and would be floated to the bridge, one at a time, from the American Bridge Company's steelyard four miles
up the river in New Jersey, where Benny Olson, James Braddock, and the other old champs were working. The loaded barges, pulled
by tugboats, would take an hour to make the trip. Once the steel pieces were lifted off the barges by two tremendous hoisting
machines on the lower traverse strut of each tower, the whole bridge would sag under the pressure of weight; for instance,
the first piece, when lifted up, would pull the main cables down twenty inches. The second and third pieces would lower the
cables an additional four feet six inches. The fifth and sixth pieces would pull the cables down another four feet three inches.
When all the pieces were hanging, the cables would be as much as twenty-eight feet lower than before. (All this was as O.
H. Ammann had designed it—in fact, his design allowed for as much as a thirty-five-foot cable defection—but he did not take
into account human and mechanical frailty, this being Murphy's problem.)
Murphy's problems did not begin with the lifting of the first few steel pieces. This was conducted in the presence of a boatload
of television and news cameras, and all the workers were very much on the ball. His troubles began when the initial excitement
was tempered by the rote of repetition and the coming of colder weather. One freezing day a small barge holding suspender
ropes was tied too tightly to the pier and sank that night when the tide came in, and the guard not only slept through this
but also permitted vagrants to ransack the tool shed.
Murphy, in his shack the next morning, pounding his fist against the desk, was on the phone screaming to one of the dock supervisors.
"Jes-sus Kee-rist, I'm sick of this crap! That stupidbas-tardguard just stood in that warm shanty, sleeping instead of watching.
Now that guard isn't supposed to be sleeping where it's warm, goddammit, he's supposed to be watching, and I'm not taking
any more of this crap, so you get that goddam guard up here and I'll tell that stupid bastard a thing or two . . ."
In the outer office of the shack, Murphy's male secretary, a slim, dapper, well-groomed young man named Chris Reisman, was
on the switchboard answering calls with a very polite, "Good morning, American Bridge" and covering his ears to Murphy's profanity
in the next room.
Male secretaries are the only sort that would survive in this atmosphere; a female secretary would probably not be safe around
some of the insatiable studs who work on bridges, nor would any woman condone the language very long. But Chris Reisman, whose
uncle was a riveter and whose stepfather died on a bridge six years before, worked out well as a secretary, although it took
a while for the bridgemen to accustom themselves to Chris Reisman's polite telephone voice saying, "Good morning, American
Bridge" (instead of "Yeah, whatyawant?"), and to his style of wearing slim, cuffless trousers, a British kneelength raincoat,
and, sometimes in wet weather, high soft leather boots.
The day after Reisman had been hired by the American Bridge Company and sent to Murphy's shack on the Staten Island shore,
Murphy's welcoming words were, "Well, I see we got another ass to sit around here." But soon even Murphy was impressed with
twenty-three-year-old Reisman's efficiency as a secretary and his cool manner over the telephone in dealing with people Murphy
was trying to avoid.
"Good morning, American Bridge . . ."
"Yeah, say, is Murphy in?"
"May I ask who's calling?"
"Wha?"
"May I ask who's calling?"
"Yeah, dis is an old friend, Willy . . . just tell 'im Willy . . ."
"May I have your last name?"
"Wha?"
"Your last name?"
"Just tell Murphy, well, maybe you can help me. Ya see, I worked on the Pan Am job with Murphy, and . . ."
"Just a minute, please," Chris cut in, then switched to Murphy on the intercom and said, "I have a Willy on the
up the river in New Jersey, where Benny Olson, James Braddock, and the other old champs were working. The loaded barges, pulled
by tugboats, would take an hour to make the trip. Once the steel pieces were lifted off the barges by two tremendous hoisting
machines on the lower traverse strut of each tower, the whole bridge would sag under the pressure of weight; for instance,
the first piece, when lifted up, would pull the main cables down twenty inches. The second and third pieces would lower the
cables an additional four feet six inches. The fifth and sixth pieces would pull the cables down another four feet three inches.
When all the pieces were hanging, the cables would be as much as twenty-eight feet lower than before. (All this was as O.
H. Ammann had designed it—in fact, his design allowed for as much as a thirty-five-foot cable defection—but he did not take
into account human and mechanical frailty, this being Murphy's problem.)
Murphy's problems did not begin with the lifting of the first few steel pieces. This was conducted in the presence of a boatload
of television and news cameras, and all the workers were very much on the ball. His troubles began when the initial excitement
was tempered by the rote of repetition and the coming of colder weather. One freezing day a small barge holding suspender
ropes was tied too tightly to the pier and sank that night when the tide came in, and the guard not only slept through this
but also permitted vagrants to ransack the tool shed.
Murphy, in his shack the next morning, pounding his fist against the desk, was on the phone screaming to one of the dock supervisors.
"Jes-sus Kee-rist, I'm sick of this crap! That stupidbas-tardguard just stood in that warm shanty, sleeping instead of watching.
Now that guard isn't supposed to be sleeping where it's warm, goddammit, he's supposed to be watching, and I'm not taking
any more of this crap, so you get that goddam guard up here and I'll tell that stupid bastard a thing or two . . ."
In the outer office of the shack, Murphy's male secretary, a slim, dapper, well-groomed young man named Chris Reisman, was
on the switchboard answering calls with a very polite, "Good morning, American Bridge" and covering his ears to Murphy's profanity
in the next room.
Male secretaries are the only sort that would survive in this atmosphere; a female secretary would probably not be safe around
some of the insatiable studs who work on bridges, nor would any woman condone the language very long. But Chris Reisman, whose
uncle was a riveter and whose stepfather died on a bridge six years before, worked out well as a secretary, although it took
a while for the bridgemen to accustom themselves to Chris Reisman's polite telephone voice saying, "Good morning, American
Bridge" (instead of "Yeah, whatyawant?"), and to his style of wearing slim, cuffless trousers, a British kneelength raincoat,
and, sometimes in wet weather, high soft leather boots.
The day after Reisman had been hired by the American Bridge Company and sent to Murphy's shack on the Staten Island shore,
Murphy's welcoming words were, "Well, I see we got another ass to sit around here." But soon even Murphy was impressed with
twenty-three-year-old Reisman's efficiency as a secretary and his cool manner over the telephone in dealing with people Murphy
was trying to avoid.
"Good morning, American Bridge . . ."
"Yeah, say, is Murphy in?"
"May I ask who's calling?"
"Wha?"
"May I ask who's calling?"
"Yeah, dis is an old friend, Willy . . . just tell 'im Willy . . ."
"May I have your last name?"
"Wha?"
"Your last name?"
"Just tell Murphy, well, maybe you can help me. Ya see, I worked on the Pan Am job with Murphy, and . . ."
"Just a minute, please," Chris cut in, then switched to Murphy on the intercom and said, "I have a Willy on the
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