He knew how to work everyday, how to feed
six children, even if it meant mopping
supermarket floors at night, or cutting
cords of wood to sell whenever the union called
another strike.
Or scabbing,
because it was what
had to be done.
He never talked about his job,
but left the dinner table, the birthday party any day
any time for breakdown calls
from Swedish Hospital, the County Jail, City Hall.
We’d been talking, again, and drinking,
watching the sun set over Whidbey Island,
when he warned me,
once again, on the dangers, the damned foolishness,
of letting my girls play barefooted on escalators
or stand where their clothing could be caught
in revolving tread.
It was messy, he said to the dusk
beyond the window, messy,
to clean up after that fool of a man
who stuck his head out the service elevator’s cage
trying to see why it wouldn’t move--
decapitated by a descending car.
As the sun flashed off the Sound
blinding me, I told him
one story from my teenage years,
wasting my summer days shopping downtown,
how I always stopped
by an open elevator shaft, first
ditching my cigarette and unrolling my skirt waist
until the hem reached an acceptable length,
looking to say hi to Sammy, Dave
or Mike, or best yet, hi to my Dad,
knowing them all by their green uniforms,
their broken nails and skinned knuckles,
hunched down with wrenches and wires
and bright industrial lights.
They’d all say hi back,
knowing me from company picnics
and pinochle games, knowing me.
I’d be Joe Hueter’s oldest girl.