His first stops were shops in Brookline, where he knew owners from running errands and delivering messages. They congratulated him on being a top student, a fact listed in the local paper, and apologized for saying, “No help needed.” Some took time for a conversation about the distressed economy and business hardship caused by residents cutting back on spending. “Desperation is everywhere, and I don’t see an end to it,” one told him gloomily. The farther away from home Herb got, the more abrupt the answers came from men he had never met. He tried different approaches:

“I’m willing to take any job. I’m always industrious.”

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“I just graduated from high school with the best grades.”

“I need to earn a little for my mother and me; anything will help.” 

Too many others were out of work and destitute. The forced optimism Herb began with was chipped away with each rejection. After walking miles in a futile effort, he came home at the end of the day, footsore, hungry, and demoralized. His mother did not question him, but he felt worthless.

After exhausting Brookline prospects, he had to face the dreaded inevitability of Boston. A job there would require extra time, the cost of daily train fare, and moving away from the smaller, friendlier environment he considered home, but it was his only resort.

The following morning, he arrived in the city where he had lived most of his life. It resembled little of the vibrant city of his childhood with still-evident signs of fire damage. Herb knocked at the doors of banks, garment makers, grocers, pubs, repair shops, and factories. He responded to each rebuff with humble politeness, disheartened that his options were becoming nonexistent.

The day Herb went to the naval shipyard, an unblemished June sun warmed the air. He knew nothing about mechanics and repairing ships, but desperation drove his mission. Getting to Boston from Brookline and then across the Charles River to the harbor on the north side required two trains. It was mid-morning by the time he got there. He secured his paltry coins for lunch and the return trip inside the same clothing he had worn the first time he looked for a job—he wasn’t about to risk his new suit in an unfamiliar neighborhood.

Approaching the river, he watched the brisk activity of men pushing conveyances back and forth along the dock. One man—evidently in charge—barked orders to the others. As Herb walked toward him, his feet were pushed out from under him, and his head jerked back. He sprawled on the ground, trying to figure out what had happened. He looked up.

“The Ring of a Bell”

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A thick-bodied man with a florid, unshaven face stood over him, glaring. “What the devil do you think you’re doing, sonny,” he snarled. “Butting in line will get your balls cut off. Get to the end, or you’ll be too crippled to work.”

Shaking his head to clear it, Herb turned to see a line of men slouching against a building in the sun, seemingly waiting for the slim chance at a job. He rolled over and got to his hands and knees, his wrenched back throbbing in pain.

“The line ends up there,” the brute shouted.

There were too many to fight. Herb staggered past the glowering faces to take his place at the back. Infrequently, the boss summoned the first man in line, and the rest shuffled forward a few steps. Herb was hungry, but there was no chance to leave for food or water. The sun seared him as it inched up in the sky, clear skies without clouds or smoke. Men straggled in behind Herb. When he had to urinate, he turned close to the soot-streaked brick and let go, as others had. The stench mixed with chemical-laden fumes. A stringy-haired man with ragged clothing cradling a bottle of whiskey unsteadily bumped him. “A dime a slug,” the foul man slurred. Herb turned his back.

He’d had nothing to eat or drink since breakfast but could not leave his place in line, even though he estimated only ten men had been taken at the front, leaving six ahead of him. He calculated it would be at least forty-five minutes to an hour before he got to the front and a chance. As the line inched forward, the man with a bottle collected nickels and dimes, secreting each in a small cloth pouch before handing over the bottle, then wiping the top with his shirttail and giving the bottle to another. Each taker gulped a full portion before handing it back. Herb could tolerate his thirst no longer and offered a dime. The man on the other side of him leaned in with a snort and tipped the bottle, sending whiskey pouring into Herb’s mouth in a long, burning stream down his throat and up through his nostrils.

“That’ll cost you extra next time, laddie,” the owner snarled, sharply kicking Herb’s shin.

The spreading warmth from the alcohol made him light-headed and loose. A glance at his pocket watch showed he had an hour before he’d have to catch the train to return home in time for dinner. Once takers had emptied the first bottle, the provisioner passed a full one. Herb had given three dimes when he blearily consulted his watch again. Only a few people remained ahead of him, but too many to make it to the front and still catch his train. Leaving the line, he staggered toward the train station, “Sorry,” he apologized each time he bumped into someone passing in the opposite direction.

Passengers leaving work for home filed into the first of the two trains he needed to take. Herb flopped into one of the few remaining seats. He could no longer stand up, even if he hung onto an overhead strap. With a jolt, the train started, giving him the odd sensation that the car was whirling in a circular motion instead of moving forward. The experience was eerily similar to a carnival ride he’d taken when he was ten, one which promptly caused him to upchuck when he got off. He clutched the train’s leather seat, trying to hold everything down. The dizziness would not stop. His train connection was two stops away, but using the latrine could not wait. He stumbled off when the train stopped. Through blurred eyes, he spotted it. With no time to close the door, he heaved and retched until he was sure his stomach had gone into the stinking hole with the vomit. Shaking, he leaned back against the wall, wiping his mouth with his sleeve; still unsteady, his mind was a little clearer. Under the pitched roof of the outdoor station, he looked at the schedule. The numbers wavered in and out of focus. It was half an hour until the next train. He had missed his connection for the second train and would have to take the following one, arriving in Brookline an hour later than he had told his mother. She would worry.

Finally on the train to Brookline, Herb watched the passing scenery through a nauseous blur, sitting ramrod straight so he would not fall asleep and miss his stop. Close to the end, he patted his jacket, sending up a whiff of puke. With a prolonged release of steam, the train stopped, and he staggered home in the twilight of the setting sun.

After dropping his keys three times, he managed to unlock the front door with a sharp pang of dread at facing his mother. She burst from the kitchen when she heard him, moving so hurriedly her feet almost tangled in her brown-checked work dress. Relief washed over her until she got close. Her arms, extended to embrace him, pushed out in rejection. “What happened?” She stared in horror at his stained and poorly sewn jacket pocket. “Surely, you didn’t go job hunting looking like this?” 

Head spinning, he thought he might lose consciousness or throw up if there was anything left in his stomach.

His mother’s anger kept him upright.

“What’s that smell?” She took a step closer, nostrils flaring. “Whiskey!” She reached up and grabbed her hair as if she would pull it out by the roots, a gesture he had never seen her make before.

“Answer me. Have you been drinking?” She asked, clearly as baffled as she was angry.

“Yes,” Herb said numbly, putting his palm against the wall to steady him. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Never, in all my years as a mother, did I think my son would be a drunk.” She trembled with rage.

“Mum, I’m sorry,” he reached out to her, but she stepped away.

“Go up to bed. You’ll answer to me in the morning.”

Rays of light sifting through the curtains woke him. Raising his head from the pillow hurt so much that he wondered if he could get out of bed. Focusing took effort. Somewhere through a haze, he had heard the clock below. Eight strikes, he thought he counted —breakfast was usually at seven. Tight, squeezing pain clamped his stomach, either from vomiting or going without food for a day. The most crushing awareness came from remembering his mother’s stinging words and the shame of her disappointment. After struggling to dress, he gripped the banister and slowly walked downstairs to the kitchen. He sat at the table in everyday clothing. No interviews would happen that day.

His mother was bent over, cleaning cupboard shelves with a rag—a summer project to prepare them for new jars of put-up vegetables and fruits for winter. Herb suspected she had chosen a kitchen job to be there when he came down.

“There’s toast on the table, and you can pour a glass of milk. Do you want anything else for breakfast?” she asked, not looking at him.

“Coffee, please, and I can make it, if there isn’t any.” He looked up into her unforgiving eyes as he walked to the stove. “I’ll try to explain, Mum. I’m sorry.”

She pulled herself up from her chore. “There is no reasonable explanation,” she said, jamming her fists into her waist, arms akimbo, then dropping them by her side.

Trying to form thoughts through the fog in his brain, he awkwardly described the long line of rough and abject men waiting in the heat for a chance at an interview. After completing his saga, he put his empty cup aside. The coffee worsened his stomach, but it stayed down with the toast. His mother’s posture was as rigid as her expression was grim.

“Getting a job at the shipyards seems hopeless, but I heard some men talk about the textile mills at Lowell. Seems they’re hiring more men than mill girls these days.”

“Shipyards? Textile factory?” His mother sagged into the chair across from him. “A common laborer after your high grades?” Her eyes closed as if she could not focus. “You can’t,” she said, begging and ordering all at once.

“There isn’t anything else.”

Ellen Kingman Fisher is a longtime Colorado resident specializing in historical novels. She has a PhD in history from the University of Colorado Boulder, and is a former chair of the Colorado Historical Society. Fisher is the author of “Hill’s Gold,” “The Price of a Contract” and “The Ring of a Bell.”