Sitting on the Dock of the Bay

When I sit by the beach and watch the water, I am home. When I let myself drift, I wash up on the shores of Eagle Dock where I learned to swim and hold my head above water. Cold Spring Harbor sings my song, greets me like an old friend whenever I can make the trek.

A small, old whaling town, you can drive through it all in a couple minutes if you aren’t paying attention. That same walk used to be my morning commute to the Cold Spring Harbor deli. The fragrance of bacon saturating the air by the time you make it to the park by the waterfront.

I started at the Deli my first summer home from college. I was still in my shell and as green as they get for blue collar work. I couldn’t hide here. The crew was tight and people came to the deli wanting a conversation, to hear what’s up, jump into a debate, or complain about the politicians. It was a community watering hole, the smells of bacon and fresh coffee were the open invitation in the harbor air.

The Deli attracted a diverse crowd. Townies, landscapers, school kids, wall street folks, construction workers, and soccer moms just looking for an iced coffee and an attentive smile. We took them all. The flavor and atmosphere twisted in the wind depending on the day’s happenings, the weather, the high school sports schedule, or what construction projects were nearby.

Behind the counter, I became ‘Seabass’-- my moniker from the rugby team quickly stuck, and I revelled in the ability to reinvent myself. I loved the ability to dictate conversations with customers, learning from the diverse cast that rolled through the door. 

It was a hang and a workplace. The constant conversation didn't mean we stood still; there was always something to be done and the line needed to keep moving. But the constant barrage of small talk and banter made light of the refilling of condiment bottles, stocking the cold case, and cleaning the floors. 

Some of the guys on staff became like older brothers. Deli work is classically a revolving door of employment, but I was lucky, in the Harbor, a regular cast had formed with a townie core and a performing band to match. I had mutual friends with the guitar player Matt, and we became close. He loved showing me the heavy music he jammed to, and we would blast Tool on the stereo in the late afternoon when the place was empty.

The spirit of the team was palpable; you could feel it in the air -- we were a crew. We teased each other endlessly and the day’s sport was always pushing buttons, and sharing stories to bring laughs. With small talk and food breaks, the 8-hour work shift could fly by at a supersonic pace as the rhythm kicked in and the day became a sequenced dance. The sandwiches start to make themselves when you get the feel for it. I remember the dreams of throwing down eggs on the grill even when I wasn’t in that blue building.

Eddie is the leader; he owns the place and he leads from the front. If he wasn’t helping a customer, he was organizing a catering order, or coaching the new guy to perform up to standards. He would slide next to me as I was working, “A little faster, Seabass., I just need you to move a little faster,” and  I got the hint without any browbeating -- hustle. He delivered small talk like poetry, and made people feel valued when they spent their money. This was the reason people kept coming back to our deli when there were so many options in nearby Huntington, or when they could cook eggs at home. The conversation of a hometown dive bar [or diner] with the comfort food to match the atmosphere. It was practically a weekday night sitcom.

 The town knew the cast well.  I relished in seeing all the old friends from high school swing by, especially on the slow days when I could take the time to make their meal with the special touch of someone who has a reputation to uphold. I liked sending people home with a meal I was proud of, it was all the more fun if they left the decisions up to me.  

We took care of our own, it was great for morale. This meant there wasn’t one price for something, which drove the uptight customers crazy. We all had our people, the customers we would serve, old friends and new. I could make my family breakfast, delivering the bees knees, and slide it for cheap. It was a big no-no to jump in on and serve someone else’s family, unless the line was out the door, and Eddie was glaring.

After work, the crew would occasionally gather and play handball at the local high school like school recess of old. We treated it like Wimbledon and the court happenings were the start of the next day’s small talk. Who was the winner? Who made a dumb mistake on the court?

I learned more in that small blue deli building by the harbor park than the high school nearby. I learned how to work; how to put my head down and take care of business when the time came. I was at the Deli when I found out my best friend had died across the country in Michigan. Eddie asked if I wanted time off, but it was the opposite. I wanted to drown myself in work. I wanted to be busy.

I was restless; I couldn’t sit down and let the thoughts settle.  My aura of grief stank up the deli and the harbor as I went through the process of asking “why” to “what next?” But the Deli and my friends were there for me. Seeing people helped; it was a life jacket in my sea of self-pity. After work, when I couldn’t distract myself with the Deli, my good friend and I would sit across the street in the park on the waterfront and crack open a 6-pack, bullshitting and passing time like brothers do.

I was told Billy Joel used to spend the occasional drunken night on the old park bench across the street from my Deli before he became a bigshot. I reckon he thought the same thing I did when he saw the harbor in the morning glory.

When I sit by the bay and watch the water, I am home.