Old Mr. Flood (2 page)

Mr. Flood’s attitude toward seafood is not altogether mystical. “Fish,” he says, “is the only grub left that the scientists haven’t been able to get their hands on and improve. The flounder you eat today hasn’t got any more damned vitamins in it than
the flounder your great-great-granddaddy ate, and it tastes the same. Everything else has been improved
and
improved
and
improved to such an extent that it ain’t fit to eat. Consider the egg. When I was a boy on Staten Island, hens ate grit and grasshoppers and scraps from the table and whatever they could scratch out of the ground, and a platter of scrambled eggs was a delight. Then the scientists developed a special egg-laying mash made of old corncobs and sterilized buttermilk, and nowadays you order scrambled eggs and you get a platter of yellow glue. Consider the apple. Years ago you could enjoy an apple. Then the scientists took hold and invented chemical fertilizers especially for apple trees, and apples got big and red and shiny and beautiful and absolutely tasteless. As for vegetables, vegetables have been improved until they’re downright poisonous. Two-thirds of the population has the stomach jumps, and no wonder.”

Except for bread and butter, sauces, onions, and baked potatoes, Mr. Flood himself has rarely eaten anything but seafood since 1885 and he is in sound shape. For a man past ninety who worked hard in
the wet and the wind from boyhood until the age of eighty, he is, in fact, a phenomenon; he has his own teeth, he hears all right, he doesn’t wear glasses, his mind seldom wanders, and his appetite is so good that immediately after lunch he begins speculating about what he will have for dinner. He walks cautiously and a little feebly, it is true, but without a stick unless there is snow on the sidewalks. “All I dread is accidents,” he said recently. “A broken bone would most likely wind things up for me. Aside from that, I don’t fret about my health. I’m immune to the average germ; don’t even catch colds; haven’t had a cold since 1912. Only reason I caught that one, I went on a toot and it was a pouring-down rainy night in the dead of winter and my shoes were cracked and they let the damp in and I lost my balance a time or two and sloshed around in the gutter and somewhere along the line I mislaid my hat and I’d just had a haircut and I stood in a draft in one saloon an hour or more and there was a poor fellow next to me sneezing his head off and when I got home I crawled into a bed that was beside an open window like a fool and passed out with my wet clothes on, shoes and all.
Also, I’d spent the night before sitting up on a train and hadn’t slept a wink and my resistance was low. If the good Lord can just see His way clear to protect me from accidents, no stumbling on the stairs, no hell-fired automobiles bearing down on me in the dark, no broken bones, I’ll hit a hundred and fifteen easy.”

Mr. Flood doesn’t think much of doctors and never goes near one. He passes many evenings in a comfortable old spindle-back chair in the barroom of the Hartford House, drinking Scotch and tap water and arguing, and sometimes late at night he unaccountably switches to brandy and wakes up next morning with an overwhelming hangover—which he calls a katzenjammer. On these occasions he goes over to S. A. Brown’s, at 28 Fulton Street, a highly aromatic little drugstore which was opened during President Thomas Jefferson’s second term and which specializes in outfitting medicine chests for fishing boats, and buys a bottle of Dr. Brown’s Next Morning, a proprietary greatly respected in the fish market. For all other ailments, physical or mental, he eats raw oysters. Once, in the Hartford barroom, a trembly fellow in his seventies, another
tenant of the hotel, turned to Mr. Flood and said, “Flood, I had a birthday last week. I’m getting on. I’m not long for this world.”

Mr. Flood snorted angrily. “Well, by God,
I
am,” he said. “I just got started.”

The trembly fellow sighed and said, “I’m all out of whack. I’m going uptown and see my doctor.”

Mr. Flood snorted again. “Oh, shut up,” he said. “Damn your doctor! I tell you what you do. You get right out of here and go over to Libby’s oyster house and tell the man you want to eat some of his big oysters. Don’t sit down. Stand up at that fine marble bar they got over there, where you can watch the man knife them open. And tell him you intend to drink the oyster liquor; he’ll knife them on the cup shell, so the liquor won’t spill. And be sure you get the big ones. Get them so big you’ll have to rear back to swallow, the size that most restaurants use for fries and stews; God forgive them, they don’t know any better. Ask for Robbins Islands, Mattitucks, Cape Cods, or Saddle Rocks. And don’t put any of that red sauce on them, that cocktail sauce, that mess, that gurry. Ask the man for half a lemon, poke it a time or two to free the
juice, and squeeze it over the oysters. And the first one he knifes, pick it up and smell it, the way you’d smell a rose, or a shot of brandy. That briny, seaweedy fragrance will clear your head; it’ll make your blood run faster. And don’t just eat six; take your time and eat a dozen, eat two dozen, eat three dozen, eat four dozen. And then leave the man a generous tip and go buy yourself a fifty-cent cigar and put your hat on the side of your head and take a walk down to Bowling Green. Look at the sky! Isn’t it blue? And look at the girls a-tap-tap-tapping past on their pretty little feet! Aren’t they just the finest girls you ever saw, the bounciest, the rumpiest, the laughingest? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself for even thinking about spending good money on a damned doctor? And along about here, you better be careful. You’re apt to feel so bucked-up you’ll slap strangers on the back, or kick a window in, or fight a cop, or jump on the tailboard of a truck and steal a ride.”

MR. FLOOD SOLD HIS HOUSE-WRECKING BUSINESS,
the H. G. Flood Demolition & Salvage Co., Inc., a prosperous
enterprise, in 1930, when he was eighty. A year and a half later, Mrs. Flood, his second wife, died. Directly after the funeral he gave up his apartment in Chelsea, put his furniture in storage, and moved into the Hartford, a hotel he had known and admired for many years as a truly peaceful place. “I was sadly in need of peace and quiet when I moved into here,” he once said. “I had a saintly wife, God rest her. She was opposed to anything and everything in the line of fun. Use to, when I showed up with a load on, she’d persecute me. She never offered to hit me. She just stood in the door with her head throwed back and howled. She used both lungs and it didn’t seem possible for all that racket to come out of one human mouth. Some nights I was afraid my eardrums wouldn’t stand the strain. Once I said to her, ‘Mary, dear, I’m thankful to God you ain’t a drinking woman. If you can make that much noise cold sober, just think what you could do on a little gin.’”

The Hartford stands on the southwest corner of the junction of Pearl Street, Ferry Street, and Peck Slip, down in the old city. The South Ferry branch of the Third Avenue elevated line goes past it, on
Pearl Street. The fish market is a couple of blocks to the south of it, and The Swamp, the tannery district, is one block north. Rooms run from three-fifty to four-fifty a week. Mr. Flood took one of the four-fifty rooms, and he has been happy in it. “You take an old retired widower crock like me,” he says, “the perfect place for him is some back-alley hotel where he can be among his own kind, the rough element. I’ve got a married daughter by my first wife, and she begged me to go live with her. Praise the Lord I didn’t ! Like I said to her, ‘Louise, in a month you’d hate the sight of me, and vice versa. You couldn’t help it. That’s nature. You’d be wanting me to die and get out of the way, and I’d probably go ahead and die, just to be accommodating.’” Mr. Flood is well off and could undoubtedly afford the Waldorf-Astoria, but newness depresses him. Like most old people, he feels best when he is around things that have lasted a long time. The Hartford is the oldest hotel in continuous operation in the city, and it just suits him. It was opened in 1836 as the Eastern Pearl Street House; the name was changed in the late sixties, when steamboats from Hartford and other New England ports docked nearby in Peck Slip. It is a shoebox-shaped building of five stories, it is surrounded by factories and hide and spice warehouses, and at night the friendly light in its combined lobby, barroom, and dining room is the only light that can be seen for blocks around. A flower-basket design is cut in the thick glass of the front door, across from the bar is a row of rickety spindle-backs, the bill of fare is scribbled in chalk on a big slate on the dining-room wall, and at the foot of the stairs is an oak rack on which the tenants hook their keys when they come down in the morning. The keys are heavy and each is attached to a serrated brass fob nearly the size of a saucer. There is no elevator. On the back-bar shelf are several photographs of the hotel. One, taken in 1901, shows Buffalo Bill and some Indians in fringed buckskins eating lobsters at a family table in the dining room. Around the margin, in a crabbed hand, someone has written, “Col. Buffalo Bill and 1 doz. red Indians just off the Boston boat, stayed three days, big eaters, lobster every meal, up all night, took the place.”

The Hartford has about forty-five tenants right
now, most of them elderly mariners who have retired on savings or pensions. Some of them do not budge out of the place, even to take a turn around the block, for weeks on end. Six were merchant-ship officers, four were Hudson River bargemen, two worked on scallop dredges, one owned a pair of harbor tugs, one operated three rows of shad nets in the Hudson off Edgewater, New Jersey, one had a bait barge in Sheepshead Bay, and one was captain of a seiner in the old Long Island Sound gurry-fleet that caught moss-bunkers for fertilizer factories. A few are grim and withdrawn and still unused to idleness after years of it. These stay quietly in their rooms much of the time. About a dozen are beery and wildly imaginative mythomaniacs, and Mr. Flood is often in their company. These get up at dawn, bustle downstairs to the barroom, and start talking big during breakfast; at closing time, around midnight, they are still there and still talking big. Before the night bartender goes home, he usually has to help two or three up the stairs and put them to bed; he considers this one of his duties. Some are cranks, but the proprietor, Mrs. James Donald, does not mind
that. She says she has noticed that day in and day out it is easier to do business with a cranky man than with one who has forever got a grin on his face. Mrs. Donald is a handsome, friendly woman of Huguenot and German ancestry. She inherited the Hartford from her first husband, Diedrich Bloete, who had owned it since 1901. A brother of hers, Gus Trein, is manager. Her present husband, a retired policeman, is head bartender.

Mr. Flood’s room is on the top floor. Its furnishings remind him pleasantly of years gone by; there is a brass bed, a washstand with pitcher and bowl, a wicker rocking chair, and a marble-top table. “The furniture in here goes back about as far as I do,” he said one day. He has decorated one wall with a set of cardboard posters designed for display in retail fish stores, which he picked up in the office of the Fishery Council, the market’s chamber of commerce. Among them are the following:

On another wall, just above the head of the bed, Mr. Flood has tacked up a map of Staten Island. He was born there. Once I asked him a question about his youth. He frowned and said, “My boy, I like to talk, but I don’t much like to talk about my past. It’s a sure sign of second childhood.” On another occasion, however, he said, “I’m a third-generation Staten Islander. I’m from Pleasant Plains, a village on the south shore. My grandfather and my father before me were carpenters. I had an uncle in Brooklyn who was a general contractor—dwellings and small factories—and I went to work for him when I was a boy. Let me give you some advice: never work for your own flesh and blood. My uncle was a big-hearted man. Once I saw him chip in with a five-dollar bill to assist the family of a poor fellow who had been his bookkeeper for thirty-five years and died without funeral money. I worked for him I think it was sixteen years and then I got wise to myself and quit and became a house-wrecking contractor. I think I got into that line out of spite.”

Mr. Flood’s room has one window, and from it,
looking south, he can see the gilded bluefish on the weathervane atop the great gray shed of the Fulton Market Fishmongers Association, a sight of which he is fond. Mr. Flood is tidy about his person; he goes to the barber every day, he keeps his suits pressed, and his derby is seldom dusty. His room, however, is extraordinarily untidy. He rarely lets the maid clean it. Above the washstand hangs a water-splotched calendar for 1932 on which the month pad, even the leaf for January, is still intact. On the marble-top table are four grape baskets filled with sea shells and river shells. He is a shell collector. One of his most prized possessions is a group of fresh-water mussel shells. They were given to him by a dealer in live carp in Peck Slip who got them, on a buying trip, from some Tennessee River carp fishermen who dredge mussels for the pearl-button trade as a sideline. Mr. Flood has shells of nine species. Each has, in addition to its Latin name, a name that is used in the trade. “I’ve got a pig toe, a pistol grip, a heel splitter, a warty back, a maple leaf, a monkey face, a rose bud, a rabbit’s foot, and a butterfly,” he says with pride. “I
had
a washboard, a lady finger, and a mule ear, but I came home one night
in poor order and I was reeling around and I couldn’t find the light cord and they were on the floor and I stepped on them.” The floor around Mr. Flood’s rocking chair is always cluttered. Scattered every which way about it the last time I visited him were a wooden shrimp scoop that he knocks his cigar ashes into, a kind of fish knife known as a ripper, a whiskbroom, a Bible, two volumes of Mark Twain (he owns a ten-volume, large-type set), a scrapbook filled with yellowing clippings of Heywood Broun’s column in the
World-Telegram
, a copy of the
War Cry
, the magazine that Salvation Army women hawk on street corners, and an old, beautifully written United States Bureau of Fisheries reference book, “Fishes of the Gulf of Maine,” which he ordered years ago from the Government Printing Office and which he reads over and over. He knows the habits and ranges of hundreds of fishes, mollusks, and crustaceans; he has even memorized the Latin names of many of them. Twain and Broun are Mr. Flood’s favorite writers. “If I get to heaven,” he once said, “the first Saturday night I’m up there, if it’s O.K. with the management, I’m going to get hold of a bottle of good whiskey
and look up Mr. Twain and Mr. Broun. And if they’re not up there, I’ll ask to be sent down to the other place.” A moment later he added uneasily, “Of course, I don’t really mean that. I’m just talking to hear myself talk.”