phone that
worked for you . . ."
"I don't want to talk to that bastard," Murphy snapped back.
Then, back on the phone, Reisman said, "I am sorry, sir, but Mr. Murphy is not in."
"Wha?"
"I said I do not expect Mr. Murphy to be in today."
"Well, okay, I'll try tomorrow."
"Fine," said Chris Reisman, clicking him off, then picking up another call with, "Good morning, American Bridge . . ."
On Thursday, November 21, there was a hoisting engine failure, and a four-hundred-ton steel unit, which was halfway up, could
not go any farther, so it dangled there all night. The next day, after the engine trouble was corrected, there was union rumbling
over the failure of the bridge company to put nets under the bridge. This fight was led by Local 40's business agent, Ray
Corbett, himself a onetime ironworker—he helped put up the television tower atop the Empire State—and on Monday, December
2, the men walked off the bridge because of the dispute.
The argument against nets was not so much money or the time it would take to string them up, although both of these were factors,
but mainly the belief that nets were not really a safeguard against death. Nets could never be large enough to cover the whole
underbelly of the bridge, the argument went, because the steel had to be lifted up into the bridge through the path of any
nets. It was also felt that nets, even small ones strung here and there, and moved as the men moved, might induce a sense
of false security and invite more injury than might otherwise occur.
The strike lasted from December 2 to December 6, ending with the ironworkers' unions victorious—they got their nets, small
as they seemed, and Ray Corbett's strong stand was largely vindicated within the next year, when three men fell off the bridge
and were saved from the water by dropping into nets. By January, with barges arriving every day with one and sometimes two
four-hundred-ton steel pieces to be lifted, about half of the sixty box-shaped units were hanging from the cables, and things
seemed, at least for the time being, to be under control. Each day, if the sun was out, the old bridge buffs with binoculars
would shiver on the Brooklyn shoreline, watching and exchanging sage comments and occasionally chatting with the ironworkers
who passed back and forth through the gate with its sign
BEER OR ANY ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES NOT PERMITTED ON THIS JOB. APPRENTICES WHO BRING ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES ON JOB FOR THE MEN WILL
BE TERMINATED.
" You never drink on the bridge, right?" a man near the gate asked an Indian ironworker named Bronco Bill Martin.
"Who?"
"You."
"No, I only drink beer."
"Well, doesn't beer ruin your sense of balance?"
"I donno," Bronco Bill said. "I just go to job, drink beer, climb bridge, and I feel better on bridge than I do on ground.
I can drink a dozen can of beer and still walk a straight line on that bridge."
"A dozen?"
"Yeah," he said, "easy."
A few yards away, a group of white-haired men, some of them retired engineers or construction workers, all of them now "seaside
superintendents," were peering up at the bridge, listening to the grinds of the hoisting machines and the echoes of "Red"
Kelly shouting instructions up through his bullhorn from a barge below the rising four-hundred-ton steel unit. It was a fascinating
water show, very visual and dramatic, even for these elderly men who only saw the finale.
The show had its beginning more than an hour earlier up the river on the Jersey side. There, along the waterfront of the American
Bridge Company's yard, a four-hundred-ton chunk of steel (steel that had been made in smaller sections at U.S. Steel plants
in other states, and then shipped by rail to the New Jersey yard for assembly) was resting on a gigantic twin barge and was
now just being pulled away by one tug, pushed by another.
The ironworkers, about seventy of them, waved from the yard to the tugs—another four hundred tons was off. The
worked for you . . ."
"I don't want to talk to that bastard," Murphy snapped back.
Then, back on the phone, Reisman said, "I am sorry, sir, but Mr. Murphy is not in."
"Wha?"
"I said I do not expect Mr. Murphy to be in today."
"Well, okay, I'll try tomorrow."
"Fine," said Chris Reisman, clicking him off, then picking up another call with, "Good morning, American Bridge . . ."
On Thursday, November 21, there was a hoisting engine failure, and a four-hundred-ton steel unit, which was halfway up, could
not go any farther, so it dangled there all night. The next day, after the engine trouble was corrected, there was union rumbling
over the failure of the bridge company to put nets under the bridge. This fight was led by Local 40's business agent, Ray
Corbett, himself a onetime ironworker—he helped put up the television tower atop the Empire State—and on Monday, December
2, the men walked off the bridge because of the dispute.
The argument against nets was not so much money or the time it would take to string them up, although both of these were factors,
but mainly the belief that nets were not really a safeguard against death. Nets could never be large enough to cover the whole
underbelly of the bridge, the argument went, because the steel had to be lifted up into the bridge through the path of any
nets. It was also felt that nets, even small ones strung here and there, and moved as the men moved, might induce a sense
of false security and invite more injury than might otherwise occur.
The strike lasted from December 2 to December 6, ending with the ironworkers' unions victorious—they got their nets, small
as they seemed, and Ray Corbett's strong stand was largely vindicated within the next year, when three men fell off the bridge
and were saved from the water by dropping into nets. By January, with barges arriving every day with one and sometimes two
four-hundred-ton steel pieces to be lifted, about half of the sixty box-shaped units were hanging from the cables, and things
seemed, at least for the time being, to be under control. Each day, if the sun was out, the old bridge buffs with binoculars
would shiver on the Brooklyn shoreline, watching and exchanging sage comments and occasionally chatting with the ironworkers
who passed back and forth through the gate with its sign
BEER OR ANY ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES NOT PERMITTED ON THIS JOB. APPRENTICES WHO BRING ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES ON JOB FOR THE MEN WILL
BE TERMINATED.
" You never drink on the bridge, right?" a man near the gate asked an Indian ironworker named Bronco Bill Martin.
"Who?"
"You."
"No, I only drink beer."
"Well, doesn't beer ruin your sense of balance?"
"I donno," Bronco Bill said. "I just go to job, drink beer, climb bridge, and I feel better on bridge than I do on ground.
I can drink a dozen can of beer and still walk a straight line on that bridge."
"A dozen?"
"Yeah," he said, "easy."
A few yards away, a group of white-haired men, some of them retired engineers or construction workers, all of them now "seaside
superintendents," were peering up at the bridge, listening to the grinds of the hoisting machines and the echoes of "Red"
Kelly shouting instructions up through his bullhorn from a barge below the rising four-hundred-ton steel unit. It was a fascinating
water show, very visual and dramatic, even for these elderly men who only saw the finale.
The show had its beginning more than an hour earlier up the river on the Jersey side. There, along the waterfront of the American
Bridge Company's yard, a four-hundred-ton chunk of steel (steel that had been made in smaller sections at U.S. Steel plants
in other states, and then shipped by rail to the New Jersey yard for assembly) was resting on a gigantic twin barge and was
now just being pulled away by one tug, pushed by another.
The ironworkers, about seventy of them, waved from the yard to the tugs—another four hundred tons was off. The
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