Seven Stories Above La

By John Benjamin Franklin III

Cain, a quixotic anti-hero, navigates the foreign and hostile world of construction as he builds the Twin Towers prison in LA. The novel follows Cain through the seven stories, nine counting the foundation and roof, of this brooding building culminating with the violent LA riots.

Whop, Cains personal Virgil, guides Cain through the hell of work-site accidents, deaths, graft, greed, incompetence, and disillusionment. Unlike in Dantes Inferno, Whop does not guide Cain to redemption. Instead, Cains foreman, Nickels, applies pressure to Cains mental state as the steel assaults his body and soul. While Cain sinks deeper into the construction site his hold on reality blurs by the surreal bombardment to his senses. He absorbs the maddening orchestra of noises and sights; the Native American iron worker, Coyote Eye, killing himself for his beloved; the rodbuster who robbed banks to escape the job; the sex addiction of Big Daddy and his crew of looneys; and the merciless steel trying to murder Cain one piercing shard at a time.

The rest of the crew: Iron Horse, Tiny, Willie the Elevator Operator, Righteous Eddy Edmond, and the Funky Red Headed Dread Lock Dude notice Cains odd behavior, but they do not recognize his mental instability. As the Rodney King riot takes to the streets nine months later, LA burns in the night sky while Cain, Nickels and the cold steel collide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491730171

John Benjamin Franklin III

John Benjamin Franklin III earned bachelor’s degrees in American studies and English and a master’s degree in English with an emphasis in creative writing from California State University– Fullerton. He has been a magazine editor, a copywriter, and freelance writer with publishing credits in the LA Times, Orange County Register, and various online publications. John is a second generation rodbuster. The father of four children, he lives with his wife in California. Visit him online at www.magic8oc.com.

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SEVEN STORIES ABOVE LA

Copyright © 2014 John Benjamin Franklin III.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4917-3018-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-3019-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-3017-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014906737

iUniverse rev. date: 06/04/2015

CONTENTS

1 Foundations Set—August

2 First Floors First—September

3 Second Stories Told Only Once—October

4 Hoarding and Waste—November

5 Action, Reaction, and Nonaction—December

6 Nickels and Dimed—January

7 Flood of Nothing—February

8 Grafters and Graffiti—March

9 Treacherous Views—April

To my beautiful and amazing wife—Stephanie,

for always believing… even when believing was in short supply.

— — —

For all the rodbusters building our future one stubborn piece of rebar at a time.

To those who suffer from mental illness, may you find peace.

— — —

Derived and delivered by the School of Hard Knocks.

1

Foundations Set—August

T he morning crept in, dark and quiet. I turned north on Vignes, engulfed in this crisp blackness, and walked the barren sidewalk. The streetlights saturated everything in a thick mustard-gas hue, and the dust, stirred by my virgin boots, burned my throat and lungs. Glancing at my watch, my pace quickened until I found the gorging entrance. I stood in awe. Huge floodlights rained down the same mustard light, but the work area reached too far even for them, causing black corners and shadows to remain hidden.

Staggeringly tall cranes twisted and turned in the night sky. Their high warning lights melted with the stars, but the cranes’ mechanical, sliding arms, with their web-like cables, tied them to the earth. A steady stream of men fed the site. With every man the site grew more powerful and hungry. I wanted to pull away but couldn’t. Instead, I was swept into the stream and washed up on the shores of this foreign and inimical world of construction.

Groups of men huddled drinking coffee and eating catering-truck breakfasts. Some laughed and some withdrew, but they all seemed anxious. I wandered from group to group with searching eyes, asking for Sedrik. Everybody seemed to know him, and when I asked about him they laughed and pointed to the far corner of the site to a dilapidated office trailer that had a sign reading PMD Steel.

Parked to the right of this office was a flatbed trailer loaded with bundles of long, round, steel bars called rebar. Straddling one of these bundles was a barrel-chested, full-bearded man who dwarfed the steel. He wore an old saucer-style hardhat that hid his eyes. One hand held a walkie-talkie that he used to direct the crane to off-load the rebar; the other hand fed the crane’s line to the steel. Swaying back and forth on the flatbed as the bundles of steel shifted, he looked like a conquering Viking about to attack—which he did. Hey, you! Yeah, you! What are you doing here?

He was yelling at me.

For Christ’s sake, stop staring and answer, and do it before I have to get off this damn trailer.

Ah … I’m looking for someone named Sedrik.

That’s me. Who the hell are you?

My name’s Cainam, but everybody just calls me Cain, I blurted before the huge man had another chance to cuss me out. Damn, I thought. I hope he isn’t my boss.

I’m your boss. Well, I’m the superintendent, so I’m in charge of all PMD people. He stared at me for a second and then said, Exactly what I’m going do with you I don’t know.

Just then the crane’s hook clipped his helmet, sending it to the floor. This let loose his thick, curly red hair and his violent temper. You son-of-a-bitch crane jockey, have you got your head up your ass? he yelled into the walkie-talkie.

The swing of the crane ball was the reply, and it almost sent Sedrik over the side of the trailer. Shit, I get no respect around here. Hey you, Caa … whatever the hell your name is. Go stand by the rest of the men.

I walked between the trailer and the portable office where the men gathered. Twenty guys relaxed on boxes and stacks of wood. Some laughed, some ate, and some slept, but none noticed me. I sat on a bag of cement mix and watched the group. It was hard to believe that only a few weeks earlier I had been in a classroom trying to pass final exams. And that only a couple of days ago I had been at the union hall signing up for this.

So did you graduate? the union man asked.

What?

It’s not a hard question, kid. Did you graduate?

Yes. Thank God.

I don’t know if God got you out of high school, but he sure as hell ain’t putting you out there rod busting. So this is what the class of 1991 looks like. He said this with a laugh. I wondered about the laugh. Ailments?

What?

Jesus, kid, do you have a bad back or bad knees? Hopped up on anything?

No.

Don’t elaborate too much. I don’t have all day. Again the laugh. All right, the dues come out of your paycheck, along with your insurance premiums, retirement, and vacation pay. Okay?

Okay.

Don’t you want to know how much you’ll be making? What you’ll net?

Okay.

Enough. More laughing. Not kind laughing. All right, sign here. Now, you’ll be working for—

My reverie was interrupted. "Hey, you, let me see. Brand-new boots, unused tools, and a clean, white hardhat. You must be an apprentice, and by the looks of it, this is your first day."

Yeah, this is my first day, but you don’t have to tell everybody.

Don’t worry … I won’t say a word. I won’t have to, he said with a laugh. So what’s your name, anyway?

Cain.

Well, they call me Sphincter, he said without cracking a smile.

This went right over my hardhat, and I stuck out my hand and said, It’s nice to meet you, Sphincter.

The whole gang heard and laughed, but before I could figure out what they found so funny, Sedrik came over and told everybody to shut the hell up. A couple of guys mumbled that Burnt Balls was in a pissy mood, which caused more laughs. Sedrik silenced those with a look. None of this made any sense to me, so I just sat there looking stupid.

Okay, Sedrik continued. Randy and Thomas, you take your guys over to tower one, and for Christ’s sake get your shit together so they can pour by Friday. Dan—no, not you, you idiot. Since when did I make you a foreman? Where was I? Oh yeah, Dan, take your men to the center compound, and Dan, make sure everybody works for a change. Nickels, you’re next. Go to tower two and begin on the foundations. Okay, everybody, move out!

Like a general giving an order, everybody gathered their tools and wandered off to their areas. All except me. Excuse me, Sedrik, but … where do you want me to go and what am I supposed to do?

Sedrik looked as if the world turned to dust by the added pressure of assigning me to a foreman. Maybe that’s why he did what he did, or maybe he just didn’t care. Nickels, you have some new meat. Come and collect him. Have fun, boy, and try not to get killed; the paperwork is a real bitch.

Unsure of what to do I just stood there, but Nickels didn’t hesitate; he knew what to do. Shit, I hate apprentices, especially first-stagers who don’t know shit about shit except how to get somebody hurt, and by the looks of it you’re definitely a first-stager. Hey, Sedrik, can’t you give him to somebody else?

Dammit, Nickels, he’s yours; in fact, as far as I’m concerned he’s yours for the duration. Relief washed over his face as he realized he actually accomplished something.

Nickels clearly did not share this relief—actually, he seemed pissed, and I knew I had scapegoat written all over me.

Before Nickels could say anything, I stuck out my hand and said, How are you? My name is Cain. I already met Sphincter …

Shut up, newbie. See that box of number-ten gauge? Pick it up and follow me.

The box was a foot in diameter, but it weighed at least sixty-five pounds. I struggled to get a grip on this deceptively heavy box. Nickels grumbled as he walked away, and I started after him.

The site loomed over us as we walked away from the nearest tower. The tower looked out of place with its heavy concrete with small slit openings designed as windows. It stood out in this city of glass, even in the predawn morning. Connecting the nearly finished and unfinished tower stood a low, squat building which form-fit around the taller buildings. A crane crutched the towers and it looked like they would collapse onto themselves if the cranes weren’t there to guard against this. The towers possessed something medieval.

Cain! Nickels shouted. Keep up, and keep your eyes forward. Shit, don’t you know how easy it is to fall into a ditch in this damn dark with some dowels sticking up? If you skewer yourself, we’re both fucked. Of course you’d be literally fucked while I’d only be figuratively. Anyway, have you ever had a piece of rebar stuck up your ass? Not a pretty picture, eh? Although rebar is ribbed for your pleasure … ribbed … I like that one.

Nickels congratulated himself on his joke all the way to our tower. Tower was a generous term considering the structure existed in the skeletal stage only, with steel I-beams substituting for bones. The tower stood to our right, with a steep embankment of dirt to our lower left. At the top of the embankment sat a wood fence, the same one circling the site, enclosing us in this self-contained world. We worked at the far upper left of the site where the floodlights and tower crane barely reached. What light did trickle down only touched the perimeter of where we worked. The darkness ate us whole.

Nickels headed straight for the embankment and crawled his way to the top. Once there, he laid out the blueprints and studied them. Two of the other three guys disappeared into one of the dark trenches that were to our lower right.

An older, silver-haired man called over to me. Well, I guess when it’s your time to go, it’s your time to go! Come here, son. Let’s make a deal. I’ll show you how to get through the morning, and you try not to get me killed—deal? With that said he stuck out his rough hand and shook my already shaking hand.

They call me Whop. Actually, I started the nickname myself. There’s a lot to be said for self-degradation, but that’s another story. Anyway, I’ve been punking iron for thirty years, and if you give me half an hour I’ll show you what I’ve learned. He said this with the kind of chuckle people give when they are only half-exaggerating.

Okay, he said, let’s get a good look at you. Let’s start from the head and work our way down. The first thing I want you to do is write your name on that brand new, shiny white hardhat of yours. Here, take this marker. Hold on, turn the hat around. Ironworkers wear their hats backward; don’t ask me why because I still haven’t figured that out. Maybe with forty years in I’ll understand why, but I’m not banking on it. Now, writing your name on your hat does two important things—first, it will prevent it from getting stolen, and second, and more importantly, it will mark you as a newbie long enough for everybody to get to know you. Don’t bother trying to rub it off; you just used a permanent marker. Now let’s move on to your tool belt. I hate to disappoint you, but you won’t be using it for quite a while. The most important tools you’ll be using are your shoulders and back. You’re going to punk so much steel you’ll start shitting it. But just in case you accidentally have to use your tool belt, I’ll show you what you’ve got.

Whop went on to explain the round metal tool permanently fixed to my belt was a tie-wire reel, and the pouch on the other side of the belt held a special pair of pliers, dikes, chalk pencil, and a measuring tape. He continued down to my new boots. When he saw these, he laughed and said the boots wouldn’t make it a year, probably not even six months. I didn’t know he meant the soles as well.

After he showed me around my gear, we slid into one of the trenches. The trench was cold and dark, and sliding down kicked up dust that we could taste. While spitting out the dust, I heard, Kid, if you spit on me again they’ll have a better chance of finding Jimmy Hoffa than you!

Easy, Tiny, Whop chimed in. "He didn’t know you were there, and besides, he’s not the first guy to accidentally spit on you."

Hey, Whop. A good-natured voice jumped in. Are you spitting on Rosey de Palma, the Latin lover, again?

Only when I think of you, Iron Shit Horse! Whop replied.

Hey, you know I just go by Iron Horse for short. Speaking of short, I heard they used to call you Whopper until someone saw you with your Paul Henry hanging out, and now it’s just Whop …

Nickels yelled from the top of the embankment. "Excuse me, girls, but would you mind getting to work … now!"

— — —

Twenty minutes later I proclaimed myself an expert in the field of stirrup holding. What exactly this did for me I’m not quite sure. After Nickels’s subtle reminder, we settled into the less-than-exciting task of tying a couple hundred stirrups. (Stirrups are pieces of rebar bent in a U-shape, with an inward bend on the two open ends of the bar.) We slid one end of the stirrup underneath the straight bars running the length of the ditch. These straight bars were tied to a series of number eighteen bars that were set in cement vertically in the base of the trench.

We stood facing each other, with Whop on one side of the straight bars and me on the other. I carried five to ten stirrups, and it was my job to slide them under the bars to Whop. This job would be easy if we had some small necessities—such as light! At just before six in the morning there is not a whole lot of light ten feet below ground. So in almost complete darkness we maneuvered a five-foot stirrup under a ten-foot-high series of straight bars in the space of one-and-a-half feet with the only added help of Whop’s trusty Bic lighter. Of course the threat of a cave-in didn’t even occur to me yet, but the constant pain of brushing up against tie wire, which was used to hold the straight bars in place, did introduce the thought of mortal danger as blood crept down my arm.

Whop explained that these stirrups were designed to reinforce the straight bars. After placing all the stirrups, we went back and tied them off with our tie wire. We then tied off a second set of straight bars that hung off of these stirrups … and finally we had one more set of stirrups to place and tie that straddled the entire column. Of course Whop pointed out while laughing that this was only one column out of twenty making up the foundation.

Just placing the stirrups consumed three hours. By nine thirty in the morning Nickels called down for us to take a fifteen-minute break. We scrambled out of the trench and walked over to a