Photo by Steve Shapiro
"We were barge “Captains,” as they called themselves—rather euphemistically since it was a job so lowly that it was ordinarily held by guys who had been kicked out of the Longshoreman’s Union—old winos and the like, being replaced now by this new breed, the dopehead writer. It was one of those classic writer’s jobs, like hotel clerk, night watchman, fire-tower guy, with practically no duties (“Just keep her tied up and pumped out”). Alex Trocchi found it by chance, wandering around the West Side docks after a few hours at the White Horse Tavern. The guy who did the hiring happened to be Scottish, a Scotsman called Scotty, in fact. So he took a fancy to Alex, Alex being a Ludgate Scholar from Glasgow, who had boss charm besides. (Scottish accent; “Have ye had any experience at sea, lad?” “Only with small craft, sir—punting on the Clyde and the like.” “Good enough, lad, I like the cut of yer jib.” So Alex was in. And about a half a dozen of us—of similar stamp and kidney—were quick to follow … under auspices of The Great Troc."
Full interview
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