I was 26 years old and restless. The kind of restless that comes from knowing you’ve got the skills but not the setup. I needed a job—not just for the money, but for the cover. Something that looked clean on paper, something that gave me breathing room to move in the shadows when I needed to. Union work was perfect. They didn’t work year-round, and when they did, half the time it was just showing up and clocking in. No sweat. Just presence.
At that point, I’d been hanging in the bars regularly. Not just drinking—I was building a name. Word was out that I could handle myself when things got physical. I wasn’t looking for fights, but I didn’t walk away from them either. And when it came to throwing hands, I didn’t waste time. One hit, lights out. That kind of reputation travels fast in places where respect is currency.
Then came the moment that changed everything. Right place, right time. I was out with a guy—just another night, another bar—and a fight broke out. Chaos, shouting, fists flying. I didn’t hesitate. The biggest guy in the bunch stepped up, and I dropped him with one clean shot. No warm-up, no second swing. Just precision and instinct. The guy I was with watched the whole thing, eyes wide, calculating. Turns out he was connected—deep union ties in St. Louis.
Two days later, I had a union card in my hand. Just like that. No interview, no paperwork shuffle. I was officially part of the local. My job? Bodyguard to the president of the union. Not a bad gig for a kid who’d just knocked out a heavyweight in a barroom brawl.
When I did work, it was simple. Show up, get paid for eight hours. That was it. No heavy lifting, no sweat. Oilers back then didn’t do much—just had to be there. You’d think that was the dream job. Most guys would kill for that kind of setup. But me? I still didn’t want to be anywhere for eight hours, even if I was just sitting around. I wasn’t wired for stillness. I needed motion, action, angles.
Still, I have to admit—it was a cush job. Respect came with the role. I was close to power, protected by the badge and the union card, and still had room to move in my own world. It was a perfect blend of legitimacy and leverage. I could walk into places with authority, and no one questioned it. That card was more than a job—it was armor.
Looking back, it’s wild how fast things shifted. One punch, one witness, and suddenly I was on payroll with the union. That’s how it worked in my world—reputation opened doors, and loyalty kept them open. I wasn’t just surviving anymore. I was playing the game, and for once, the game was playing in my favor.
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