Chapter 1

Every one knew my old man, Bull Swents. After all, he had been showing up to the Draw for over twenty years straight, and had only not been pulled to crew a few times. He never scabbed after that, saying missing a next-day job wasn’t worth the job today- he couldn’t make crew with a bloody rag tied about his head.

Williham was really his name, but Bull fit better. A transplanted Swede, with a thick accent and a thicker neck, when he used his strength, objects moved.

He was usually pulled to crew quickly, for tasks that required brawn, but lately the call was coming later in the morning, because his copper hair was turning silver now. A miserly man, he didn’t spend money on wasteful things. No sinful poisons polluted his temple and sapped his wealth. So, we always had food, clothes, and a roof.

I only vaguely recall Mama, I was four when she and my new brother were called home to rest, and for the times that Bull was working his sixteen hour days for twelve cents an hour (one of the very few to make such generous wages, and they all swore he was worth his keep, ) I was put under the care of the washer women more or less. I was a happy fellow, and they enjoyed me, and kept me out of the boiling lye water and the red-hot coal grate. I enjoyed their shared songs and chatter as they worked.

Bull taught me how to get drawn to crew. You have to have a stilled dynamism to your stance, a readiness to move on the instant. He told me he had seen half the Day Draw sent packing, because they had their hands hanging off their belts, as if they were too lazy to hold up their own mitts. The same way for posture, if you couldn’t even hold your own self upright, how good a worker could you be?

I had to keep my hands under my own control at all times, or he would belt me one, and I did learn that it was faster to block when I did, not that my strength against his made that block worth anything- except self-respect.

Still, we played that game all through my childhood, until he took me down to the Day Draw with him when I got big enough. I must have been nearly fourteen or, so I guess. Toward the end, my blocks were strong enough to have some effect, so perhaps that is what decided him I was ready to try the Day Draw.

I was almost as tall as Bull, but figured I had some growing yet to do, and I was by no means filled in with meat, but I did have what else Bull had taught me of how to catch the Draw. Bull taught me that a man was only as good as his word, that if his word was no good, the man was no good. I learned early and well not to make a promise lightly, and once made, it was more important to keep my word than anything else.

I know he felt bad about how he had laid me up, but it is a lesson every young man needs to learn if he is to go about in the world among other men. When the washer women heard why I was gimpy, they shook their heads sadly, and told me that a man always kept his word, or he wasn’t a man to other men. They chuckled to each other, talking about promises and then promises and how a man’s word to a woman was an iffy thing. I resolved right then, there would be no difference in my word between men and women.

When the man is talking to you, pay attention and keep your eyes on his, to get all the meaning you can from words, posture, or even side glances. Answer promptly, softly, decisively after that pause that says you heard and understood, and to make certain he was all done talking. If you didn’t understand, say what you heard him say back at him, to see if you got it right- better to seem dumb up front than on the back end of the job.

Keep your opinions to yourself unless, maybe, you are asked for them, and don’t better yourself over other men just because you know a thing. Let your deeds attest, not your mouth. It’s not a loss to not fight, as long as you don’t allow anyone to back you down- always stand to, even if you have to take a beating to do it. A beating heals, self-respect is who a man is.

I knew lots of pretty manners, although I ran pretty wild as a back-ally brat, and part of getting on crew was being clean and presentable, even if the job was filthy. Some washer women called me ‘Fauntleroy’ if I made too many pretty manners at them, but they were all sort of step-moms to me, so they kept me in clean clothing anyway.

I never had trouble with bully-boys I couldn’t handle on my own after I got my reach, but before that if I could make it to the washing alley any pursuers got scraped off by very strong women with club-like battle paddles.

They were mean, and they worked as a group, and it was a gauntlet which no one wanted to run twice. You had to be tough to earn a living as a washer woman.

Came the day, I went down to the field with Bull and gathered with the other men at the break of day, waiting to get called from the Draw. I was like an eager puppy, but I had the stuff. I was clean, my worn clothing faded but unstained, my hair combed under my first cap ever (which I knew to remove if I was being spoken to, ) and I even had shoes on my feet. I looked like I would instantly jump to if called.

I could see the difference in about half the men, standing there as if asleep, dull eyed from last night’s bender, smoking or hanging their hands off of their clothing, seemingly too weak to carry their own bodies about. Just bodies, not workers, and Bull and I didn’t stay in the Draw long enough to see if they ever got pulled to crew- although I would guess probably not.