I have heard tales of Bob, the semi-homeless Polish man since I was a kid. Bob, forever unable to stop drinking, was an extremely hard worker when sober. He worked for lots of workshops and factories on 3rd Avenue in Gowanas, Brooklyn, including my father’s ironworks on occasion. He couldn’t stay stober long enough to keep a job, though, and was always sleeping somewhere in the open, like Prospect Park, or an underpass near the Belt Parkway in Bay Ridge. Tales of his fights, accidents, and home remedies which often involved duct tape and alcohol, were common at our dinner table. “I saw Bob by the pier in Bay Ridge” my father would often say, “But he was so drunk I didn’t stop.” My favorite story was the one of Bob backing up a truck off a pier and into the Gowanus Canal, long before the canal had been designated a superfund site and started to be cleaned, when the canal was thought to be deadly to go in even for a second. Right before the truck started sinking underwater, Bob partly opened a window and, when the truck hit the bottom of the canal, he was able to get out and swim through the black water to the pier. The police wanted to rush him to the hospital, but he called them crazy, cursing at them in Polish, washed himself off with a hose and went back to the park. Bob has worked on everything my father was engaged in, mostly doing demolition, since his cognitive functions have been damaged by the alcohol and my father won’t let him do anything without supervision. But his strength is legendary, even now, when he must be in late middle age. Bob, even today, remains a mythical figure. In another time, stories of him would be turned into famous legends and fables and cautionary tales.
Maybe the gods of the new house sent Bob to help with the fleas. He ripped out every single insect ridden carpet in 50 Duffield Street, bare-chested no less. My father gave him a ventilator to protect him from the fumes of the insecticides, but he threw it to the side. “What this? I no need this! Open window.” He rolled up each carpet, swarming with fleas, and carried it out in a cloud of bugs on one bare shoulder. Bob did this for three days straight. When he was done with the carpets, he started on the old moldings and cabinets, breaking them all down into small pieces, bundling them, and carrying them outside until, finally, 50 Duffield Street was rid of the fleas and a lot else, too.
Bob, my flawed hero, has saved the day!
