Chapter 1 – Typical morning, plus a dead guy

My day as a bureaucrat started as it often does -- the telephone rang. I picked it up and gave the official greeting

"Street Department, White speaking". Immediately, a voice began asking me how to get from North Carolina to Connecticut. Or perhaps it asked me why the hell traffic was backed up on the Belt. Or perhaps it told me that a streetlight in the Bronx was broken. Or perhaps there is a pothole the size of the sea of tranquility on Staten Island. Or perhaps it would ask me, or berate me about any one of dozens of subjects that have nothing to do with what I do for a living. I'm one of the lucky people whose name, bureaucratically obscurantist job title, and telephone number is published in various listings of government offices. Said number is also one digit away from the telephone numbers of a broad array of services. Many of those numbers are manned by recordings that inexplicably refer callers to my telephone number. Apparently dyslexia is a problem in government. I've tried to straighten this out with the listing and telecommunications bureaucrats, but the numbers at which they are listed allow me to do no more than request a permit to clean my sewer connection. I don't know exactly what a sewer connection is, though cleaning it sounds like a good idea

But I digress. The real story is that the telephone rang again. To my surprise, it wasn't the same person I just spoke to coming round the circle of bureaucrats.

"Street Department, White"

"Big fuckin' deal. Why the fuck didn't you order any asphalt for the Bronx Crew? I got trucks lined up around the block, 30 guys on site, and that sonofabitchbastard plant manager told me to go fuck myself."

"Good morning to you too, Al. Always a pleasure to hear your voice. What happened? Did you talk to Pats?"

Big Al wasn’t my boss, or anybody else’s, but he ran the show. There are more than a quarter of a million city workers in this town. Maybe eight of them know what they’re doing. Big Al is one of them. His experience and track record command attention. That and an unparalleled ability to use the word “fuck” as any part of speech.

"I talked to him Friday afternoon. Told him we needed 1000 tons from Amici Asphalt. He said he'd take care of it. Trucks show up this morning, and the whole place is shut down. Gates locked, and everything. All the other plants are closed, and I can't get any fuckin' asphalt in the Bronx. Pats ain't answering his phone, his cell, his beeper, or his radio. No one knows where the fuck he is."

"Did anyone try him at home?"

"Yeah. His wife said she hasn't been home in three days, and doesn't care if she never sees him again."

"That's weird. Let me make some calls. Get you some material. Track down Pats."

An hour later, the supply problem was solved, but the Pats mystery had deepened. Tony Paternostro, better known as Pats, was in charge of lining up our daily supply of asphalt, the hot, sticky, black gold that is the lifeblood of the road repair world. It's a somewhat difficult task. We, being the bureaucratic civil service misfits we are, never how much we need. And they (the suppliers who sell us the stuff), always have a higher paying customer they'd rather sell it to, as well as customer service policies based on the code of omerta. All in all, the task of balancing supply and demand calls for a combination of toughness and tact that few in our little world possess. Pats isn't necessarily endowed with a surfeit of either, but he gets by. More importantly, he always shows up for work, and always answers one of the half dozen communications devices strapped to his waist, night or day. Call it dedication. Call it loyalty. Call it overtime at time and half.

Failing to reach Pats myself, I made a few calls. No one had seen him or heard a word. He might have gone to A.C. over the weekend and gotten back late. He might have been at his girlfriend's, or his other girlfriend's, no one was sure though. Only one thing to do. Send Crazy Joe to check around.

Crazy Joe, one-eyed, unreliable, dishonest, stupid, and drunk, Pats's on-again-off-again sidekick and cross to bear, had keys to Tony's office, apartment, and car, and knew his habits and haunts. Crazy Joe had many fewer communications devices strapped to his waist than Pats, but for once, I knew exactly where to find him -- at a disciplinary hearing. Crazy Joe has done (or, rather, failed to do) a great many things in his career. Having fomented disasters as a laborer, dispatcher, messenger, gas station attendant, and clerk, his most recent assignment had been to sit by himself in a shed next to a fax machine and wait for a list of figures to come through. He was then supposed to wait for a technician to stop by, to whom he would hand the fax. This apparently had proven to be quite a challenge.

On the first day of his new assignment, Crazy Joe sat in the shed, the fax machine faxed, and the technician, a fellow of Middle Eastern extraction whose name was pronounced by yelling "Batman" while simultaneously coughing and harrumphing, stopped by at the appointed hour.

"I am Bat(coughharrumph)man. I have come for de fux."
"Dafuck you say?"
"Defux. Please gif me de fux"
"Dafuck you say?"
"De fux! I must have de fux!"

Crazy Joe then popped out his glass eye, threw it at Batman, yelled, "Get dafuckouttahere you Indian rat bastard," (according the complaint filed by Batman in triplicate. Batman retreated from the shed and immediately filed said harassment complaint with the department's equal employment opportunity office, on the grounds that he resented being referred to as Indian.

But I digress.

On the morning of Pats's unexplained absence, I knew where to find Crazy Joe. Emerging from the hearing room, his glass eye back in place, and his natural eye glassy from drink, Crazy Joe muttered curses and epithets at his inquisitors under his breath. I stepped out of my office and called to him.

"Joe. Come here. I need a word with you."
"Hiya Jon. Howya doin?"
"Fine Joe. How'd the hearing go?"
"Colored bitch suspended me for tree days widout pay."
"Yeah, well, just be thankful she didn't fire you."
"I didn't do nuttin'. Dafuck dese people fuckin' wit me faw?"
"Joe. You can't say racial stuff to people in offices. Doesn't matter what you say on the street, cause those guys'll kick your ass anyway. But don't talk about nationality in the office."
"Waddyou talkin' about? Dat guy wasn't colored. He was Indian."
"He's Iranian, Joe, and he didn't like you calling him Indian."
"Who gives a fuck? Indian, whatever. I ain't no racist. I got a colored guy livin' next door to me."

"Look at this way, Joe: You ever call a Napolitan' guy Sicilian by mistake?"
"Yeah ..."
"Well what happened?"
"He hit me in the head with a brick."
"Think of this hearing as a brick. If you don't know a guy, don't mention any countries. Trust me on this one."

"All right, all right. Is dat all you wanna talk to me about?"

"No, I need to ask you about Pats. You seen him in the last couple of days?"

"No. Me an him had a fight. I ain't talk to him in like a week. Why?"

"Nobody knows where he is. He's not answering any of his phones or his beeper, and he didn't show up for work today."

"Ah, he's probably hidin' from his girlfriend. She foun' out about the udda one. Treatened to tell his wife."

"What you mean 'hiding out'? Where is he?"

"Uh, he's got dis otha apartment up by Arthur Avenue where he hangs out sometimes."

"Yeah? I never heard about that one before. Anyway, I need you to go see if he's around. Tell him to give me a call."

"I don't tink he really wants to see me. See we, wuz out at dis afta hours jernt, an' ..."

"I don't want to hear about it. Just find him and tell him to call me, or the next time that Lady won't miss you with the brick, if you know what I mean."

"Awright, awrigtht. I'm goin'."

The rest of the morning was relatively quiet. Between sewer connection cleanings, I finished off some paperwork, divvied up one person's worth of work between three clerks collectively capable of substantially less than that, and declared myself worthy of lunch and a little fresh smog. When I got back, the phone was ringing."

It was crazy Joe.

"Uh, Johnny... I dunno howta tell you 'dis, but it looks like Pats is dead."

"What?!"

"I'm at his place now, an' he ain't movin', an' he ain't breadin'."

"Did you call 911?"

"Uh, no. Ya 'tink I should?"

"Joe. Call 911."

"See we had 'dis fight see, an' he looked OK when I left him, but now...I 'tink I should get outta heah."

"Joe. Give me the address.

"Uh, he don' want too many people knowin' 'bout dis place."

"Joe, if he's dead, he won't care, and if he's alive, I don't think he'd mind."

"Uh, okay, but don't tell nobody about me findin' him, awright?"

"Yeah, sure Joe, just give me the address."

As soon as we hung up, I called 911, reported the situation, then headed out the door.

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