Specified Anatomical Areas

May 11, 2022

RUDY GIULIANI wanted to clean up Times Square. Some thought this was because it needed cleaning, others because Disney said,

“If you clean it, we will come.”

” . . . During a break in one of the first hearings, a city attorney called me and firmly said, “No more buttocks.” Asked, under cross-examination, precisely what his reported observation of “exposed buttocks” referred to, one of our inspectors had come up short. He couldn’t describe what he saw as having a precise beginning and end, which made his testimony useless. Since a buttock wasn’t clearly delineated, unlike other body parts specified in the regulations, the attorney said we should steer clear of them in future reports. . . “

Specified Anatomical Areas

Wordsmithing

April 10, 2022

Wordsmithing

According to the Global Language Monitor, the English language has over a million words. The million mark was hit in June 2009. With so many words and so many choices, why do some people use the same ones over and over and incorrectly at that?

I was waiting my turn at a coffee shop and heard the customer ahead of me place his order. The exchange of words was fine up to a point. It ended with the man behind the counter saying to the customer, “You can pick up your coffee at the cashier.”

The customer’s response: “Awesome.”

No, the Grand Canyon is awesome. Notre Dame and the pyramids at Giza are awesome but not coffee. Awesome is breathtaking, astonishing, even fearsome, and as much as I love coffee, getting a container of it isn’t any of those things.

Out of those million English words, I always thought there were enough verbs, but I must have been wrong because people are creating new ones. Since we’ve been speaking Middle English, the word for ‘to transfer possession of’ has been give but lately the noun gift is being used in its place. Give, giving and gave has become gift, gifting and gifted. It seems to work but doesn’t that make a ‘gifted child’ someone’s son or daughter they no longer want and pass on to a friend at Christmas?

There’s another verb that although also around for a long time, has taken on a different and contemporary definition. It’s rocking, and is being used in place of wearing, as in ‘wearing clothing.’ But you have to be careful about which types of clothing you apply it to. It goes perfectly with Air Jordan Super Flys and skinny brim hipster hats, but no one will ever rock Birkenstocks and babushkas.

Here’s a verb that’s changed by, I’d say, about ninety-percent. Decimate is currently being used to mean ‘to destroy a large part’ but it originally meant ‘to reduce by ten percent,’ and only ten percent. Its root is the Latin decem or ten. When a Roman legion’s mutiny was put down, they were decimated. The soldiers were lined up, and every tenth one was beaten to death by nine others, a very precise and deadly way of reducing by ten-percent.

A sector that’s often guilty of not so much misusing words, but using them pretentiously, is the corporate world. Limits become parameters, detailed becomes nuanced and accountability is now transparency. There’s also a belief in that culture that the more syllables a word has, the more important the speaker must be. Functionality is three syllables better than function, and they’ll never use use when they can use utilize. An exception to that corporate multi-syllable rule is shop. Calling a corporate center or office a shop gives it something it doesn’t have. A shop implies physical creativity as might be found in an atelier or studio. Edison had a shop at Menlo Park. Spreadsheets and Gantt charts just don’t come up to that level.

There are some other words that are fine when used alone but not when combined with certain other words. One is hone. Its misuse is so common that it’s almost become accepted. Hone is defined as ‘to sharpen or make perfect,’ like when someone ‘hones their skills.’ Lately, it’s being used incorrectly in place of the verb home, as in, ‘to move toward a goal’ or ‘to guide to a target’ like a homing device on a missile or even a homing pigeon. You can hone something but you can’t ‘hone in.’ There’s only a one letter variation between ‘home in’ and’ hone in’ but what a difference that makes to anyone who knows the difference. Another common but incorrect combination is ‘most unique.’ Unique already says it all, and it can’t be topped and made more superlative. Saying ‘most unique’ is as pointless as saying ‘most best’ or ‘most favorite.’ The adjective is just not necessary.

I’ll finish with a commonly used pronoun that signifies ‘no matter what’ but has recently taken on a very powerful new meaning. The word is whatever. If you want to end a discussion by implying that the discussion is beneath you and the person you’re speaking with is inconsequential and thereby dismissed, simply say, “Whatever!” and walk away. It’ll do it every time.

The Ham Sandwich

December 29, 2021

The Ham Sandwich

Rushing home to get on my computer for a one pm meeting, I still had time to stop at the deli and get something to go. I’d mute my mic while I ate and no one would ever know the difference. Glad there was no line when I arrived, I was upset to see Ali the Master Sandwich Maker wasn’t behind the counter. He took pride in his work, as any craftsman should. But he wasn’t there. Instead, a pretty young woman new to the deli stood in his place. Pretty or not, could she fill Ali’s shoes and live up to his excellent sandwich making skills?

“Hi, where’s Ali?”

She smiled but didn’t answer. Maybe she didn’t hear me.

I let it go and said, “Ham and Swiss cheese on a roll with mustard and lettuce, please.”

She held up two rolls, one on each side of her cheerful face, sesame on the left and poppy on the right. Now that was something Ali never did. He’d just pick up any old roll and that’s what I got. I pointed to the poppy and started to think that maybe his replacement wasn’t going to be too bad after all.

I got home and to my desk just in time, about two minutes to one. The meeting started and I muted so they couldn’t hear the crinkling of wax paper as I unwrapped my ham and Swiss. It was a good thing they couldn’t hear me because I said something unprintable when I saw orange American cheese instead of the Swiss I had asked for – very disappointing. As I explained some figures on a spread sheet to my associates, I quietly began to peel off the offending American cheese when I almost cursed again – mayo instead of mustard.

That was two strikes against the new sandwich maker. As quickly as I could, I ran to the fridge and grabbed the Gulden’s, reached in a drawer for a knife to spread it and got back to my meeting before anyone missed me. Most of the mayo was on the lettuce so I removed it and scrapped the rest of it off the bread. My desk began to look like a compost heap.

I thought I was finally ready to eat but no, I couldn’t. She might have been pretty, but she didn’t understand the underlying structure of a well-made sandwich. One has to be built, with each item carefully placed to evenly cover the bread to the right thickness, as Ali did. She cut a few slices of ham, folded them over and just laid them there leaving one side higher than the other. And she left bare spots, where a bite would result in a mouthful of bread and nothing else. I had to relocate each slice and by the time I corrected her amateurish mistakes, my keyboard was smeared with mayo and mustard.

Could she have sabotaged my sandwich on purpose? She seemed so sweet I couldn’t accept that. The only other explanation was that she didn’t understand English, and not just that, she must have come from a culture that didn’t understand sandwiches. When I made my order, she got “ham” and “cheese” but all the rest seemed to have been guess work on her part.

I half-heartedly ate my sandwich and continued with the meeting but I was distracted. I thought about the time Judge Sol Wachtler was in the news a few years back. Dissatisfied with the way the New York grand jury system worked, he felt it should be done away with. He said prosecutors had so much influence they could always get an indictment. They could even get the jury to “indict a ham sandwich.” If ever a ham sandwich deserved to be indicted, it was the one I had just eaten.

An Italian-American’s Thanksgiving

November 3, 2021

AN ITALIAN-AMERICAN’S THANKSGIVING

I grew up wanting a Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving. I wanted friends and relatives to come and visit our house with its pumpkins on the porch and autumn leaves on the lawn and hear their car tires crunching on our gravel driveway as they arrived. I wanted them to admire the turkey and pumpkin pie my mother made for dinner. But I didn’t get that kind of Thanksgiving growing up Italian-American in an apartment in Manhattan. To start with, there was no porch or lawn.

My mother made turkey but dinner began with an elaborate antipasto, then, because it was a holiday, ravioli with all kinds of meat simmered in a Sunday-style gravy, and if you were still hungry there was turkey. She also made pumpkin pie for dessert, but it was served along with espresso, anisette, cannoli and sfogliatelle. She had about a thousand Napolitano recipes in her head, but when it came to turkey and the trimmings, she relied on Betty Crocker. This wasn’t Norman Rockwell at all, and as much as I tried to push my family in that direction, they just weren’t interested.

When I was older, I met Rebecca whose heritage was Protestant, American, and Anglo-Saxon before that. Thanksgiving was in her blood. She suggested we spend the holiday at an inn in Connecticut that specialized in a traditional Thanksgiving. It seemed like a terrific idea so we made reservations and arranged to meet her cousin William and his fiancé Barbsie there.

We arrived early in the afternoon on Thanksgiving Day. The inn was a sprawling wooden building and on the National Register of Historic Places. We unpacked and went to wait for William and Barbsie at the bar. A fireplace in the lobby had a large iron pan on its hearth filled with chestnuts. It didn’t take me long to realize I was actually witnessing “chestnuts roasting on an open fire.” This was a great start to the Thanksgiving I had always dreamed of.

William and Barbsie arrived and after introductions suggested we order their family’s “traditional” start to a Thanksgiving dinner, Martinis. It wasn’t my tradition, and I was sure the Pilgrims didn’t drink them but what the hell, when in Rome…

I wore a three-piece suit, white shirt, and tie while William was dressed in khakis, a pink polo shirt, worn blazer and Topsiders without socks. I felt overdressed, and I supposed this dressing down might have been another tradition I wasn’t familiar with.

Barbsie admired my suit but then said, “It looks like something Al Capone might have worn.”

The bartender served us a platter of crackers with American cheeses, all in varying shades of orange. After her second Martini, Barbsie said she was glad there were no Italian selections on the plate because “their cheese making standards aren’t very high.”

“Hmm,” I thought, “Barbsie seems to have an issue with my ‘Italianness’“

When we got to our table, after one look at the menu, my spirits brightened. I could see the chef understood the Rockwell Thanksgiving concept thoroughly. There were lots of things on the menu I’m sure the Pilgrims ate when they invented the holiday, and there was no pasta in sight. As tradition dictates, the center of the meal was turkey, and it would be served with very American sides like acorn squash, corn bread, and sweet potatoes topped with melted marshmallows – something my mother would never have considered.

After we ordered, Barbsie mentioned there was something in the news recently about a body being found in the trunk of a car, and it was a suspected mob hit.

She turned to me with a smirk and said, “So Robert, aren’t you Italian? You must have the inside story on this.”

Rebecca cringed, but I forced a smile and replied, “I guess those pesky Mafiosi are at it again.”

Barbsie caught the sarcasm and didn’t speak to me for a while after that. I tried to shrug it off, but I was unable to keep from being offended. My mood turned dark, and the already bland food lost whatever flavor it had.

I couldn’t stop myself and asked Barbsie, “Do you suppose they purposely don’t use the spices associated with the ethnic groups they don’t want to come here?”

She replied in a huff, “Well, everyone we know thinks the food at the inn is excellent.”

Our Thanksgiving dinner continued going downhill, and conversation became strained. Rebecca and her cousin William caught up on family news with forced cheerfulness as I silently picked at my food. It became more and more uncomfortable, and with each drink, Barbsie’s rudeness got worse. I stopped responding to her and hardly responded to William or Rebecca.

I thought about the festive chaos of my family’s Thanksgiving with kids laughing and playing and the adults all talking at once. It was loud and confused with an abundanza of great food, and I missed it. Our disagreeable dinner at the inn eventually came to an end. We said goodnight and William and Barbsie drove home since they lived nearby. Rebecca apologized to me for Barbsie’s behavior, and I apologized to her for responding as I did.

We drove back to the city the next morning, and after I had dropped off Rebecca, I went to see my parents. I was hoping my mother might have some left over ravioli.

Autumn on the Lower East Side

October 10, 2021

Autumn on the Lower East Side

My essay, Autumn on the Lower East Side, published in Artascent.

There are many street trees on the Lower East Side of Manhattan today, but when I was growing up there in the 1960s, the only ones we had were the Norway Maples in our church’s graveyard. I passed them every day going to and from school. They were how I gauged the seasons. I loved seeing the buds on the branches overhanging the graveyard wall in spring. They announced the school year nearing an end and summer vacation not being far away. But then, watching the leaves turn brown and fall to the sidewalk in autumn meant I had a dreary school year ahead of me. I loved spring and summer and didn’t mind winter but dreaded the coming of autumn when it got dark earlier every night.

In autumn, I’d go up to the roof of our apartment building to feed my uncle’s pigeons before we had dinner because it would be too dark afterward. I’d let them have one last flight before locking them in for the night. My uncle had a separate section of the coop, where he kept twenty white tiplers. He loved to watch them circle the roof altogether in a flurry of white. Tiplers like to fly in a tight group and often go to great heights. When dusk’s shadow covered the city, they would be far enough aloft to be still glittering in the sunlight. I was sometimes afraid that they were so high and the city below so dark, they wouldn’t find their way back to our roof, but they always did. They were white, but when they were at that height, the sunset’s last rays colored them in hues of orange and yellow.

My mother made autumn seem to come earlier than it should when she’d take me shopping for clothes for the new school year in August. I still had a few weeks of summer left, but those shopping trips reminding me of the start of school put a damper on the end of my vacation. We’d go to the Orchard Street shopping district on the Lower East Side. Like a lot of other mothers and sons, we’d make our way past the “puller in” standing in front of the clothing stores asking, “Nice suit for the boy?” My mother was loyal to Jay & Ess, a men and boys shop run by two brothers that she had developed a shopping relationship with over the years. They were nice guys, and both had those blue tattooed numbers on their forearms, so common in Jewish neighborhoods then. As a reward for my shopping patience, we’d go to Julie’s Toy Store afterward. He carried a large stock of model trains and accessories, and I’d get something to add to my set. Depending on which end of Orchard Street we were on when we finished shopping, we’d either go to Katz’s Deli on Houston Street for frankfurters and a Doctor Brown’s Cream Soda or Stolsberg’s Dairy Restaurant on Grand Street for a mushroom omelet and an egg cream.

The one thing about autumn that I did look forward to were the feasts. They were held on the streets of Little Italy and celebrated various saints – Gondolfo, Cirro, Rocco, and others. They started as autumn harvest festivals in towns and villages in Southern Italy and were carried over to America by religious societies. Local people set up stands selling traditional zeppoles or grilled sausage and peppers. There was always at least one stand that had nuts, dried figs, and various confections. Torrone is a type of candy that’s so hard it has to be cut with a heavy knife hit with a hammer. Us kids stood by to catch the chips that tasted like honey and went flying with every hammer stroke. Non-locals who worked the carnival and state fair circuit showed up at the Italian feasts with games of chance where you could win a goldfish or a parakeet. The fish never lasted long, but I once won a parakeet I named Tweety that we had for years. Each feast usually lasted about a week, ending on the saint’s feast day. There were bands and processions but what I liked most were the fireworks on the last night. The fouchi dártficio were ground displays with pinwheels and fountains spouting smoke and flames in every color imaginable. It ended late, and the kids who stayed up to watch it were sleepy in school the next day.

Long after the pigeon coop was gone, I still went up to the roof. From the parapet at the corner of the building, I could look east for almost the entire length of Houston Street to the edge of Manhattan island. To the west, I could see the sun setting over the Puck Building, a large old factory that was once the home of Puck Magazine. With my roof already in its shadow, instead of flying the white tiplers like I used to, I flew a kite. There were no open fields on the Lower East Side, so if a kid wanted to fly a kite, a roof was the only place. The kite would climb above the autumn twilight and be brightly lit by the sun’s final glimmer. It was still summer up there where the kite flew.

Autumn on the Lower East Side

The Neighborhood

September 23, 2021

The Neighborhood

My personal essay The Neighborhood was recently published in BEING HOME, an anthology of essays about the “spirt of place.”

” . . . As I walked to my car, I passed a store selling elegant Italian shoes in the same location where my aunt and uncle once had an Italian restaurant. They called it Maria’s. There was no one in the family with that name. They just liked the sound of it. I thought of my uncle, who instead of preparing squid in the kitchen one sunny afternoon, opened the fire hydrant in front of the restaurant, set up a chair and started cleaning them there in a large pot. He was the color of an old penny, never missing an opportunity to sit in the sun and work on his tan. Distracted talking to a friend, he let the pot overflow, sending the squid floating away down the gutter. My friends and I were playing nearby, and he called us over to run down the block and get them. We made a game of it and managed to catch every squid. I’m sure anyone who witnessed this didn’t order the calamari specials on the menu that night. . .”

From the editor – “. . . and by all means brag that your story won the 1st prize for the collection.”

The Neighborhood

A Sunday Afternoon

August 31, 2021

A Sunday Afternoon

As usual on a Sunday, my mother sent me to mass. Instead of going to Saint Patrick’s I found my best friend Joe in Dom’s candy store having an egg cream and pretzel for a late breakfast.

He was feeling moody. “You know, it’s bothering me,” he said, “that this is the first year without Saint Rock’s feast on Mott Street.”

“Yeah, I feel the same way,” I said, “I didn’t pay much attention to it but now that it’s gone I miss it.”

On his August 16th feast day, the Society of San Rocco would have a mass said in his honor and afterwards a procession would wind through the streets of Manhattan’s Little Italy starting and ending on our block. The statue of the Saint was carried on the shoulders of four strong men and followed by band playing Italian marching songs sounding like dirges. As the procession passed by, people would approach and offer cash to be pinned to the red ribbons hung around the statue’s neck. Most offered dollars, but mob guys would give tens, twenties and even fifties, depending on their rank and how flush they were feeling. Barefoot old women would follow the procession as a form of supplication to have their prayers answered and by the time they returned to Mott Street, the feet of their black stockings were completely worn away from walking on the cobble stones.

Joe said, “Remember those candles. Geeze, I still get the creeps thinking about them.”

A concessionaire would sell almost life-size flesh colored candles in the shape of body parts. The idea was to buy one and light it while you prayed to Saint Rock to help with your affliction. As little boys, Joe and I were shocked to see, in addition to hands and feet, realistic looking breasts. We didn’t joke about it because besides being grotesque, we thought they had a serious religious significance. I don’t suppose the Church approved of this form of primitive devotions that they considered more superstition than religion. By the time we were growing up in the 1960s most of the old people were gone and the celebration of San Rocco’s feast day dwindled away and was eventually discontinued.

Joe’s mood changed quickly. “Hey, Sam the knish guy is coming down from Houston Street. Let’s go get one.”

An old Jewish man named Sam passed by with his cart just about every day selling hot potato knishes. Joe got his with mustard. Mine was plain. I knew it would take the edge off of my appetite for Sunday dinner but I couldn’t help myself.

Joe said, “Let’s go back to Dom’s and get a Lime Rickey to go with this. It’s funny; I like Lime Rickeys, which you can only get in the summer, but I can’t wait for colder weather when the sweet potato guy sets up his cart on Allen Street. I love those things.”

“I know who you mean but I’m not too crazy about sweet potatoes,” I said.

Joe paid no attention to me. He was feeling nostalgic again.

“But what I really miss is the old guy who used to sell jelly apples all winter outside the school at three o’clock. He’d dip them in hot jelly when you ordered one so the jelly would still be hot and soft as you ate it. And if you wanted, he’d roll it in coconut – no extra charge. I haven’t had a good jelly apple since the old guy died.”

We ate our knishes and talked as we walked to our building. I asked Joe if he wanted to have dinner with us. He declined but said he would stop by later. We climbed the stairs and he went into his apartment as I entered my crowded kitchen where dinner was being prepared. My mother, aunt and sisters were cooking. My father, although he didn’t help except to grate enough parmigiana cheese for the meal, often seemed to find reasons to pass through just to see what was going on. When we finally sat down to eat, the dishes seemed to just keep coming. There was someone constantly getting up to bring still more in from the kitchen.

Someone in the family usually had an unannounced friend show up and there was always more than enough food. We often needed to put the extra leaves in the mahogany dining room table to make room for guests. Since I didn’t help with the cooking, that was something I did help with.

Once, a high school classmate of my older sister joined us. She wasn’t Italian and asked for a knife to cut her pasta.

My mother sometimes took offense when someone simply asked to pass the salt, saying, “Why, I didn’t put enough salt?” But this time she added, “Hon, let me show you how to twirl your fusilli on a fork.”

Dinner ended with the inevitable question, “Who wants black or brown?” meaning espresso or American coffee. As the coffee was being served there was a knock at the door. It was Joe who wanted to see if I was ready to go out.

“Come in, Joe,” my mother said. “We’re just finishing dinner. Come in and have something to eat.”

“Hello everyone,” he said as he entered the dining room, “No thanks. I just ate.”

“Well, sit down anyway and have some coffee. You know everyone here. This is my cousin Gloria from Staten Island.”

“I remember Joe when he was a little boy,” Gloria said. “Have a piece of cake. I got it at Ebbingers on the way over.”

“Honest, I’m really full.”

“All right, sit down anyway. Somebody cut him a piece of cake to go with his coffee.”

“OK, just a little piece.” Joe knew he couldn’t win.

A Sunday Afternoon

Talking About the Movies

July 8, 2021

Talking About the Movies

They speak about hardware, software, LANs, WANs and USBs. These are the usual topics of conversation whenever I join my wife, Bridget at a business dinner. She’s in information technology – electronic communications to be specific. My wife is terrific, but if she’s with people in her field she becomes a strange and different person and although she normally uses English when she speaks to me, her language changes to “Hi-Tech.”

Typically, these dinners are with another couple, one of whom is the techie who works with Bridget. The spouse is in the same boat I am so we usually have a separate conversation. I’ve met some interesting people this way, and as a night out it’s not too bad.

A couple Bridget had worked with in Chicago was passing through New York recently and invited us to go out. I expected the worst since this time, not just one but both of them were “computer professionals” so I would be the only one not able to communicate in the common language. To soften the blow, we picked one of my favorite restaurants, Gallagher’s Steak House on West 52nd Street, so I would at least be sure to enjoy the food if not the talk.

They seemed nice enough, and at the beginning of the meal everyone tried to include me in the conversation as we had our crab meat cocktails and little necks on the half shell appetizers.

I’m considered fairly proficient with a computer, but they were light years beyond me. Every time I tried to change the subject, it inevitably went back to their shop talk. I gave up and simply smiled and nodded while I thought of other things and ate my sirloin. Then I began to daydream and eventually just zoned out.

While I was in this state of deep boredom, some of the conversation from an adjoining table got through to me. My ears perked up because they were discussing movies and were in the midst of an argument about the name of an actor.

I heard a female voice ask, “Who played the corrupt cop that Michael Corleone shot in The Godfather?”

I couldn’t see who was talking because their table was behind me, but I heard a male voice respond, “I don’t know, but he was the same guy who played the crazy general in Doctor Strangelove.”

A second male voice said, “That’s Robert Ryan.”

The female spoke again, “No, they just look alike, but it wasn’t him. Let’s ask the waiter.”

The waiter didn’t know either, but as he was walking away, I called him over and told him the name they were looking for was Sterling Hayden. He went back to tell them and actually got a round of applause. At this point, I asked myself why wasn’t I having dinner with these nice people who were engaged in such civilized and amusing conversation? When the waiter told them it was I who had come up with the actor’s name they looked my way, and one of them said they had another question they’d been wondering about.

“My husband says that Mean Streets was the first time Harvey Keitel worked with Martin Scorsese. Do you think that’s right?”

I happened to know that while Scorsese was at NYU, he did a student film called Who’s That Knocking at My Door and that was the first time he and Keitel worked together. My response got me an invitation to join them. With a wink at Bridget, I excused myself from my table, picked up my wine glass and took a seat with them.

La Dolce Vita and Stardust Memories

This Gun for Hire and Rome, Open City

We spoke about John Ford and John Wayne, Fellini and Woody Allen, Film Noir and Neo-Realism, and even listed some of Hitchcock’s blonde heroines.

Madeline Carroll, Tippi Hedren, Janet Leigh, Grace Kelly

None of us had any professional connection with the film industry, but we all just loved the movies. The language at the first part of the evening might have been “Hi-Tech” but now I was with my kind of people, and we were speaking pure “Classic Film.”

When they left, I went back to my table. I don’t know what her friends thought of me, but I was sure Bridget understood.

Patty’s Wife

June 16, 2021

Patty’s Wife

My short personal essay Patty’s Wife was recently published in GROWING UP, (I love that cover photo) an anthology of stories and poems about, what else, growing up.

Patty’s Wife

All the kids on the block admired Patty, one of the best of the neighborhood men. Aside from being a nice guy, he was a bodybuilder, and we all wanted muscles like his when we grew up. We admired him even more when he married Carmen. She had dark eyes and black hair and an exceptionally curvy figure. Carman was the epitome of sex to our young minds, and my friend Johnny Dee and I were her biggest fans. Most of the guys we hung out with thought she was too old to be appealing. At about twenty-five, her advanced age didn’t matter to Johnny and me. We’d cross the street if she were walking on the other side just so we could say hello. The sensual way she said, “Hi,” along with her beautiful smile, would make our day. Sometimes we’d argue about which of us she really smiled at. More than a crush, you could say there was a fair amount of early adolescent lust involved in our feelings for Carman.

Ritchie, a close friend of Patty’s, worked on the East River banana piers. He’d unload cargo, mainly bananas, arriving from Caribbean ports. When Ritchie finished work in the early afternoon, he’d often bring back a heavy brown paper bag with a few bunches of bananas in it to give to his friends. Sick of bananas, he’d never eat any himself. One afternoon as Johnny Dee and I walked up our street, we saw Richie turning the corner.

“Hey, fellas. I’m beat and don’t feel like climbing stairs. Be good guys and bring these bananas up to Patty’s wife for me.”

He gave us a half a buck each but didn’t have to. We would have tipped him for a chance to take those bananas up five flights and get to see Carmen. His request made our day. Within minutes, we were there knocking on her door.

“Who is it?”

“Carmen, it’s Robert and Johnny Dee. Ritchie sent us up with some bananas for you.”

“Just a minute. I don’t have any clothes on.”

Why couldn’t she have left it at, “Just a minute?” We looked at one another, realizing that right on the other side of a thin door was the woman we dreamed about, and she didn’t “have any clothes on.” Time passed while we stood paralyzed with our imaginations running wild. She finally came to the door in high heels, slacks, and a sweater with a lipstick-stained Viceroy held daintily between her fingers. Even fully dressed, she took our breath away. She thanked us for bringing her the bananas and offered us a tip. All we could do was grin, say, “No thanks,” and look stupid.

For the rest of the day, we speculated about what it would have been like if she had forgotten herself and just opened the door. That’s something we spoke about for years afterward but only between ourselves. We never mentioned it to any of our other friends because Carmen was our private fantasy and never to be shared.

Home

March 16, 2021

Everybody ought to have a Lower East Side in their life. – Irving Berlin

Robert Iulo has a Master’s Degree in Urban Planning from New York University. After retiring from a career with the City of New York he began writing about his experiences. His work has been published in The Museum of Americana, Gastronomica, ArtAscent and other journals and anthologies. Robert has had a special feature published in The Mississippi Sun Herald about his volunteer work on the Mississippi Coast after Katrina. He lives in New York City.

Each man reads his own meaning into New York. – Meyer Berger

Wordsmithing

The Ham Sandwich

“Hi, where’s Ali?”

She smiled but didn’t answer. Maybe she didn’t hear me.

I let it go and said, “Ham and Swiss cheese on a roll with mustard and lettuce, please.”

AN ITALIAN-AMERICAN’S THANKSGIVING

Autumn on the Lower East Side

The Neighborhood

My personal essay The Neighborhood was recently published in BEING HOME, an anthology of essays about the “spirt of place.”

A Sunday Afternoon

As usual on a Sunday, my mother sent me to mass. Instead of going to Saint Patrick’s I found my best friend Joe in Dom’s candy store having an egg cream and pretzel for a late breakfast.

He was feeling moody. “You know, it’s bothering me,” he said, “that this is the first year without Saint Rock’s feast on Mott Street.”

“Yeah, I feel the same way,” I said, “I didn’t pay much attention to it but now that it’s gone I miss it.”

Joe said, “Remember those candles. Geeze, I still get the creeps thinking about them.”

Joe’s mood changed quickly. “Hey, Sam the knish guy is coming down from Houston Street. Let’s go get one.”

An old Jewish man named Sam passed by with his cart just about every day selling hot potato knishes. Joe got his with mustard. Mine was plain. I knew it would take the edge off of my appetite for Sunday dinner but I couldn’t help myself.

Joe said, “Let’s go back to Dom’s and get a Lime Rickey to go with this. It’s funny; I like Lime Rickeys, which you can only get in the summer, but I can’t wait for colder weather when the sweet potato guy sets up his cart on Allen Street. I love those things.”

“I know who you mean but I’m not too crazy about sweet potatoes,” I said.

Joe paid no attention to me. He was feeling nostalgic again.

Someone in the family usually had an unannounced friend show up and there was always more than enough food. We often needed to put the extra leaves in the mahogany dining room table to make room for guests. Since I didn’t help with the cooking, that was something I did help with.

Once, a high school classmate of my older sister joined us. She wasn’t Italian and asked for a knife to cut her pasta.

My mother sometimes took offense when someone simply asked to pass the salt, saying, “Why, I didn’t put enough salt?” But this time she added, “Hon, let me show you how to twirl your fusilli on a fork.”

Dinner ended with the inevitable question, “Who wants black or brown?” meaning espresso or American coffee. As the coffee was being served there was a knock at the door. It was Joe who wanted to see if I was ready to go out.

“Come in, Joe,” my mother said. “We’re just finishing dinner. Come in and have something to eat.”

“Hello everyone,” he said as he entered the dining room, “No thanks. I just ate.”

“Well, sit down anyway and have some coffee. You know everyone here. This is my cousin Gloria from Staten Island.”

“I remember Joe when he was a little boy,” Gloria said. “Have a piece of cake. I got it at Ebbingers on the way over.”

“Honest, I’m really full.”

“All right, sit down anyway. Somebody cut him a piece of cake to go with his coffee.”

“OK, just a little piece.” Joe knew he couldn’t win.

Talking About the Movies

Typically, these dinners are with another couple, one of whom is the techie who works with Bridget. The spouse is in the same boat I am so we usually have a separate conversation. I’ve met some interesting people this way, and as a night out it’s not too bad.

They seemed nice enough, and at the beginning of the meal everyone tried to include me in the conversation as we had our crab meat cocktails and little necks on the half shell appetizers.

While I was in this state of deep boredom, some of the conversation from an adjoining table got through to me. My ears perked up because they were discussing movies and were in the midst of an argument about the name of an actor.

I heard a female voice ask, “Who played the corrupt cop that Michael Corleone shot in The Godfather?”

I couldn’t see who was talking because their table was behind me, but I heard a male voice respond, “I don’t know, but he was the same guy who played the crazy general in Doctor Strangelove.”

A second male voice said, “That’s Robert Ryan.”

The female spoke again, “No, they just look alike, but it wasn’t him. Let’s ask the waiter.”

“My husband says that Mean Streets was the first time Harvey Keitel worked with Martin Scorsese. Do you think that’s right?”

We spoke about John Ford and John Wayne, Fellini and Woody Allen, Film Noir and Neo-Realism, and even listed some of Hitchcock’s blonde heroines.

None of us had any professional connection with the film industry, but we all just loved the movies. The language at the first part of the evening might have been “Hi-Tech” but now I was with my kind of people, and we were speaking pure “Classic Film.”

When they left, I went back to my table. I don’t know what her friends thought of me, but I was sure Bridget understood.

Patty’s Wife

My short personal essay Patty’s Wife was recently published in GROWING UP, (I love that cover photo) an anthology of stories and poems about, what else, growing up.

Patty’s Wife

“Hey, fellas. I’m beat and don’t feel like climbing stairs. Be good guys and bring these bananas up to Patty’s wife for me.”

He gave us a half a buck each but didn’t have to. We would have tipped him for a chance to take those bananas up five flights and get to see Carmen. His request made our day. Within minutes, we were there knocking on her door.

“Who is it?”

“Carmen, it’s Robert and Johnny Dee. Ritchie sent us up with some bananas for you.”

“Just a minute. I don’t have any clothes on.”

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