Thursday, August 05, 2010
Little Pavel Goes to the Back of the Bus
by John F. Di Leo
Pockets stumbled into headquarters one morning holding his briefcase in one hand, holding his head in the other. “Paully, gimme a lemon-lime, willya?”
Pavel Syerov Jr. (Paul to his friends) arose from the table where he had been collating literature and headed back to the refrigerator for a can of soda for the deputy committeeman. Gently, he asked “Rough night last night, Pockets?” He had never seen Pockets hung over before; beer was mother’s milk to the old pol. But Pockets and the Boss had been entertaining a couple of politicians from Louisiana the night before at the corner bar; old pros swapping stories and learning tricks of the trade.
“Never mix your drinks, Paully” he told his young charge, in his most fatherly tone. “It’s those guys from New Orleans. They take perfectly good fish and burn the flavor out of it, and then they drink the sweetest, fruitiest concoctions you’ve ever seen. Boy, do you feel it in the morning…” Pockets collapsed in his chair and shut his eyes before beginning the day’s lecture.
Pockets stumbled into headquarters one morning holding his briefcase in one hand, holding his head in the other. “Paully, gimme a lemon-lime, willya?”
Pavel Syerov Jr. (Paul to his friends) arose from the table where he had been collating literature and headed back to the refrigerator for a can of soda for the deputy committeeman. Gently, he asked “Rough night last night, Pockets?” He had never seen Pockets hung over before; beer was mother’s milk to the old pol. But Pockets and the Boss had been entertaining a couple of politicians from Louisiana the night before at the corner bar; old pros swapping stories and learning tricks of the trade.
“Never mix your drinks, Paully” he told his young charge, in his most fatherly tone. “It’s those guys from New Orleans. They take perfectly good fish and burn the flavor out of it, and then they drink the sweetest, fruitiest concoctions you’ve ever seen. Boy, do you feel it in the morning…” Pockets collapsed in his chair and shut his eyes before beginning the day’s lecture.
“Do you have your driver’s license yet, Paully?” Pockets asked.
“Not yet, Pockets… I’m only 17, remember? Just finished Driver’s Ed in June.”
“Okay, then you’ll have it by the election; that’s what counts. Make sure you get the kind that lets you drive a bus. We might… just might… hafta send you south for the election; they’re short on bus drivers in New Orleans ever since Katrina hit, and who knows; they just might be looking for some help from their friends.”
“A bus, Pockets? That’s a different test! And a much more complicated one! I can barely drive a car, and you want me driving a bus by November?” Honestly, thought Pavel, there are times to question the old man’s judgment.
“We don’t think big enough in Chicago, Paully. Those New Orleans boys told us about what they call ‘the Morial method.’ I don’t think we can do it here, mind you, but they’ve sure got a slick operation down in the delta!”
Pavel offered Pockets a bagel and asked him to slow down. “I think you’re getting ahead of me, Pockets. How exactly does this New Orleans technique work?”
Pockets smiled. “You’re gonna like this, Paully. They tell me it was mastered by the old mayor of New Orleans, though it kinda sounds like it already an old established practice by his day. Let’s say you only have 45 workers.
