love the heat.”
He loved summer, hated winter — ass-backwards in my professional opinion. I love the cold and hate the heat. I kind ’a wilt in summer; guess my Italian ancestors came from way up in the Alps somewhere.
On the last Monday in August, I was today’s sizzler on the broiler, the object of the sun’s intense hatred — a hard-working blue collar guy whose brain kept telling him: Schmuck, you gotta get a desk job!
Shimmering heat waves reflected back from whence they came, a fiery demon that hung all-by-itself in a cloudless, blue sky. No clouds meant no shade — fuck! If this was a scene from Lawrence of Arabia, then at least I’d get to ride a camel. It wasn’t the opening of The Exorcist either, because instead of the Muslim call to prayer, Elvis blasted on the boomer.
I knelt on the end of a row of white shingles that stagger-stepped from right to left, bottom to top, over black felt paper — a hot place to set my ass. So I sat on the shingles — also hot, but not as — while I banged out the roof.
It was my job to slap down and nail a new shingle onto the end of each row until the entire expanse was filled in. A Yankees ball cap on my head was supposed to keep my brains from boiling inside my skull. A bare back absorbed gamma rays. From the waist up I had one of those California-like golden tans; but from the waist down I looked like just another pasty white guy with hairy legs. Ratty blue jeans with holes in the butt cheeks and both knees, and work boots completed the ensemble.
Five days before the Labor Day weekend. It seemed that God’s plan was to squeeze the last bit of sweat out of me with five more days condemned to Roofer’s Hell. But starting next Tuesday morning, I’d be in Heaven: A/C all the way! Then a new life would begin. I’d stow the hammer and pick up a pen. Like caterpillar to butterfly, John the Roofman would miraculously morph into John the Library-Man. I’d be starting a new job as reference librarian at The Cooper Union, a small engineering, architecture, and art college in Lower Manhattan.
So how does a dumb-ass nail-banger like me become a guardian of books and keeper of human knowledge? Three years in library school. I graduated St. John’s University with a Masters in Library and Information Science (MLS) in 1978. My original idea had been to run off to Saudi Arabia for a couple of years — I do love adventure. Seemed the Saudis had a pressing need for American librarians at the time. After a stint in the Middle East, where I’d make a shit-load of money, I’d come back, get married and raise 2.3 kids. And then I learned Saudi Arabia wasn’t nearly as exotic as I thought. It was heat, no women, and nothing to do all day except work. Damn, I had that shit right here in New York. All Riyadh would add to my life would be a whole lot of sand. So, I began applying across the country for library jobs. Meanwhile, to feed myself and pay the rent, I went back to doing what I’d always done: roof.
Although a bright, young man living in the Greed-is-Good-Eighties, sometimes I felt like a garbage truck plodding along in the slow lane while everyone else my age cruised past me in their Caddies. And a guy like me didn’t warrant a wave or even a smile from those fuckers.
I still feel like that today. Only now the garbage truck has a lot more miles on it, the body’s all banged up, and the hydraulics aren’t what they used to be. What a drag it is getting old.
Anyway, back to the split-level in Whitestone. At lunchtime, me and Dom retreated into the shady garage. I enjoyed a hero sandwich and a can of soda. For Dom, it was a cigarette; no food, no water, no nothing. Compared to Dom, D.H. Lawrence was a pussy.
He took a drag. “Being a liberry-an is women’s work, ya know, Omo.” (Omo, as in Tettouomo, was his nickname for me.)
I swallowed and dabbed my mouth with a paper napkin. “I got no problem with that.”
Dom snickered. “Getting kinda dainty there, Omo. You gonna fit right in.”
“Pardon me. Next time I’ll use my sleeve and blow my nose in my undershirt.”
Then Dom was hit with another thought that put an arch in his brow. “Yo, John, maybe you’ll meet a hot, young librarian.”
Arched brows and a head nod, “Yeah, woman’s work usually means lot’sa women around; that’s why I got no problem being a librarian.”
“What about that flaky actress you been dating? How’s that going?”
“It ain’t.”
“So why bother with her then?”
“She pays her own way.”
***
A SLIM GUY WITH WIRY strength, but I got to admit that little nest with a tiny chick inside fit in here a lot better than me. Lying flat on my stomach, I had squeezed myself under the soffit where the upper and lower levels of roof joined. Too tight to swing a hammer, I was going to have to glue the shingles in place with tar. And then I heard peeps. Staring me in the face was a chick with big, black innocent eyes. Although it had all its feathers, I guessed it had not learned to fly yet. No way was I going to seal a living thing in there and let it die like in one of those behind-the-wall horror movies. I called Dom over.
“I ain’t killing it, Dom. Not gonna throw it out of its home either.”
“Do what ya gotta do, Omo.” Like me, Dom was a softy, but also like me, only sometimes.
Suddenly the chick jumped out of its nest and skittered across the roof; like I figured, it couldn’t fly. I chased it. “Yo! Woodstock! Come back! Ain’t gonna hurt you!”
Dumb cluck didn’t get the message. It tumbled over the side.
“Oh, geez! What if he hurt himself?” said Dom.
“Nah, they’re built for falls. That’s how they learn to fly.”
“Thank you, Mr. National Geographic.”
Dom went back to his side of the roof to bang. I climbed down to get the bird. It was unhurt, so I gently picked it up and put it on an eye-level branch of a small tree.
“Here ya go, pal. You’ll be safe here. I’ll come getcha when I’m done.”
After I finished under the soffit, I climbed back down the ladder for the bird. But it was gone. Dom came over, and we searched the bushes for the chick. Then we heard peeps. The bird had climbed higher up in the tree. I had to get the ladder to reach it. I set it on the side of the house and reached way over to grab the bird. Damn thing kept jumping around, so I had a hard time catching it. Dom footed the ladder so it wouldn’t tumble into the bushes, taking me with it.
I finally caught the chick. Dom reset the ladder, and I climbed up and put the bird back in its nest.
Felt good to save a life.
***
HAVE TO ADMIT IT, DOM was a prophet. My first day at The Cooper Union library, and I was being oriented by Gail Gladstone, a young, hot, reference librarian. She introduced me to the paraprofessionals and student workers who kept the library running; then we toured the main collection and the nooks where special collections were kept. I was quick to check for a ring on her left hand; the fourth finger was unoccupied. No outward signs of involvement meant I was free to make a move — once I got up the nerve. That might take awhile. My rejections by women would merit an entire shelf in their own special collection.
In an era of big hair on both men and women, Gail wore hers in a short bob, a bob with bangs; beyond cute. Her hair was dirty blonde and her large, dark brown eyes were set a bit wider apart than normal. Given that mine were more closely spaced than standard issue, if we ever did mate, our kids should come out perfectly spaced. Tall and slim, she wore a high-necked yellow blouse, white skirt, and cream flats. Her bare legs were toned and colored by the sun.
I followed her over to the reference desk. As we passed one of the library’s huge glass windows, she remarked: “It’s ninety-five out there, much too hot for September.”
In the 1980s, people had not yet realized that a monster known as Climate Change lurked just behind a depletion of the ozone layer. That was what worried people not affiliated with the Republican Party back then. Either way, planet Earth was, and still is, being fucked by an infestation of humanity.
When we got to the reference desk, I mentioned that I used to be a roofer. “Being in here is like being in Heaven, Gail,” I said, letting refreshing inside air cool down thoughts of hideous summers past. She remained standing on one leg, with the other laying across the seat of her chair; very sexy.
“I know.” She smiled and added, “You have a healthy, outdoorsy look.”
My testosterone fueled mind immediately shifted into overdrive looking for something clever to say. Best I could do: “You have nice coloring, too, Gail.”
Lame, I know, but the way I figured it, if this woman was really attracted to me, then I could say or do almost anything, except maybe fart, and she’d still go out with me.
Shyly, “Thank you, John. I spend as much time as I can at the beach or hiking in the woods. I’m more country than city.”
I asked her where she was from and she said, the Delaware Water Gap in western New Jersey. To me that qualified as the Ozarks.
My God, that made Gail almost a hillbilly. Exotica!
My pasty white legs were well-hidden by double-knit dress pants. Above the belt I wore a short-sleeved dress shirt and tie. My face was tanned, and so were my toned forearms. That came from lifting things with a bit more heft than books.
“I’ll stay here at reference,” Gail said. “Why don’t you go to circulation and let Barbara show you our automated system.”
Barbara, hotty, was from Canada. I was surrounded by natural beauty.
As I walked away, I could feel her eyes checking me out, so I turned quickly and shot her a grin. She was checking out my tight buns. Years of lugging eighty pound bundles of shingles up ladders had given my ass definition. Guess I caught her off guard because her eyes immediately dropped onto whatever papers had been laid out on the desk.
John Tettouomo, a sexual object? Yeah, I definitely had no problem with that either.
***
THE THIRTY DAYS THAT comprised September 1980, had limped, crawled, and finally dragged their tired asses offstage. My first month as a professional librarian passed like eternity times ten. I watched the clock everyday as seconds turned to minutes, minutes into hours, and hours into the hour when I could finally check out and go home. Then came October, carrying with it the cool briskness of autumn; now when I looked out that big arched glass window I yearned to be back on my natural element: a roof.
I was a guy used to producing something tangible: shingles nailed onto a deck. I had a hard time accepting that something as intangible as an answer to a reference question also qualified as product; not that I faced that many questions. Most of the students spent their time in the library sleeping. And I hated that I had to shave every day and wear a shirt and tie every day. Back when I was a roofer, I only shaved on weekends. But now I not only had to look professional, I had to smell good for Gail Gladstone. That ten year-old bottle of aftershave in my medicine chest had finally been put to use.
After a whole month of laying blocks under the foundation upon which my delicate ego was balanced: Of course she’ll say yes — possibly?... Of course she’ll say yes — maybe?... Of course she’ll say yes — why not?
I finally convinced myself: Just do it already, asshole!
Today I planned to ask Gail to lunch.
After wishing everyone good morning, I went into the back office to work at the computer station. First, though, I hung my shiny blue polyester sports jacket in my locker. Looking back on this day after many years of urbane growth, I realize what crap that jacket was. As for what lay beneath, that was truly horrific: a red, short-sleeved shirt to show off my muscles, a paisley tie, and plaid, double-knit, bell bottom pants. What was I thinking going out in public dressed like an ugly sofa someone had left out for garbage?
I was keyboarding into the computer while eating a donut covered with white powdered sugar and sipping from a container of coffee. Gail stopped by and looked over my shoulder. She stood close enough for me to whiff her fragrance — like wildflowers growing in the Pocono Mountains. Damn this C&W gal smelled good!
“The card catalog, indices, print sources,” she said, “relics of a bygone era. Computers are the future of librarianship, John.”
“Who knows,” I replied, “maybe one day we’ll be able to order a pizza online.”
She chuckled. “Not in our lifetimes.”
“Speaking of pizza,” I segued, “would you like to join me for lunch, Gail? I know a nice place nearby.” I have a small gap between my front teeth that women find cute, non-threatening. I shined my brightest toothy grin at her.
“Oh, I’m sorry, John, I can’t today. I’m having lunch with Dustin.”
“Who” — The fuck! — “is Dustin?”
“My boyfriend; he’s a broker, works not far from here on Wall Street. We’re always so busy we hardly ever get a chance to do lunch. Maybe another time.”
She walked away and my eyes went back to the CRT. My mind grumbled, People don’t do lunch, Gail, they fucking eat it.
***
EGO AND I WERE OFF by ourselves doing lunch in the pizzeria. We sat at a table near the counter while Gail was off with her boyfriend, Dustbin. She had unintentionally taken a wrecking ball to Ego’s foundation; sometimes Ego was too damn sensitive for his own good. Now I had to jack him up again.
Hey, she had a boyfriend long before you came on scene. What did you expect an ex-nun right out of a convent?
And speaking of nuns, there sure wasn’t anything nun-like about Gail, especially not today. I’d never seen her in heels before; that made those long, tanned, toned legs even tonier.
I’d just taken a bite out of a second slice when three kings of the universe swept passed me. I indelibly marked them as Dustbin #1, Dustbin #2, and Dustbin #3. They joined the line to place orders. By the time I began chopping down on my third slice, the line at the counter had thinned out. Now all that stood between them and good-to-go was an old man. Too bad, though, because he was slow making up his mind.
Fingers drumming on the side of his cheek, the old man looked up at the menu displayed in bright lights behind the counter. “No, ah... I think I’ll have... No, ah...”
“Sometime today, huh, pop?” said #1, while #2 glanced at his watch. The Dustbins were getting antsy. Bet they had to get back to their Glenn Gary/Glenn Ross office so they could cheat more elderly out of their life’s savings.
#3 slapped a ten down on the counter. “Tell you what, pop, lunch is on me. Just pick something.”
The delighted old man smiled, but he still couldn’t make a choice.
“How about a meatball hero and coke?” #2 said to the old guy.
“Good idea,” he replied. To the girl, “I’ll have what this fine young man suggested.”
When the food came, he picked up his tray, thanked the Dustbins, and sat down at a table right behind me.
The three Dustbins placed their orders. And then their big mistake: while huddled at the counter they started ragging on me. I’d felt there sneering, condescending stares singe me when they’d walked passed on their way in.
Said #1: “Do you see the tie on that clown? Doubt GoodWill would take it.”
“Should we tell him disco is dead?” snickered #2.
“Just a wild and crazy guy,” added #3, chuckling.
In this case my Christian love only extended so far. I refused to turn the other cheek. “Being a little loud, there, assholes.”
High Noon silence covered the entire dining room like a roof.
So everyone could hear: “Is he speaking to us?” said #1. To me, “Are you speaking to us, tough guy?”
A hard edged and equally loud: “Yeah.”
“Ignore him, Kenton,” said #3.
“He’s a nut job,” #2 added.
“Yeah, Ken-ton,” said I, “better listen to Muff-Diver and Butt-Kisser.”
Collective gasps and held breaths as the audience anticipated an explosion of violence — “You’ll never guess what happened at Papa Giovanni’s today!” — but nothing happened. Guess they had their good clothes on.
After getting their food to go, they walked passed me again on their way out the door. #3 stopped, leaned over, and said, “Enjoy your lunch, sir. Be careful not to stain that tie. It’s ugly enough already.”
Despite my best efforts, I cracked a grin. Then I made a critical appraisal of my ensemble compared to those three sharp dressed men. Yep, their mud pies were right on target.
If I was Gail, I wouldn’t want to be seen in public with me either.
***
GAIL AND I STOOD SIDE-by-side looking out one of the library’s huge plate glass windows. Damn she smelled good, but by now I didn’t give a rat’s ass. Her heart belonged to a receptacle that held floor sweepings.
A heavy snow was falling. It blanketed the streets that surrounded Cooper Union on three sides with a pristine whiteness that muffled the sounds of cars, cabs and buses. It was as close to peaceful as the East Village ever got. Not exactly a New England town on a Christmas card, but Lower Manhattan in a snow storm had its own unique beauty. Guess snow turns everything into a wonderland.
A week before Christmas, 1980, the fall semester had ended and most of the students were on winter recess. Watching the clock became more tedious. Boredom now ruled my life Monday through Friday, from nine to five. It wrecked its havoc in my mind, body and Christmas spirit. I came to work today dressed for foul weather: a ratty green parka with a hood over a red sweater. Jeans and work boots completed the ensemble. That healthy, outdoorsy look I once sported had faded away. Now I was as pasty white as everyone else in this place. Gail had mentioned that the girls in the back office were disappointed that I’d stopped wearing short-sleeved shirts.
“They say you have forearms like Popeye,” she told me.
“More like Olive Oil now,” I replied. “I’m afraid I’ve atrophied quite a bit since I’ve been here, Gail.” Then I grinned and added, “Guess I’m not much to look at anymore.”
A playful swipe, “Oh, John, you’re so funny.”
Despite a boyfriend that meant she was off the table, I truly enjoyed working with Gail. Pleasant to look at, she enlivened this awful place. Moreover, though, she taught me a lot about computer applications to library science; knowledge that would set my life on a new course.
“A computer is a tool, John. Librarians use it like you use a hammer to nail a shingle.” The woman knew her stuff. She was the first person to mention the field of information brokering to me. “I might even go into business for myself one day,” she added. “Perform database searches and document delivery for clients. Dustin said he’d help me raise the capital.”
Deep in the folds of my cerebrum a seed had been planted: Maybe information brokering was something I should look into? There was no future being a roofman. But all I could think of then was getting the hell out of Cooper.
Four months later, in April, 1981, I stood alone looking out that same window. Not even the grim reality of Lower Manhattan could mute the beautiful spring day that raged outside. I’d already put in a call to my old roofing shop. The boss, Billy, said he had work for me, and I could come back anytime. The way I figured it, I had to make a decision: stay here and advance my library career or grab a hammer, go beat on some nails, and listen to rock & roll blast on the radio.
No need to make a decision, because someone else made it for me.
I sat at the reference desk watching an occasional co-ed walk by, when Gail came over. She had a worried look on her face. “Dick wants to see you in his office,” she told me.
That was Richard Nutter, Sir Dick the Prick, the hump who ruled this library like a lord of the manor. Naturally, I couldn’t stand the guy. And he didn’t much care for me, either; so it was not hard to figure out what was coming. I was rubbing up against an expiration date, a probation period whereby I could be summarily dismissed without cause. I did look forward to being free of this place, but I’d miss working with Gail for sure. I’d also miss the A/C in the summer, which was less than two months away. But what the hell, I’d already survived fifteen summers, so I guess I could grind through another one.
When I left Dick’s office I had a big smile on my face.
A smile Gail misinterpreted: “He didn’t fire you,” she said, genuinely relieved.
“No, he fired me all right.”
Gail went into a fret. “What will you do? Library jobs are hard to come by. We’re in a recession.”
“Truth is, Gail, I don’t think I’m suited for librarianship.”
“You’re going to just toss your MLS in the trash?”
I shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. I don’t know.”
“What will you do meanwhile?”
“Go back to doing what I’ve always done, roof. It defines me, Gail.”
I wasn’t a touchy feely kind of guy, but Gail got a hug. We exchanged phone numbers and promised to keep in touch.
We never did.