Job Safety


   It had never crossed my mind that you could be killed for
   being an architect, but that was before I had practiced
   in New York City.

   The first time I learned of a mortal threat against me
   was when I read a sworn depostion of a worker on my first
   multi-million dollar job. He said they had several times
   plotted to throw me out a ten-story window for making
   tough inspections, but also because they hated my long
   hair and jeans -- he said reputable architects were not
   supposed to look like hippies. This was during the
   Vietnam War when hippies were being assaulted by
   construction workers. And a few times, he swore, they
   almost got me, that they had a pool to reward the guy who
   did it.

   I read this two years later during the suit and
   countersuit between the building owner and the
   contractor.

   Since then I've heard of other architects and engineers
   being murdered at job sites, by arranged accidents, by
   fires in offices. Occasionally, there are news stories of
   allegations, but no convictions that I know of. The
   deaths feed the rumors.

   A few years ago, the wife of a world-famous architect and
   baby in a stroller were crossing the street when a car
   ran them down, missing the woman but killing the infant.
   There was talk around town about a murder of revenge
   against his family to get at him, to warn him to ease up
   on his well-known high construction standards.

   Last year, a young architect was thrown out a third-story
   window on Madison Avenue, allegedly during a minority
   labor dispute and gang fight. He was severely crippled
   but not killed. Some thought that the fight may have been
   a cover for the murderous attack, but maybe it was just
   bad timing for a site visit.

   I've been hit several times with "falling" objects,
   sprayed with concreting and sandblasting guns, barely
   missed by fast moving machinery. The workers bare teeth
   and say, "Sorry, didn't see you, watch yourself, it's
   dangerous, accidents happen."

   But the worst for me was when I was confronted by a huge
   black man in Central Park during a run in its lonely
   northern section adjoining Harlem. He stepped in front of
   me from roadside shrubbery, stood there in my way,
   silently. He handed me a shotgun shell and stepped back
   to cover. Nothing said.

   Panting, and annoyed, I looked at the shell. A piece of
   white tape on it had some scribbling. I looked closely
   and recognized my son's initials and birthdate. Jesus, I
   jerked and ran up the hill, looking around for the man.

   At home I called my son upstate and said get the fuck out
   there, go somewhere and call me, I think you're in
   danger. He did and we arranged for him to stay elsewhere.

   That night I got a call from an unknown man who told me
   to run every day at noon to the spot where the big man
   gave me the shell. To wait there until the man approached
   me. That was all.

   I did as told the next day. He gave me a shell like the
   first with the initials and birthdate of my oldest
   daughter and walked into the woods. That happened for two
   more days with shells marked for my second and third
   daughters. The night of the last I got a call from the
   man who said for me to run every day and pause at that
   same spot. The big man will check on me but may or may
   not appear.

   I was scared out of my wits. I got my daughters relocated
   with puff stories so they would not be scared. Then, with
   my attorney, went to the police.

   They stared at me, and shook their heads when they heard
   I was an architect.

   "Yeah," the captain said, "this is a common means of
   terrorism in construction. It comes up several times a
   year -- architects, engineers, contractors, suppliers,
   building officials, all kinds. The purpose is to scare
   you, warn you to lighten up, get with it. It's all
   business, warning you to play by the rules. Most of the
   time nothing happens."

   That phrase "most of the time" really shook me, and he
   knew it.

   He said, "We can't assure you that there is no danger.
   Murders do happen. It's a tough business. We'll assign
   someone to watch you for a while, but you're not the only
   one, we've got over fifteen this year alone, and that's
   just in construction. And we don't have the manpower to
   cover everyone who gets a threat in the city's
   industries, there're just too many."

   "Watch out for your children, Mr. Young. Think about it,
   is your business worth that? This is New York," he smiled
   grimly, "watch yourself, it's dangerous, accidents
   happen."

   I ran every day for two months and waited at the spot but
   never saw the big man again.

   That was three years ago. We're all okay, for now. I look
   at the shells and wonder if it was a bluff, laugh weakly
   at the threat's effectiveness, and even now feel cold
   chills of fear cross my shoulders. I am very careful at
   job sites, very courteous. The workers seem to like that,
   but "accidents happen," more than any other industry in
   the country.

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   March 2, 1995