This story begins with me on a roof in Rahway, New Jersey in 1996. A very steep roof. I’d helped tear off the old shingles that morning, and the crew I worked with was busy getting tarpaper down on the plywood. A storm barreled toward us on a strong breeze, and the sun was gone by two o’clock. Black clouds rolled in the west, and trees hissed. Then, the rain.
Our only choice was to tarp the roof at the peak, and everyone got busy. Or busier than we’d been all day. I gathered tools down at the gutter, and the noisy wind had my coworkers struggling with the tarp. That tarp was like a shiny blue kite, and it whipped and fluttered in the gusts of wind.
My team needed help, and I rushed toward the peak to see what I could do.
About halfway up the slope, wet by now, my foot slipped on the slick tarpaper. My face slammed into the hard surface—later, I’d realize my glasses were broken—and I slid toward an inevitable meeting with the ground, maybe thirty feet down.
I’d like to tell you about the stuff that went through my mind, but it all happened very fast. A big Polack named Joe Simanski stood on a ladder below me. Big and strong enough to reach out and get his meaty hands under my boots before I tumbled over the edge. I didn’t fall that day.
I dared to look backward after a breath, and Joe smiled, all 250 pounds of him. “Gotcha,” he said.
It took a minute to absorb what had just happened. Then I stood up to curse and stomp more than a couple of times. Somewhere in the stream of expletives that escaped my mouth was this phrase: I hate this fucking job.
***
There are different reasons why a thirteen-year-old girl might cry at 9:45PM. Last night it was homework. We don’t have the right colored pencils. There’s a hole in the paper from the eraser. Teachers give too much work.
If you’re a parent, you know the real reason for nighttime tears: I’m tired. I was tired, too, so it wasn’t hard to empathize. And the urge to cry comes from the same place when you’re frustrated—whether you’re three or thirteen. Or thirty-three, my approximate age on the day of the roof incident.
I’m tired!
My two older daughters are interested in the theater. As I write this, they’ve been cast in a local production of Footloose, and the schedule is grueling. Most days, I pick them up from school, we grab some dinner, and they’re dropped off at the theater a little before six. Their schools—and the theater—are just far enough away to make home out of reach. Rehearsals run until 8:30. By the time we do get home it’s nine. And homework. Like I said, if you’re a parent, you know the real reason for nighttime tears. I’m assuming you’ve been there. Put any activity in place of theater.
I’ve been trying to talk to my daughters about the idea of dedication, about work, and about the satisfaction in doing the things that interest you. Doing it with all your heart. Those interesting things can guide a life and shape the way you view the world. There comes a time when being tired and having homework in front of you at 9:30PM isn’t a problem. Even when it makes you cry. It’s worth it because you’ve formed some idea of who you are, and you know this thing you want to do is important. And interesting. And worthwhile.
You can see that, even through tears. Momentary lapses can’t stop desire.
“Rahway has the steepest roofs in New Jersey.” I’d been working with Danny for more than a year, and that’s all he said the day of the storm. After Joe had stopped my fall. Well, Danny smiled, too, which was his way of saying, You’re okay, and we’ll do it again tomorrow.
He hired me in 1995 as a favor to his friends in Outcry. The boys in Outcry hired me before Danny did, to play bass in their band. I suppose I decided to join the band, too, as much as they brought me into the fold. But when you play original music, there’s not much money involved. Outcry was a band on the move, but gigs in New York and on the Jersey shore only paid what you brought in at the door. Gas money. Playing your own songs and seeking a record deal isn’t defined by cashflow, and this wasn’t a surprise. I’d been on this road for several years.
“Danny pays ten bucks an hour. Cash,” the drummer said.
I signed on the proverbial dotted line. Anything to sustain my music career.
It might have been Atlantic Highlands or Sayreville. I’m not sure where I drove for my first day as a roofer. My expectations were met head-on by a freight train that day, and that collision matters more than the sunny location. The sun rose, and so did the mercury. “We’re doin’ a tear off today,” Danny told me.
It’s enough to say that I thought I’d die. My clothes and hands were black enough to echo the coal miners I’d known. The grime of the roof was mixed with gallons of sweat, or so it seemed. I found muscles and aches in places I never considered. And blisters on my ragged hands. So much to hate about the job.
But I went back, again and again.
At a certain point, my dad, in one of our regular phone calls, said, “Could you have picked a harder job?”
I’d grown to love it, though. I’d grown some muscles, too. Hauling bundles of shingles up a ladder will do that. And since my main job was shaped by intangibles—you never know where a music career is going—there was a lot to like about the tangible aspect of roofing. We showed up to do a job, and at the end of the day it was finished. There’s something that satisfies and draws you in further when you can say, Look what I did.
I guess it’s odd to see things come full circle, to see my daughters in a roofing phase. That’s what it looks like to me, anyway. There’s this thing you want and need to do, and it takes sacrifice. It takes hard choices, and sometimes those choices include late night homework and tears. Aching muscles atop a random house. A science project that’s due tonight. Another roof to tear off in Iselin or Woodbridge.
By 1997, Outcry had a record deal. I’d moved in and out of employ with them in the mid-90s. Sometimes I populated their van on weird trips to Michigan or Ohio or Virginia, and sometimes I worked on my own songs. I had to play music, somehow. And Danny’s roofing operation became an integral part of that journey for a couple of years. Outrcry tooled around the US with a van and a U-haul trailer. Scattershot trips. I played solo gigs in New York and New Jersey.
My time on the roof allowed it to happen.
On Friday night, my daughters will take the stage when Footloose opens in Greensboro. They’ve sacrificed sleep and easy evenings to do something they love. And to be honest, I’ve made some sacrifices, too. Lots of driving and sitting and waiting for them. I can take it. I’ve had harder jobs.
Something sits there, though, bubbling in all that sacrifice, and I think they see it. I think they can almost taste it. The excitement of the stage awaits, and they already know the price of admission. But cost doesn’t really matter when the thing you want lives and breathes inside of you. It’s an intangible thing, sure, but you know it’s real, so you’re willing to risk a fall or shed a few tears, just for the chance to do it.
I almost said it to Macey the other night: Rahway has the steepest roofs in New Jersey. But sometimes they get tired of my stories. Dad stories aren’t always effective. She stopped crying and did the work. Because she had to. Before I went to bed, I said, “You’re okay. We’ll do it again tomorrow.”
And in the way she always does, like when I say You’re pretty or You’re smart, she looked at me and said, “I know.”