He had tried to sip that first whiskey slow, use the same cup for each toast, but then one glass led to the next, followed by he didn’t know how many beer chasers.
“Guess my new husband had a little too much fun last night.” She kissed the top of his head. When he looked up, Rita was cracking open a white bottle and shaking two tablets into his hand. “Here, take these.” She turned to the stove and poured him a cup of coffee from the percolator. “And drink this.”
Ozzie did as he was told. The coffee was strong and sweet, just how he liked it. “Thank you.” He looked up at her. Rita was wearing a periwinkle dress with big black buttons down the front. A matching patent-leather belt cinched her waist, showing off the sway of her hips.
“Damn, you look good,” he blurted.
“And you look like shit, so drink up so you can make it down to the shipyard on time.”
“I’ll be good. Just need to get two of these in me,” he said, slurping down more coffee.
Rita removed a plastic container from the icebox and placed it on the table. Then she assembled two egg salad sandwiches and wrapped them in waxed paper. “For your lunch.” She slid one across the table. “Don’t forget we have the appointment down at the Philadelphia Savings Fund Society. You remember where it is, right? Twelfth and Market. I only have an hour for lunch, so don’t be late.”
“What’s the appointment for again?” He gripped the mug.
“A mortgage, Ozzie. It’s one of your G.I. Bill benefits, and I want to take advantage. Can’t live with Great-aunt Reese forever.” Then she leaned over and whispered, “Not with the way we were going at it last night.” She chortled.
Ozzie’s body flushed with warmth as the memory of their wedding night rushed back through his midsection. Rita reached for her black gloves and hat and then kissed him.
After his second cup of coffee, the aspirin kicked in. Ozzie hopped the trolley down to the Philadelphia Navy Yard, where he had finally been called down for a job. His unemployment benefits had held him over for the past two months, but he was ready to get back to earning a living. He had applied for the management position of warehouse specialist. With his experience working as a corporal, U.S. Army, for maintenance and transportation, it would be an easy transition for him. A cakewalk, really, and as he entered the Navy Yard and caught a whiff of the fishy smell of the Schuylkill River, his morning headache was replaced with excitement. Inside a trailer marked “Security,” a balding man wearing a light blue button-down shirt shoved forms across the desk.
Ozzie gave his name, and after producing his ID, he was handed a white name tag with a sticker adhesive. “Report to Building 620,” the balding man said. “It’s the main administrative building just to the left. Can’t miss it.”
Ozzie pressed the white name tag to his uniform. He had not been told what to wear, so he’d figured that showing up in his full-dress uniform would give him an extra air of respectability. There were about six men waiting, four white men and two Negroes. Ozzie was the only person in a uniform. Had he made a mistake? Should he have come in civilian clothes?
But then he remembered what his uncle Millard always said: “Dress your ass off, boy, and then nobody can’t say you don’t belong.”
He picked up a copy ofTrue: The Man’s Magazineand flipped through it while he waited. The four white men were called into the admin office first, and after about fifteen minutes, they walked out with a bag and a folder each. They all smiled, but none made eye contact with him, not that he had expected it.
All the Negro men were called into the office together. Ozzie put the magazine down and brought up the rear of the group. The thick-necked man behind the counter looked up at Ozzie and blinked. Then he looked down at the list on his desk and read out each of their names. “You three will report to the warehouse. The job is receiving, hauling, and unloading materials. You will also be in charge of keeping the areas clean.”
Ozzie felt heat trickle up his spine. Did this man even see him? Had he read his application properly? Ozzie was more than a mule fit for manual labor. This job was below his intelligence and skill level.
“The job pays seventy-five cents an hour. The attire is navy blue trousers with a navy crew shirt. If you head back down the steps and make a right and walk toward the river, you’ll see the warehouse. Ask for Mr. Howell. He’ll get you straight.”
The other two men turned and left together. Ozzie stood in place. Seventy-five cents an hour? Was he serious? That was half of what Ozzie had expected to earn.
“Were my instructions unclear?” The man tilted his head.
“I served as corporal in the army in Germany. I managed men in maintenance and transportation. I applied for warehouse specialist.”
“This is the job that’s available,” the man grunted, waving his hand as if Ozzie were a fly he was trying to get rid of.
“When will something else become available?”
“That’s it. Take it or leave it.” The man eyed him. “But if you don’t take what’s offered, I’ll have to alert the VA. Let them know you refused employment.”
Ozzie knew the rest. If he declined employment, he’d lose his unemployment benefits. This was unfair. He had served four years for his country, only to come back to this subpar position. But what choice did he have? He had a wife to support now.And a child.
Ozzie had mailed two American dollars to the Federal Eagle Club where Jelka had worked each month, in hopes that someone would find her and give her the money for Katja. Even though he never received a response, he had to believe that he was supporting his child. He couldn’t help out if he wasn’t earning a living.
“Fine,” he said, and then turned on his heel.
Ozzie held the glass door to the bank for Rita as she walked out onto the street.
“Well, now that our application is in, all we have to do is wait,” Rita said, slipping her black gloves onto her hands.
Ozzie looked down the street. “I guess.”
