It was for this reason that he dropped out of wood shop in high school and skipped college, the destination of most of his filthy-minded classmates, to take a job as a nut picker down at the Springdale Nut Farm. Shortly thereafter, the tawdry sense of humor prevalent among the migrant workers at Springdale preempted him to put down nuts for good.
Old Dick got around a good bit in those days: clams, kielbasa, pork butt. He sold them all down at Richard’s Sack & Suds, during his stint as the boner at the deli there. He laid carpet, he campaigned for Mike Hunt (the unsuccessful democratic mayoral candidate), he even spent some time as a bosom presser down at Wang’s Laundromat.
Dick was a ladies man. Around the time I met him, he was dating a pretty young thing named Eileen Ulick. After that it was Sharon Cox, and Betty Humpter after her. None of them worked out, as they always left a trail of snickering jokesters in their wake. No, Dick wasn’t one for double-entendre, or those who seemed to so enjoy it.
Dick once pulled me aside at the old textile factory--where we worked together as muff winders--and said to me, “The waters of bad taste are threatening to break the levees of decency in this country, and I’m not going to stand for it, Jimmy. I’ll get my finger in that dyke yet!”
That day was the last time I saw Dick. He was killed in an electrical accident while working as an impregnation inspector for the city. Earlier this year I visited his grave to pay my respects. His epitaph read, simply, “Dick Harden: Forever An Upright Man.”
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