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    A Literary Collage
    A Literary Collage
    A Literary Collage
    Ebook81 pages1 hour

    A Literary Collage

    By Ronald Joseph Tocchini

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    About this ebook

    A Literary Collage is a collection of short stories. Some of them are fiction (like The Way It Was); others relate experiences of the writer himself (for example New York City or Bust). Some are more or less expository writing (like In Llama Land, There Are One-Man Bands).
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTrafford Publishing
    Release dateDec 20, 2011
    ISBN9781466908024
    A Literary Collage
    Author

    Ronald Joseph Tocchini

    Ronald Joseph Tocchini is not a stranger to his craft as an author. “Ancient Empires of the Eastern Mediterranean” is his fourth publication. Furthermore, the writer’s work is complemented by forty-three years of instruction. He taught in the university, the community college as well as the secondary levels of instruction. His subjects were as follow: Spanish, Italian, English as a secondary language, and American history. He attended Saint Ignatius College Prep in San Francisco, California, the University of Notre Dame in Indiana, and he did graduate work at the University of San Francisco. At the University of California at Berkeley, he completed all required courses for a doctorate in romance languages and literatures. Ron, as his friends and colleagues knew him, was also an athlete. As a result of his accomplishments in athletics, he was awarded a full, four-year scholarship at the University of Notre Dame in South Bend, Indiana.

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      Book preview

      A Literary Collage - Ronald Joseph Tocchini

      CONTENTS

      The Way It Was

      Brain vs. Brawn

      One Never Knows.

      New York City or Bust!

      A Fan of the Irish

      Come Fly or Float with Me!

      In Llama Land

      there are One Man Bands

      The Way We Were.

      The Way It Was

      A full Moon, pale and pockmarked, beamed in a star-studded sky. Luminous, it revealed dilapidated rooftops of numerous warehouses, and it exposed deserted streets, as well. Yes, streets and sidewalks were abandoned, except for nocturnal animals such as oversized cats and fat-wharf rats. Cats and rats were scurrying about in search of scraps and rotting fruits and vegetables which had remained on the pavements since previous days of business at the Wholesale Terminal Market. The latter was the name by which that district was known to produce merchants of San Francisco.

      In addition to the foregoing animals, small groups of indigents were beginning to gather at several of the Street corners in said district. Standing around empty barrels which contained bonfires, the individuals were trying to mitigate this sting of a cold winters night in 1952.

      At about 3 A.M., lights of the warehouses were turned on. Almost simultaneously, doors of the fronts of the buildings were raised, and the clanking of hand truck clamps could be heard as warehouse men used the hand trucks to transport stacked boxes of produce from one spot to another, and arranged displays for the buyers to inspect.

      Diesel trucks, not too few of them, began to invade the streets. Filled with fresh produce from farmlands, they were to be parked and unloaded at various warehouses. As usual, tempers began to flare as the warehouse men and drivers attempted to find parking spaces in the narrow streets of the produce market.

      Where in the fuck have you been, ass hole? You were supposed to be here last night with this load of asparagus! Snapped a vendor from the entrance to one of the warehouses.

      Snowed in! You shoulda seen the ‘Grapevine!’ Why it was a fuckin parkin lot. Trucks backed up bumper ta bumper! Dogs were a pissen on ma tires! Ask the other drivers if ya think ahm a shitten ya! Remarked the driver.

      Then, the dialogue continued:

      Well, Park that son of a bitch and start unloading! We got lots of work here.! Affirmed the vendor.

      Who the fuck’s gonna help me unload Asked the truck driver.

      I don’t give a shit! Why doncha get a couple of them nigger bums standin around one of those bonfires? I don’t know. Do whacha gotta do! Just shake your ass and get the Job done!

      The driver parked his rig in front of the vendor’s warehouse which we’ll call Best Fruit and Produce Company. After applying the air brakes, he turned off the engine, opened the cab door on the driver’s side and slid his mass, feet first, onto the Street.

      Next, he walked to the trailers rear and opened its doors. Lo and behold! He exposed a trailer load of crated asparagus. Indeed, there must have been 1000 crates or more of the produce. Wasting no time, the driver rounded up two lumpers who proceeded to unload the crates of merchandise. Stacking the crates five high, they left the stacks to three individual warehousemen who transported them into the warehouse’s refrigerator.

      After about an hour and a half of the foregoing maneuver, the driver of the diesel called the vendor’s attention:

      Ain’t much more room in yur icebox. Where ya wanna put the balance of the load?

      "Merchant’s Ice on Battery Street. I’ll giv’em a call." Replied the vendor. There was about a 3 min. pause. Then:

      Hey, Curly! Vick at Best Fruit.

      What the fuck you want, ass hole.

      Ya got room for about 400 crates of grass?

      Not right now. Gimme about a half an hour. I gotta get rid of 500 cartons of citrus for Matson lines, first. Then, I’ll have room for your crates of grass.

      Don’t Jack me off, Curly, or I’ll be all over ya like a fly on a turd.

      Listen, asshole. I said gimme a half an hour and the space is yurs.

      Vic slammed the telephone down, and then he grumbled: that little prick better not fuck with me!

      The truck driver closed the rear doors of his rig’s trailer. Then he opened the cab’s door, entered and started the engine. Within moments, he pulled out of his parking spot and headed for Merchant’s Ice on Battery Street.

      When the diesel arrived at the foregoing establishment, Curly, the Foreman came dashing out from his office and strutted along the building’s front side loading dock.

      Said loading dock was above Street level, at a height that was equal to that of the floors of the semi-trailers. This fact facilitated the loading and unloading of crated produce, onto and from the trailers.

      Upon seeing the diesel arrive, Curly exclaimed:

      "I thought I told that son of a bitch, a half an hour! Goddamn him! He’s got 20 minutes, to spare. What am I gonna do with Matson’s citrus? Shove it up my ass?"

      Curly’s voice was strident; its tone, vitriolic. Out-of-control, now, he grabbed a hatchet which he carried in his smock, and he threw it against the warehouse’s wall. Dirty cock sucker! He yelled. His tantrums were frequent, particularly when he didn’t get his way. The Warehousemen were well aware of that. Therefore, they generally tried to stay on his good side. There was an exception, however, as we shall see.

      The angry Foreman immediately called Vick, the salesman at Best:

      Why you no good mother fucker.’ Do you wanna come here and straighten out this mess?

      After listening to Curly’s complaint, Vic reacted by saying:

      "Big fuckin deal, Curly! Tell my driver to circle the block a couple of times. In the meanwhile, you can load your Matson, order. And, in no time you’ll have space for me."

      So, Curly and Vic worked out their timing

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