starving all around us. I remember, I went into a supermarket with a shotgun. Big deal. Everybody else had a gun too. Bread is eight dollars a loaf and I have, like, a dollar. I would have given away my house for that Wonder Bread, plus sold my sister.
When that hot dust drifted down into the wheat and corn belts.
America learned what it was to goddamn not eat.
I figured we’re all going to die anyway, so I’ll just say the hell with rads and the hell with everything and go into salvage.
Now, of course, it’s a different story. We got a waiting list to enter the Salvor’s Association. We’ve been regulated by the Army.
But back when I started, people were scared of salvage work.
They still thought in terms of prewar life expectancies. People still thought they ought to feel young at forty.
Sally—that was my wife—she made my first rad suit. Sewed it herself out of an old swimming-pool cover. We used bonded lead epoxy in it that I made myself. I got the lead out of car batteries, just like everybody else. Stole ’em. I don’t mind admitting it. I hurt people to get the lead for that suit, and I’m sorry. But most of ’em didn’t last the winter anyway. I mean, we starved half to death and then the flu came, just when we were weakest. Darien probably lost half its people. Sally died in the spring of ’89. Just so weak, anything would have taken her. We had noodle soup that winter, from the Connecticut Allocation when it got started up in January. I remember, Christmas of ’88 we were living on soup made out of dandelion roots and salt and Fritos. We were just a little hungry.
I went down into New York on the second salvor call in ’89. I remember they had this big pier on the Hudson, Jersey side. All covered with plastic. About six government types. EPA, they said.
They got us to fill out forms and wear dose cards. They checked our suits by putting a geiger counter in ’em, closing ’em up, then sticking ’em out on the end of the pier. If you could hear the counter, you stayed at home.
They gave a geiger to one of every twenty men. Those counters were worth their weight back then, so half the men just took off. I mean, what’s the use of cutting steel and stuff all day that’s probably gonna be condemned hot anyway, when you can take a geiger counter worth maybe five hundred in gold on the black market and just walk away with it?
The government men stood on the pier in their orange Uncle Sam rad suits and took potshots at the boats that were heading downriver instead of across to Manhattan. They just did it because they were pissed off. They didn’t try to hurt anybody.
You think of New York as being, like, empty in those days.
Half burned out and empty and glowing like a goddamn hot cow.
It’s empty now. But then it was still full of people. Manhattan, anyway. Part of the Bronx. There were taxis running. Buses. The old stuff that hadn’t been knocked out by EMP. There were cops all over the place. People were starin’ at our rad suits. In those first couple of years, they’d condemn hot spots until they could be cleaned up, and people would just move to another building for a while.
That first night in New York I went to see
We slept in the basement of the B. Dalton bookstore on Fifth Avenue. The Plaza Hotel and the old Gotham had teamed up and made the world’s fanciest dormitory in there. You couldn’t sleep above ground; you might get a dusting if the wind came from the east across the boroughs that did get hit. We were broke, but they let us in anyway. Salvors on their way downtown had credit. They figured we’d be back through, and God knows what we’d have with us.
Salvors were taking the treasures of the world out of that city.
That was the year Salvage Team Victor, Inc., took out seventeen hundred pounds of gold, all assayed and ready to go, from the vault of the Republic National Bank. So when people saw that our paper said One Chase Manhattan Plaza on it, they just said, “When you’re on your way back, remember who gave you a free bed.”
I stayed in my rad suit the whole time. I was scared to death.
Those people were all nuts in New York. There were people on the streets with the radiation trembles. People doing heaves right in the middle of everything. But they were staying put. There were actually only about a quarter of a million who stayed. But that’s still a lot of people. They were the total New Yorkers, the ones who just couldn’t imagine themselves anywhere else.
You still had the tail end of the long fires then, so the whole place was full of smoke all the time. Smelled sort of like a mattress fire, or burning hair, when the wind came across the East River.
And you wondered, am I gonna inhale a particle or two? Maybe a little cesium is gonna get in my mask, or a little strontium 90.
Well, when we got to Forty-second Street, there was this barrier made of plywood, with skulls and crossbones stenciled on it. It went right down the middle of the street. You crossed it and there was nobody. They were living in the northern half of Manhattan and in the Bronx. The hits in Queens and Brooklyn had dusted lower Manhattan with the dirty stuff. I remember we went through the barrier. We tried to laugh it off. Nowadays the problem is more uptown, from the chemical spills to the north. But back then it was radiation. Every step we took, the geiger burped some more.
By Thirty-fourth Street it was going continuously.
We were all set to walk to Wall Street when up comes the god-damnedest thing—a city bus all covered with black tarp. Comes right up the middle of Fifth Avenue, picking its way around the abandoned cars. They’ve been pulled here and there to make a path. It’s slow going, but the bus is making it. The side streets were solid cars in those days, and so were all the avenues except Fifth and part of Sixth, and Broadway below Canal.
Anyway, it’s an ancient jalopy of a bus and the sign says “Special.” So we get in. The driver’s in one of those ancient city-issue rad suits, the olive drab ones from the civil defense stores that were put aside in the fifties. They weighed about a hundred pounds. He’s slumped over the goddamn wheel. So what happens?
We get on the bus and he says, “Hey, don’t you guys know you’re supposed to pay a fare?” The guy is at the end of the world and he wants a fare. It’s a buck seventy-five each. Nobody had thought about deflation yet. We don’t have the money, but before we can give him the bad news this jerk says, real rude, “You gotta have exact change. I’m not allowed to make change.”
We kind of displaced him by force and drove the damn bus ourselves. By the time we got to Broadway and Wall, where the cleared path stopped, we had a cop on our tail. Here comes this traffic cop, drags himself out of his car in his ridiculous heavy suit and writes us up a summons for “unauthorized commandeering” of the goddamn bus! Not stealing. It was crazy. I never did anything about the ticket and I never heard about it again. The people who used those old rad suits in New York were all dead by the end of ’89 anyway, so I guess the ticket got forgotten.
Now I’m starting to think about Warday. Three million people died in New York on that day, and the bombs damn well missed!
Crap. Lemme tell you, we’ve been pullin’ wire out of the World Trade Center for three months. Makin’ a fortune!
You know, this was a grand place years ago. The Consumer Electronics Show was held at the new Convention Center in July of ’86. We had a suite at the Waldorf. High times. Fat times.
“Never think about Warday.” That’s my motto, and talking into your machine is making me violate it. I have a tough life. I don’t wanta cry in my beer, but I’ve lost a hell of a lot. My wife. I had a boy—
Oh, hell.
Listen, this has gotta be the end of this thing. I can’t stand this.
I work. I don’t look back. I’ll tell you about the salvage of One Chase Plaza some other damn time.
