That he which hath no stomach to this fight,Let him depart;
his passport shall be made,And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
We would not die in that man’s company That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call’d the feast of Crispian. He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d, And rouse him at the name of Crispian
He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say ‘To-morrow is Saint Crispian.’ Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispian’s day.’
- HENRY V, William Shakespeare, C. 1599

I had not seen Bob Schlee in months until the day I helped Mr. Antonelo haul him out of the leafy vegetable section of Antonelo’s Fresh Produce on downtown 2nd Ave. The front wheel of Bob Schlee’s bicycle had struck the curb in front of Antonelo’s stand when Bob Schlee swerved to avoid a Mercedes that had cut him off. Bob Schlee flew over the handlebars of his bicycle, two of his four wool shirts fluttering unbuttoned behind him, landing directly in the salad section. Bob Schlee came out of the iceberg lettuce cursing, leapt on his bicycle, and sped off while feeling his pockets searching for something.

I was helping Mr. Antonelo get his stand back in shape when Bob Schlee returned breathing heavily and smiling.

“Got him,” he said.
“Another key-job?” asked Mr. Antonelo.
“Back to front,” he said as he produced a church key wrapped in electric tape, for better grip.

Bob Schlee and I had been roommates a few years back. We still lived in the same neighborhood. I would see him on occasion peddling his way to an audition or to work. He always wore a surgical mask and in the winter would have his four wool shirts on.

“Layering,” he proclaimed, was the only way to go.

I offered him a jacket of mine once.

“No,” he said, “No temperature control. These four shirts give me four temperature options. With a jacket you only have one; on or off.”

Sometimes he would pull over and we would talk. He would tell me about his latest audition and how he had made it to the third callback or about an off-Broadway freebee he was doing. I would tell him about the painting I had almost sold or about the gallery that maybe was interested in my work. If the conversation turned to politics we would generally be late for wherever we were going.

*****

I had not seen Bob Schlee in a couple weeks. I wondered if he was working a temp job or had gotten a part. I was walking down Lafayette on my way to my studio when he pulled up on his bike, pulling his surgical mask down.

“Fucking pollution,” he said. “People shitting in their own nests. Pigs.”
“How’s it going?” I asked. “You doing anything?”
“A couple workshops, did a weeklong production at the Judson Memorial Church. Mamet. You? You painting?”
“Yeah,” I answered. Not wanting to talk about the canvas I was repainting for the seventh time.
“Actually, I am doing something now. A bit of street theater.”
“What’s it about?”
“Just come by. It kind of goes on all day. Today is my day off. The rest of the week I’m at Avenue C and 5th, nine to five.”

Street theater eight hours a day? This I had to see.

*****

I was halfway between Avenue A and B when I heard him. No bullhorn. Bob Schlee was a martial artist, and like most actors had taken voice training that included opera, and knew how to project. In other words he could really yell, and he was yelling. I started moving at a trot.

Fifth Street between B and C was lined with the usual apartment buildings. The building’s residents, the usual mix of Eastern Europeans and Puerto Ricans, were hanging out their windows or sitting on their stoops watching Bob Schlee’s one-man show.

A big twelve-wheel tractor-trailer was backed into a loading platform in the only commercial location on the block. There was a chain link fence in front of the building with several openings for loading. On the wall above the loading docks a sign read:

“Anderson Coffee Distributors”


Bob Schlee was yelling at the driver, telling him things about the driver’s genealogy and his wife’s sexual habits he had never known. He would make a feeble attempt at a retort to Bob Schlee’s insults, but Bob Schlee had rage and professional training on his side.

“Hey man, you should have seen him just before you got here,” said an elderly Puerto Rican man on a stoop. “He was up atop that chain link fence, just about hanging from the barbed wire just screaming and going nuts. Then he saw the truck coming, came down that fence like a monkey. Check him out now.”

Bob Schlee had begun walking around the truck, striding in an exaggerated manner. Four of Anderson’s security guards followed him. When he walked fast, they walked fast. When he walked slowly, they walked slowly.

“They’re supposed to make sure he don’t cut the tires when that scab truck comes, he makes them go through this every time,” said the old man. “Watch, he’ll feel in his pocket like he’s got a knife and get real close to the tire.”

The people sitting on the stoops and watching from the windows were laughing and jeering at Bob Schlee’s guards and were amused by his antics.
“This guy is too much,” said one woman from her fire escape.

Bob Schlee finally had a starring role.

*****

Anderson, of Anderson’s Coffee Distributors, was a self-made black Republican entrepreneur who, as he would have put it, “Came up from nothing.” It was his attitude that if he could do it, anyone could. This was not a rare attitude among self-made men.

He made his living purchasing large quantities of coffee beans which he put into smaller cans and bags and sold to institutions and restaurants. Ground or whole bean.

Anderson’s work force consisted of young blacks, Latinos and a few Italians. They had no union. They were paid mostly minimum wage. The warehouse was badly lit, the machines old and dangerous, and there was one bathroom with one toilet. Most were there until something better came along. Others were temp workers, like Bob Schlee.

So it was wholly unexpected, by both Anderson and Bob Schlee, when on Bob Schlee’s first day at work, the entire work force walked. It was a spontaneous walk out, inspired by a thumb, Robert Brown’s thumb to be exact, which he had just lost to an industrial sized coffee grinder that had started spontaneously during a routine cleaning. First a dozen workers, then another dozen, until all the workers had left, except Bob Schlee, who stood alone at the machine he was cleaning.

“Shit,” he said as he went back to cleaning the grinder. Through the loading bay door he could see the workers milling around, not sure what to do next. One of them came up the stairs of the loading platform and walked to where Bob Schlee was working.

“We’re ninety nine percent,” said the worker.
“Congratulations,” replied Bob Schlee as he continued scrubbing the bean hopper.
“You look like one of those middle aged hippies. Whatever happened to ‘power to the people?’” asked the worker.
“What’s your name?” asked Bob Schlee.
“Joey,” answered the young Puerto Rican.
“Joey, I’m only here for two weeks. I have one more audition, third call back. It’s a good part. I’m sure I’ll get it. Then I’m done here. I need these two weeks of work. I need them to pay the rent. I have a wife and kid.”
“We all have families,” said Joey, who then just stood looking at Bob Schlee.

After two very long minutes of Bob Schlee poking at his machine and Joey standing there staring at him, Bob Schlee took off his apron, tossed it onto his worktable, and headed for the bay door.

“Power to the people!” said Joey.
“Fuck you,” said Bob Schlee.

Bob Schlee and Joey stood on the loading dock looking down on the milling workers.

“So what do we do now?” Bob Schlee heard one of the workers ask.
“Fuck if I know,” said another worker.
“Negotiate,” said another.
“Fuck, he’s just gonna hire other people,” said a third.
“This is stupid,” one more said.
“They’re giving up already,” said Joey.

It was winter and it was getting dark. The arc lights that lit the loading bay were slamming on automatically. They lit the loading docks like a stage.

“We have to make demands,” Bob Schlee said.
“Christ, we’re only 45, 50 guys,” said a worker. “No one gives a shit what we demand.”
“They’re already giving up,” Joey said.

Bob Schlee moved to center stage.

*****

Bob Schlee opened with a little Henry V, jamming his finger at the defeatist worker in his best Shakespearian form.

“The fewer men, the greater share of honor,” he began.

It went over pretty good he thought, and after that he sang a Wobblies strike song he had learned doing a play about America’s first great strike in the Paterson, New Jersey silk mills. He considered doing something from On the Waterfront, but he couldn’t think of a relevant monologue, so instead he did an improv on sweatshops that got everybody going. He pulled Joey out into the light and got him to play Anderson. Everyone agreed to meet the next morning with strike signs and make a picket line.

Every day more workers went back to work. Like Joey had said, they had families. Bob Schlee’s wife nearly divorced him. It was bad enough he was an aspiring actor, this strike was too much.

*****

Bob Schlee had discovered that as long as one man walked a picket line, no Teamster truck would cross that line. That helped. Being a Teamster would have helped even more, but the Teamsters weren’t interested. Like the worker had said, they were too small.

Never the less Anderson was getting no coffee and it looked like he might have to give in to their demands. Then he found a scab truck that would bring him coffee from Virginia. By then even Joey had given up. Bob Schlee walked the picket line alone.

The first time the truck showed up it made him so mad that when it pulled out after unloading he chased it on his bicycle all the way cross town to the west side highway, not knowing what he would do when he caught it.

Later Bob Schlee’s cousin, who was a truck driver and member of the Teamsters, showed him how to cut tires. You pushed the knife in right next to the hubcap and cut all the way around it making the tire useless.
The truck delivered its load of coffee every Tuesday, and Bob Schlee spent Tuesday afternoons and evenings peddling around Manhattan looking for places where trucks parked overnight. He thought the driver might rest at least a few hours before driving back to Virginia.

He had noticed the truck was spotless when it arrived from its long journey. He reasoned it must arrive the night before, sleep somewhere, and in the morning get a bath, deliver the coffee and head back to Virginia. He started checking places that washed big trucks. He found out where the truck spent the night and that the driver did not sleep in the cab. It took him all night to cut all twelve tires. The following Tuesday the truck didn’t come back and on Wednesday Anderson met Bob Schlee’s demands, then offered him a job as manager of Anderson Coffee. He said no, he was quitting. He had a part, off-Broadway.