the “floor boy” in the needle trade

“skinny pickle” is what the guy

sitting behind the desk called me.

he asked: “how old are you”?

I said: “15, and I play left field".

he gave me the slow-raised eyebrow once-over

then said: “okay. follow me”.

we walked through a long, narrow

corridor leading to a cavernous,

constantly droning space where

women, as far as the eye could see

were stationed at their sewing machines,

and at their sides were large canvas bins of

textile material, sewn precisely as prescribed.

he said: “grab that bin and follow me”.

I rolled the heavy, fully stacked bin

to another station as far away as time

would allow, where more women

sewed more thread to another end

of the fabric stacked in the bundle.

he said: "they'll call to you when they need you".

then he left, and for one working day

of three weeks to come, I did what he said,

moving material, and keeping my usually

busy mouth shut inside the walls of the sweltering

“Kerr Thread” textile mill in the summer of 1958.