Beat 0001: The Fucking Pinkertons
July 21st, 1929: 422 words. About two minutes of your time.
Sometimes a witch’s curse comes in handy. On my second fight of the week.
Not fight.
Beating.
I always know it's her when I stop feeling the crunch of each boot in my side. Honeysuckle and something else conquers the shoe polish and sweat in my nostrils. Her sweet perfume. Something homemade and far away.
The beating ends. I don’t notice at first. All I remember is West 35th spinning around me and one of the hazy man shapes making some kind of noise. Could be telling me the union doesn’t need my kind of help or that I’m not welcome or some other formality.
Honeysuckle and…?
I should move, but the sidewalk felt like a bed at the Waldorf-Astoria. They won’t bother me. For now, I’m not Brick Barker, loyal comrade and Communist Party of the United States of America courier. I’m a trophy. A warning. A sign telling anyone who supports the Garment Workers Union to fuck off.
I drift.
Even the void ends. Someone must ensure things get where they’re needed. I hear laughing in the distance. The pain lighting up my sides whispers the secret source of the laughter.
Me.
I have every reason to. The Pinkertons who jumped me assumed I was selling newspapers. My hand slid down to my bag and the copies of the Daily Worker tucked away there.
Gone.
I hear myself laughing again.
Filler. I'd already given my treasure away.
Almost $700 for the Garment Workers Union strike fund. Raised from members over a month. Safely in their hands.
The sidewalk rejects me. Concrete comes on slow, no more silk sheets. Engulfing me into a full body throb. Thought pierces through pain.
Vacations over.
I blinked to clear my vision. Manhattan's scents returned me to myself. Oils mixed with dyes and always, always human sweat and horseshit. The sun glares overhead, approaching its zenith. I smile without pain.
Didn’t expect that. Only hit below the neck. Fewer bruises to explain.
I notice the gawkers and forget them.
My body sings a symphony of pain in the same old key. I steel myself and push up and… nothings broken. Unsurprising. Something about the Curse likes me hurt, but unspoiled.
Her idea of a joke.
My smile widened and my throat parched. Fine work for one morning. I could blow off the rest of the day and rest at the flop house. Who would blame me?
I need a drink.
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