I used to drink in a bar in the village called Lion’s Head. It was full of newspaper people. The Village Voice was around the corner, and a lot of guys from the papers would come and drink. It was a great bar full of great bullshitters. I knew a fireman that drank there occasionally and he had done a book. I thought, “Wow. That could be a really good story, about firemen.” I was so against that frigging war and I thought, what’s the opposite of a soldier going and killing people they don’t know? A fireman saving people they don’t know. I got permission, and finally ended up with a rescue team that covered all of the Bronx and Harlem.
The bridge cost almost fifteen million dollars to the city authorities and took twenty-seven lives during the construction.
In addition to the bends, a lot of workers were crushed by the falling equipment. One of the builders was killed by the came off the cable.
In three days after the grand opening, the tragedy happened again. Certainly, a Brooklyn bridge was a wonder of the world and modern technology but it was located over the deep river and many people, horses and buggies were moved about it. People was terrified.