I’m not saying anything, I’m just saying

You don’t mess around with municipal workers in Providence, RI. You could find yourself on an unwanted Tuna Boat ride in the deep Atlantic.

I have a brother who is a real estate developer in Providence. He’s been doing it since the ‘80s, and he’s been successful.

Along the way, he’s worked with them all: politicians, municipal employees, inspectors, contractors, unions, banks, thugs, and other assorted vagabonds that make the city tick.

And quite the city in which to tick. Providence has a deep and notorious history with organized crime centered around the New England Mafia, to wit, Patriarca crime family.

Nothing too serious. Just your typical regional gambling, loan sharking, extortion, disappearances, and high-profile gang-land murders.

You don’t get to be a successful downtown commercial developer in water-front Providence without firm knowledge and respect for where and when to tippy-toe through the rip tides.

My brother saw my recent article about Industrial Observers, and we got on the phone. Pray tell what, he wanted to know, did City of Morganton officials say about it?

“First off it wasn’t about Morganton employees,” I said. “But still, I’d say they were somewhat displeased.”

“Displeased?” he said.

“Judging from a brief phone message laced with spitting-mad profanity from one of the highest city officials, I’d say quite displeased,” I said.

“Let me tell you what would happen if you wrote a column like that in Providence,” he said. “The public workers are unionized. We have hundreds of labor unions in Providence. You have Local 1033, Local 271, Teamsters, Brotherhoods, Federations. Shipyards. The whole enchilada. You don’t cross or make fun of those guys.”

“I didn’t cross anybody,” I said. “I wrote about the common question everyone asks when they see a bunch of men standing around a worksite.”

“I’m not saying you’ll end up with a horsehead in your bed,” he said, “but if you write a newspaper column that even smells like it’s making fun of a Providence municipal union worker you’ll be writing your last stories from a Tuna Boat.”

“You write a column like that about Local 271,” he continued, “and, let’s say it’s trash pickup day. IF they collect your trash, and that’s a big IF, there might be an accidental tear in the plastic bag leaving behind a long trail of banana peels, beer cans, pizza boxes, and bread wrappers.”

“A column like that will bring the Union Boys right outside your front door at 5 a.m. to begin a massive spontaneous roadwork project,” he said. “Asphalt grinders, concrete saws, dump trucks belching diesel smoke. Fifty guys. The whole nine. Right at your driveway. Before the sun comes up. You won’t need an alarm clock. And when they’ve finished it’ll take them months to clean up.”

“Hey, now wait a minute,” I said. “My column was just an observation that —”

“A column like that, and when the 100-year-old Oak tree falls across the street taking out powerlines to your house, and blocking what’s left of access to your driveway,” he said, “you can be damn sure the Local 271 will put you at the very very bottom of the task list.”

“— an observation that men like standing around in groups that —,” I said.

“That tree’ll be there for months. You’ll be without power for God knows how long. And if the water main breaks,” he said, “forget about taking a shower.”

“— standing around and just LOOKING,” I said. “You open the hood of a car and it’ll attract a bunch of men like flies to honey and six or seven of them will just STAND AROUND AND WATCH another guy twist a spark plug. That’s what I was —”

“I’m not saying Baby Shacks Manocchis or one of his goombahs is gonna pay a visit,” my brother said, “but a column like that in Providence and they might be thinking Tuna Boat.”

“Are you telling me that if I write a harmless column making fun of men, any man, who, as a species, has the propensity to STAND AROUND and just WATCH another guy do all the work, that some musclehead named Flatnose is gonna be talking to me about a trip to the Tuna Boat?” I said. “And what the hell is this Tun—”

“I’m just saying, you gotta think about the big picture,” he said. “A column like that in this town, and you can forget about getting a favor from City Hall. That’s not how it works here.”

“Just how does it work there?” I said.

“On your short drive to City Hall you’ll get pulled over about 18 times by cops from the Fraternal Order of Police Lodge No. 3. They’ll write a mountain of citations for a dozen infractions,” he said. “And forget about getting them dismissed. It happened to a Providence Journal reporter in the 70s, a guy named Warlike or Worchester or something. They told him, ‘Insult the brothers again and you’ll be writing stories from the Tuna Boat.’”

“What’s with this Tuna Boat?” I said. “I thought you guys were all about lobsters.”

“Exactly,” he said. “People come back from the Lobster Boat.”

I said, “We don’t have unions here. There aren’t any Tuna Boats. People go catfishing from canoes. What are you saying?”

“I’m not saying anything,” he said. “I’m just saying.”