Big Steve Jensen

Note: Surprise! I’ve decided to continue posting a new story here occasionally. This is a story I published here back in January 2025, but I like this one. I read over and refurbished it, so here it is again. Enjoy. Harvey

The odd thing about Jensen was how the guy kept coming.

Big Steve Jensen was a typical dockworker: Six-two or -three and broad, with a bull neck, red crewcut hair, and shoulders like a minotaur. He has a chest you could age whiskey in. You could tell his waist is a 32 without having to measure, and he wore boots that were so long they’d make women wonder about that rumor. You know the one.

All of that was accompanied with a pair of hips that swiveled just enough to give him a swagger. And he had the attitude to go with it.

That was his big problem. That attitude. Attitude doesn’t play well on the docks. Not with a guy who knows that’s all it is.

Me, I’m built okay. My arms and shoulders and legs do what I ask them to do and don’t complain. At least not until the next day. But all of that’s set on a 5’9” frame. Jensen had me by probably 50 pounds.

Down on the docks, size and weight matter when you’re manhandling crates. But when you’re going against another man, not so much. Experience trumps all that.

I’m 34 and been around. Jensen was only 24 or maybe 25. He came to work at the docks from his hometown, about a half-hour walk from here.

I never figured the guy was a threat to win a Nobel, but I didn’t think he was stupid either.

So imagine my surprise when he came at me. Like the crate knife in his hand made a difference.

I guess it did, but not like he wanted it to. It only made him think he had an advantage, and that gave me the advantage.

It was almost as humid in the dock shack as it was outside, but with the added stench of hard working men at the end of a long day. It was almost as hot too, and there was no breeze inside to cool us. To shove all that aside, most of the twenty or so of us were standing around in pairs or small groups talking as we waited for the fleet boss to come in with our weekly pay. A few of the guys were sitting on the heavy plank floor, their backs pressed against the clapboard walls.

I said something in passing to another guy, just loud enough so he could hear it.

Only Jensen heard it from across the room.

One second I was grinning and saying something to my friend, and the next, a booming “What?” rolled across the room.

My friend gaped past my shoulder, then vanished like a ghost.

When I turned around, Jensen was glaring at me. Maybe two-thirds of the guys were behind him. They’d fanned out in a semi-circle, and most of them were sneering.

“Wha’d you say?” That was Jensen again.

I laughed. “I wasn’t talkin’a you, Jensen.”

I wasn’t either. I was bragging to my disappearing friend about a very friendly woman I’d met last night. Well, and how she was still smiling when I left her bed this morning. You know, dock talk. I didn’t even say her name. I probably wouldn’t have said it even if I’d remembered it. I don’t roll like that.

But as I watched a growl grind its way up out of Jensen’s gut, that crate knife appeared in the chunk of meat he calls his right hand, and he charged me. Just like that.

Me, I just assumed a stance I learned awhile back. Lightly balanced, committed to nothing either way.

He came on like a freight train, straight and true and bound to the tracks. The crate knife was extended straight out in his right hand like a skewer heading for a wiener.

Only I ain’t no wiener.

Just before he was close enough for me to smell his breath, I sidestepped under the knife and brought my right fist up and broke his nose. That punch landed so flush, so perfect, a fire shot through my wrist all the way to my shoulder. When the bridge of his nose snapped, my own eyes almost watered with the sting. I let his momentum turn me around, and I thought sure he’d be on the floor when I saw him again.

But he wasn’t.

He stumbled a couple of steps, then clomped those big boots down on the plank floor. He took a couple more steps to turn around, but the guy didn’t even put his hand to his face or shake his head.

Me, I spread my arms and opened my hands. I arched my eyebrows and made my eyes wide too, like I was surprised he was still standing. Like I was scared.

My ears told me nobody in the semicircle behind me was moving, so that was good.

A sneer came to Jensen’s face like I figured it would, even with bands of blood and snot stringing from his nose down over his lips and chin. He blew hard through his lips and some of the snot arced to the floor. Then his eyelids came down a little and he charged.

That was my fault. I’d shattered his nose all right, but then gravity took over. He could still see.

He extended the knife a little to his right, his arm hooked, and leaned forward to charge again.

I let my surprise register for another split second.

He leaned into the charge, took his first step with his right boot, and raised his left for the next step.

I shifted away, stomped hard on the arch of his right boot with my left, then snap-kicked him above his left eye with the toe of my right boot. As he stumbled past, I was turning to watch.

The crate knife dropped and skittered away across the floor. Jensen plowed forward and sprawled flat, his arms and legs pointing at the four directions. At least three other men jerked their boots aside to let the knife through. I was relieved none of them had reached for it. The knife thunked to a stop somewhere against the far wall.

I looked at Jensen again.

He’d pulled his hands back under his shoulders, and his chest and back were heaving.

So he’s breathing. Good. So that’s over, and no real harm done.

I’d have to nurse my right knuckles a little, but the big toe on my left foot was fine. Here’s to steel-toed boots. Jensen would be fine too once he made it through that first headache. Then maybe he and I could have a beer and—

He turn his head, then pushed his palms against the floor and started moving his knees up under him, first the right, then the left.

Seriously? I shook my head slightly. “Hey, just stay down, man. No shame in that. I know you’re hurt.”

With his mouth not quite a foot above the floor, he shook his head hard, clearing cobwebs. Blood and snot slung to the side in both directions. “I ain’t hurt!” He said it so loud a little dust fluffed up off the floor. He twisted his head to one side like he was trying to look at me. “Hell, I ain’t even started yet!”

I frowned. “Just stay down, man. We’ll draw our pay and the first beer’s on me.”

He shook his head. “No way.”

Somebody in the semicircle muttered, “Guy ought’a finish him off.”

I couldn’t tell who it was by the voice. I glanced at the others, but nobody was making eye contact. I looked at Jensen again. “Hell, I don’t wanna finish him off. He ought’a be finished off already.”

Then someone said, “What, like you’re all that? ‘Sides, I wasn’t talkin’ to you. Or about you.”

I looked up again, but still no eye contact. I wish they’d all just stay out of it.

It must’a been the tall, wiry guy with greasy, longish black hair. At around six feet tall, he was gangly and dressed in filthy jeans and work boots like the rest of us but with a green and tan camouflage shirt like army guys wear. That hung open over a drab green t-shirt.

Some guys always pull for the big guy, figuring it’ll be an easy win. Maybe Tall Green And Ugly had made a side bet or something. I shook my head and glanced back down at my main concern.

Jensen was rocking forward and back a little. It looked like a prelude to him actually getting up. I frowned again. Why doesn’t he just stay down?

“I was talkin’ about Jensen. He gets up, he’ll mop the floor with you.”

I looked up. I was right. It was the wiry guy. “Look, pal, this has nothin’ to do with you.”

He scowled and his eyes narrowed. “Yeah? I ain’t your pal. If you’d said that about my girl I’d be on you like a monkey up a banyan tree.”

“What?” Do monkeys even climb banyan trees? And what are banyan trees, anyway? But I only wagged a hand at him. “Look, I didn’t say anything about anyone’s girl. You hear me say any names?”

“That don’t matter none.”

Jensen grunted, and I glanced down again. Only his left hand was on the floor, and the muscles in that forearm were bulging. Is he pulling his right foot forward? He is! He’s getting up!

Well, I’ll just have to reacquaint him with the floor. “Jensen, just stay the hell down, man. Or just say it’s over.”

He said nothing, and he kept working at it.

The door opened. The wind caught it for a minute and whipped it from the fleet boss’ right hand. Fletcher. And in his left hand was a cash box.

Jack Fletcher is a round little man. He’s about my height at 5’8” or 5’9”, but he weighs in the vicinity of 300 pounds. He was dressed in his usual dusty black trousers, black shoes, and a white shirt with a black tie under a black coat.

He stopped. He looked at me, looked at Jensen, then stepped back outside and grabbed the looped rope that served as a door pull. He tugged the door against the wind, and when it passed the sweet spot it slammed shut. It slapped the frame like a rifle going off.

He hooked the rope over a peg in the wall. Then he turned around, spread his feet to shoulder width, and put his right hand on his hip and eyed me as he gestured with his chin toward Jensen. “You do that?”

“Yes sir.” I started toward him. “I thought maybe I could draw my pay first so I can—”

“You’re fired.”

That stopped me in my tracks. “I’m sorry?”

“Nope. Too late for that.”

“I wasn’t apologizing, sir. I’m not sure I heard y—”

“I said you’re fired. I’ll write a check and mail your final pay to the address on file.”

I frowned. “But I don’t want a che—”

“Get out. Good hands are hard to find. I can’t have you busting them up.”

To my right, the guy I was first talking to, Henry Malto, raised his hand. “Mr. Fletcher, it wasn’t Nick’s fault. He was only—”

Fletcher scowled. “Malto, right? You’re fired too. Both of you get out.”

I canted my head. “What?”

“You heard me.”

From behind me, Jensen’s voice boomed. “Fletcher, this ain’t none’a your business.”

I ducked my head and spun to my left. I’d forgotten about Jensen.

But he wasn’t coming at me. He was standing, but he was still where he’d been laying on the floor a moment ago. I looked at Fletcher again, but uneasily. I kept Jensen in my periphery.

He was staring at Fletcher and holding his left hand up in front of his chest, his fingers splayed. “Okay, one, I ain’t busted up. And two, I’m gonna finish this. But it ain’t right you don’t give the man his pay.”

Fletcher only sneered. “You aren’t that good a hand, Jensen. One more word and I’ll fire you too.”

Silence dropped over the room like a blanket. Even the big mouth with the stringy hair chose to keep shut.

Fletcher eyed the group, then turned and walked to the little table he uses as a desk every Saturday afternoon. He set the cash box on the table first, then turned it just so, then sat down. The little wooden chair groaned. It complained against the floor as he shifted his weight and pulled the chair an inch closer to the table. Without looking up, he said, “All right, the rest of you queue up.”

But most of the men had already started to line up anyway. For some reason I counted. There were fourteen of them, not counting me, Henry Malto, and Big Steve Jensen.

Fletcher opened the box, counted out some bills for the man on this side of the desk, then glanced left. “Next.”

As the next man in the queue shuffled forward and faced Fletcher, the man who’d been paid opened the door. As it had done for Fletcher, the wind jerked the door from his hand, then gusted into the room. It whipped up few dust devils.

Fletcher dropped the cash he’d been counting back into the box and slammed it shut. “Damn it! Close the door!”

A second later the door slapped the frame.

I looked at Malto.

He only shrugged. Then he arched his eyebrows and gestured like he was lifting a sixteen-ounce weight to his lips.

Why not? I nodded, then looked at Jensen. “Hey Steve, you want a beer? I’m buyin’.”

He looked at Fletcher, then back at me. “Sure. Second round’s on me.”

Fletcher slapped the table. “Now just a damn minute! I fired those two because—”

As Jensen reached me and Malto, he looked at the fleet boss. “Shove it up your ass, Fletcher. I quit.” And as we headed for the door, he said loudly, “I hear Gibson’s hiring. And I heard he pays half again what this asshole pays.” Then he hit the the door with that hamhock of a fist.

The wind blew in and we blew out, on our way to the Golden Pickle. It’s only a half-mile from the docks, and it’s a great place for a few beers with friends. Besides, I was anxious to point out the little gal I’d mentioned earlier to Malto. Well, and to Jensen. And I would accompany that with, “See? It wasn’t your girl after all.”

Malto and I had walked maybe ten yards past the door when I realized Jensen wasn’t with us. I stopped and looked back. Then I laughed.

His knees bent slightly, the muscles in his shoulders and back straining, he was setting a small boulder against the open door.

When he straightened and turned around, he grinned. “Told you I wasn’t done. Now I’m done.”

*******

The catalyst for this story was the tone of Ernest Hemingway, as seen in The Complete Short Stories, Finca Vigia edition. I recommend it.

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