Tawkin With Irish On The Scranton Thin Line

By Chuck Orloski

05 October, 2015
Countercurrents.org

Mr. John “Irish” Royle (R.) and Chuck Orloski (R.) inside St. Francis Kitchen lobby.

On way to volunteer job at St. Francis Kitchen, the best job I ever had (!), I became aware of real October temperature, mid 40 degrees. Saturday, about 7:45 A.M., neighbor Jimmy A. parked across Harrison Street, warmed-up car engine, brought window down, and hollered, “Hey, Chuck... looks like September balmy days are over, next comes frost and snow!”

“I'm saving money to install heated sidewalks around our apartment, Jim!”

“Ha, ha. Will the Taylor Zoning Commission allow such home improvement, construction?”

“Everything kept secret from government is admissible, my friend!”

“I hear 'ya, Chuck! I try and fly under radar as much as possible.”

“What politicians & their entourage actually know keeps them from seeking work in the
private sector.”

“O yea, that bunch are nothing but sweet talking & lying shitballs!”

“Shitballs?” Have not heard such term used in decades – in fact since '75, President Gerald Ford gunned down by Squeaky! At time, inside Put and Snack Diner, I heard Taylor Police Chief “Risty” talk about the goofy assassination attempt, and he said, “those Manson shitballs are at it again!” As a cop, Risty a good one, he'd catch kids drinking beer while parked on Main Street, and he'd scold a little and recommend an isolated cemetery spot for partying, and would drive drunk drivers home. Turned off by Helter Skelter, the late-Chief Risty did not have the heart for being on the right side of the law all the time.

Again, “shitballs” – the foul word for a cold Scranton October day. In March 2014, my employer considered me little more than an aged 24/7 “shitball,” and a District Manager, an M.B.A., told me, “Chuck, you are Employed at Will, hand in your cell phone & Roladex, and leave the property.” Stoically did so, and by August 2014, I became a bus driver for the Scranton School District. America is terrific for anything you want to do! FYI, becoming a Pimp was my second choice for a new career, but since I fall in love too fast, I'd probably pay affectionate employees way too much so they'd just talk with me.

Crossing Taylor border line into West Scranton, North Main Street looks much like bombed-out Beirut 1980, eternal paving ongoing to the Lackawanna Avenue intersection. This past Friday, August 25, 2015, at 3:30 P.M., Scranton teachers and “paraprofessionals” went on strike. Of course, like all Americans, the teachers want reasonable pay raises and affordable health care benefits. However, the Scranton School District is entombed in $10.5 million debt, and the state legislature has yet to pass a budget and divvy (borrowed) money out to school districts. Do I indulge a valid opinion? No, but as a Taylor Borough voyager (renter) who regularly rolls throughout the broke city of Scranton and observes proliferating “House For Sale” signs, I do get a sense that FUTILITY has a recognizable face, better yet, a mugshot. You get the picture?

My drive continued to Penn Avenue, and alongside destination St. Francis kitchen, I saw a few ragged people bundled-up and standing beneath the building's narrow eve. Carefully backed our new (2006) Dodge Stratus into “Volunteer Parking Lot” and prepared myself for a busy day. As Scranton School District teachers were on strike, a troubling issue began to surface and gain media attention. More than 80 percent of the district's 10,000 students qualify for either free or reduced-price breakfast or lunches, and for some students, “that can be their only meals of the day.” 1.

While passing through kitchen side door, I waved to a few familiar people who stood beneath the roof eve, and one hollered, “God bless you man for volunteering!” In contrast to the irreverent poor who hung with Orwell in Down and Out in London and Paris, the Scranton poor seem to actually appreciate volunteers who (perhaps?) have divine intentions. They do not cop snarky attitudes – some get by on a combination of S.S.I., S.S.D., food stamps (Access Card) and aspire to have enough left over to barter and buy 10-grams of Spice per day. But I am sincerely impressed how St. Francis Kitchen patrons sort of unionize and develop a family which vets and welcomes a constant flow of newcomers.

Inside kitchen corridor, a group of University of Scranton student volunteers were occupied with the task of putting large volume of donated food onto shelves and inside the large “walk-in” refrigerator. The students told me they were taking a course called “The Philosophy of Food,” and were assigned to volunteer 20-hours at St. Francis Kitchen, afterward make refelctions. I offered to help one of the students (Tommy) find the proper shelf to store peanut butter. I asked him, “What is your professor's philosophy of food?” Tommy replied, I don't really know yet. But right now she's discussing animals and the food chain.”

“Does she support Cargill, Tommy?”

“Hard to tell at this point, it's early in semester, Sir. But I do hear she snacks on Greek
yogurt quite a bit. She doesn't seem to be a hypocrite.”

“Does she top yogurt with whipped cream and hot fudge?”

“No, Sir. Plain white yogurt..., I don't know how any one actually pays for that stuff, let
alone eats it! Yuck.”

“I share your philosophy, Tommy. Food's not meant to insult your taste buds.”

Soon, the weekend chef, Frank F., assigned me to work in the kitchen's platter & utensil section, and operate the automatic washer equipment. This job requires achievement of a certain level of skill, solid work ethic endowment, including being able to “get into” a high level of activity, handle sauced stained plates and not lose one's cool. Frank is a retired, veteran chef, served over 20-years at a D.O.C. Facility; a terrific guy and he really knows how to keep a soup kitchen going! At age 63, it's a pleasure for me to be a fallen star of the New World Order's “Thousand Points of Light” experiment in post-collapse urban living.

At 10:30 A.M., expecting a large crowd of hungry families and children bereft of school lunches, I took a break and strolled over to the kitchen front entrance door where patrons began assembling. About seven cold rain drenched people, male & female, stood behind a secured rope line, the type commonly seen in old theater lobbies. I must be pretty precise about what happened next, as one of the patrons began to lift the spirits of others, made them laugh. In mood for humor, such makes life livable, I walked into the assembly and reached my hand out to shake the comic fellow's calloused hand. Suddenly, he extended right hand, but instantly withdrew as soon as he remembered it was bleeding. With Irish accent, he reached left hand to mine, and said, “Please to meet 'ya, mine name is Irish!

“Same here, Sir, my name's Chuck. How are you doing today?”

“Very fine, very fine, young man. I could use a ton of tissues and Rock & Rye though, heh,
heh, I think a cold's coming on.”

“What's your name?

“I'm John Royle, everybody calls me called Irish! I was born in Belfast 1946, an only child,
my parents are long dead..., and in 1991, I fought in Desert Storm with the Ulster Defense
Army!”

“O man! You managed to beat Saddam's army while you were in your mid-40s!

“Nah, the U.V.A. was in the rear, and jet fighters took 'em all out.”

“It was good for us that Saddam did not have Russian help at the time, eh?”

“Yup, the commies would have protected the bastard!”

“How did you get cross the pond to America, Irish?”

“When the war got over, some guy needed two (2) tool makers to go to America and work,
and I jumped at chance, volunteered!”

“A tool maker are you eh? That's really interesting, Irish.” Inside head, I recalled Carl
Sagan's recommendation for Americans to acquire a “baloney detection kit,” and our
pleasant conversation continued. 2.

“Yes, yes, young man. They flew me and some other soldier to America in a 747, and hooked
me up with a job as a grinder in a Rahway, NJ machine shop. Ha, ha! I wasn't no grinder,
by Jesus, I'm a tool maker by trade I told 'em. And come 1992, I settled in Scranton, been
here homeless and very content, ever since uh... 1992.”

“Where do you live, Irish?”

“About a block down the road, my tent's set-up nearby the Lackwanna RR bridge trestle!
I help lots of people who have no homes, and I know Sister Adrian Barrett and Sisters of the
poor very well. I'd like to be Scranton mayor if they'd let me set up shop in my tent, heh-
heh, and give me beer money 'o course.”

A stench of beer emoted from Irish's voice, and I learned he completely avoided shelters for the simple reason of an inability to pass the required breathalyzer test. Frank the chef compassionately explained how Irish is alcoholic, and along with (perhaps) collecting a small monthly check, many Scranton people give him cash and he manages to buy beer. I looked into Irish eyes; bloodshot, he smiles a lot, and all the other patrons seem to adore him. As 11:00 A.M. meal serving time approached, Irish started to tell me Bible jokes. For example:

“Hey, Chuck, what was the first time in bible history that motorcycles were mentioned?”

“I don't know, but I believe the patriarchs walked a lot, maybe rode donkeys.
But motorcycles in the Old Testament? You got me on that one.”

“Gotcha on dis, eh? Did you ever hear the story how Moses rose up to heaven in triumph.”

“O, I get it, a Triumph motorcycle! You're very spiritual, Irish.”

“Nah, not really. I'm nuts now, but while a kid, I listened carefully when me pop took me
to the bar in Belfast, and those were days when real men talked politics!”

Irish and I shook hands, we bid temporary goodbye. On way back to kitchen washing station, I started to think about Ishmael upon a Harley, John Hagee upon a camel. Did Irish really participate in the Desert Storm “turkey shoot” (coalition) which resulted in the liberation of Kuwait? Was Joseph, earthly father of Jesus, actually a blacksmith by trade, and not a carpenter? At any rate, I had no idea what it's like to keep drinking beer and constantly fail St. Anthony Shelter breathalyzer tests, and live outdoors in tent for 23 years. Quite a neat Kesytone Light feat for a lot of reasons?

Soon, dirty platters and utensils came my way, I rinsed and shoved all items into a large electric dish washer. As date was October 3rd, I realized many people had received Social Security checks by now, and only 99 total people showed-up to dine at St. Francis Kitchen. The predicted onslaught of hungry students due to the Scranton teacher strike never occurred; in fact, I did not even see one child come to eat at St. Francis Kitchen. Upon completion of required cleaning tasks, I left the kitchen for home. Within minutes, I parked at Gerrity's Supermarket, West Scranton, and read a rather long list of purchases, assembled by my wife Carol. Very ill and home bound, my dear wife has a cool Philosophy of Food and it goes like this, “it costs too (expletive) much.”

Tonight, Irish is totally smashed, asleep in chilly tent. Ancient Egyptians did well in procuring and storing food, and they even gave leftovers to the slave Israelites. Will modern Israelis allow passage of relief ships, medicine & foodstuff, to the Gaza Strip? What a world... and how can injustice and cruelty last so long in the 70-year old United Nations? Let me know ASAP?

Since the Masters of the Universe and planetary 1% have purchased and made complete lackeys into demi-gods, spooks, and wisemen, I suppose it's OK (not blasphemous?) for me to make Irish, the tool maker, into a shaman, the creator of soup kitchen psalms. So please take pause and look once more at Irish's time worn face (above) and display of a “thumbs up” victory sign? In March 2016, I expect V.P. Joe Biden, Scranton roots, will repeat as honored speaker at the annual Friendly Sons of St. Patrick Dinner; http://wnep.com/2015/03/16/friendly-sons-prepare-for-vice-president/. I do not anticipate Belfast-born John “Irish” Royle shall be in attendance at the highfalutin political dinner, but as a veteran member of exclusive DeadEnder Club, I have learned that even the Lincoln bedroom and an asylum couch are separated only by a thin line.

1. The Times-Tribune; “Strike Continues; October 2, 2015.
2. From Carl Sagan, “The Demon-Haunted World,' 1996

Charles Orloski lives in Taylor, Pennsylvania., wife Carol, two sons, Dan and Joseph. For twenty two (22) years, he worked as a Project and Emergency Response Supervisor and at age 62, he is currently driving school bus for Scranton School District . Charles's articles and poetry has appeared at Counterpunch, Dissident Voice, Hollywood Progressive, and The Greanville Post. He can be reached at [email protected]