Jean Shepherd and `A Christmas Story'

Originally printed in "Brookyn Daily Eagle"

It’s Christmas time, and once again we’re treated to showings of the holiday favorite “A Christmas Story.” The film has become so much a classic that it’s been turned into a Broadway play, and the house in Cleveland that was used as the Parker family’s house has been turned into a museum. Characters like The Old Man, bully Scott Farkas and the hillbilly Bumpus family, not to mention inanimate objects like the leg lamp, have become part of American folklore.

Lost in the shuffle, however, has been the author and narrator of the story—Jean Shepherd. Many of the millions of people who have seen the film, perhaps most, are only familiar with him through “A Christmas Story.” And that’s sad, because as good as it is, it only represents a small portion of Shepherd’s work.

Jean Shepherd was born in the early 1920s and grew up in Hammond, Indiana (called “Hohman, Indiana” in the film). The late Eagle columnist Dennis Holt, who lived there during part of his youth, knew Shepherd and his friends, although they were older than him. While the film takes place around 1940, the real events upon which it is based took place about seven or eight years earlier.

Like most men of his generation, Shepherd served in the military during World War II (his Signal Corps stories have recently been collected as “Shep’s Army”). Afterward, he drifted into TV and radio, but he didn’t become famous until the mid-1950s, when he began broadcasting one of the first talk shows on WOR-AM. About half of his show was dedicated to tales of his Indiana childhood and his Army days. The rest consisted on his observations of the passing scene. He commented on advertising, popular music (he loved jazz, disliked rock), sexual mores, suburbia, all-night diners, beer and almost everything else. He avoided politics, but at times he “got serious,” as he did after JFK’s assassination and again after Martin Luther King’s assassination. In between it all, he played hokey Dixieland jazz songs, accompanying them on the kazoo and Jew’s harp, and recited old-time folk poetry like “The Shooting of Dan McGrew.”

In one of his best-known pranks, he began to talk about a non-existent sexy book, “I, Libertine,” supposedly written in the 18^th century. He told his listeners to ask for it in bookstores. Eventually, the demand was so great that a publisher hired several authors (including Shepherd himself) to ghost-write the book.

Shepherd continued on, broadcasting every weekday at 10:15 p.m. and on Saturday nights from the Limelight in Greenwich Village. Thousands of young New Yorkers listened to Shep on their transistor radios under their pillows when their parents thought they were asleep. In 1977, he quit his radio gig. By this time, he was becoming known nationally. He wrote stories for Playboy and published several short-story collections. He also had a public television show, “Jean Shepherd’s America,” in which he visited different parts of the country. There was even an unsuccessful follow-up to “A Christmas Story,” called “My Summer Story.”

Shep died in 1999. After his death, his dark side was discovered: He had two children from an early marriage, neither of which he had seen for 30 years. In fact, he often denied that he had children at all. Still, I prefer to celebrate his contributions to American culture. Quoting Shep’s most famous catch phrase, I proclaim to everybody concerned, “Excelsior, you fatheads!”

The Singing Dentist of Bensonhurst

By Raanan Geberer


"When you begin/Begin the beguine/It brings back the night/Of tropical splendor....”

Dr. Pearlman sang as he looked into Rob’s mouth and started poking around, the curbed probe in one hand, the tiny mirror in the other. Ever since Rob had moved to Brooklyn last year, in 1987, his father had tried to get him to see Dr. Pearlman as a dentist because Dr. Pearlman was a cousin and had grown up with his father in the East Bronx, and finally, here he was. Dr. Pearlman’s office was on the second floor of a rundown two-story building on a nondescript commercial street in Bensonhurst whose only redeeming feature was the Italian bakery next door. You walked down a long, narrow hallway to get to Dr. Pearlman’s office.

“A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H/ I got a gal in Kalamazoo/Don’t want to boast but I know she’s the toast/of Kalamazoo...”

Rob had never heard of a singing dentist before. Not only does he sing, he thought, but he seems to sing only the songs of his own era, which would be the late 1930s and early ’40s. It’s incredible that this guy is still practicing, he thought. He must be in his late 60s, past retirement age. He idly glanced at the wall – here was a diploma from “New York University Dental School, June 1948.” Probably went to dental school on the G.I. Bill, he thought. Suddenly, he became alarmed when Dr. Pearlman picked up a drill.

“What are you doing with that drill? Aren’t you going to give me an anesthetic or an injection?”

“Well, the X-rays show that the cavity is very small and very near the surface, so we don’t need it. Open your mouth—you’re so good, you’re the best, you’re the champ. Here it comes. I’m not lazy!

`I got spurs that jingle jangle jingle/As we go merrily along/And they say, ain’cha glad you’re single/And that song it ain’t too far from wrong’ ...You’re doing great! Don’t worry about anything. I’m the master! ...

"`In ‘76 the sky was red/Thunder rumbling overhead/King George couldn’t sleep in his bed/And on that morn/Uncle Sam was born’ ... You’re so good! Okay, rinse out your mouth!”

Rob bent over, grabbed a paper cup and rinsed his mouth. He watched the blood going down the drain. He had hardly felt anything. “There! That wasn’t so hard, was it? “ Dr. Pearlman asked. “I’m gonna do the filling now! You know, your father did some amazing, heroic things! Like the time he ran into the battlefield and carried the wounded lieutenant on his back to safety! They were gonna give him a medal for that, but, you know how it is!”

Rob had never heard that story before. Then again, his father rarely talked about his past. He was going to ask another question when....

“OK, we’re gonna put in the filling material next. Here it comes! Stay still! I’m not lazy!

"`Moon over Miami/Shine on as we begin/A dream or two that may come true/As the tide comes in.......’

"Okay, just a little bit more. Just stay still. You’re the best! ... Bor’chu es adonai hamvoroch/Boruch atoh adonoi hamvoroch leolom voed/Boruch atoh adonoi/Eloheynoo melech ha’olam' ... OK, we’re done here, kid!”

“I heard you singing that Hebrew brocho,” Rob said, referring to the blessing over the Torah that Dr. Pearlman had just intoned. “Wouldn’t those Hasidim I saw in the waiting room object if you sang that when they were here?”

“Fuhgedaboutit!” Dr. Pearlman responded, cheery as ever. “Don’t worry about them. They got nothin’ to say! OK, see you next time?”

“What should I pay?”

“Don’t pay anything! ‘’Cause you’re a relative, I’ll fix the insurance form so the price will be very high, so what they give me will cover what you should pay!”

“You don’t have a secretary?”

“Naah! I used to have a secretary, but if I did now, I’d have to charge you guys more! OK, kid! Give your regards to my father .....NEXT!!!”

Bill Cosby's Right: Let's Tone Down Profanity

Originally published in Brooklyn Daily Eagle

On a recent episode of the Jon Stewart Show, Bill Cosby surprised host Jon Stewart, known for using four-letter words (which are bleeped out), by asking him to curb his use of profanity. He mentioned that when he was young, when someone said a four-letter word, it was usually a prelude to a fight. Stewart, who was taken aback, asked whether Cosby and Richard Pryor hadn’t used four-letter words on stage when they were starting out. Cosby said no, because there were always cops around.

I plead guilty to using the “f-word” (usually when I’m angry). But many people use it to describe almost anything and everything, as an adjective, adverb, noun and verb. While it is surely one of the oldest words in the English language, its use in show business (with a few exceptions, such as the odd 1938 recording of “Old Man Mose” by the Eddie Duchin Orchestra) was pioneered by comedian Lenny Bruce in the 1960s. Bruce was a comic genius, and his intentions were certainly commendable: he wanted to do away with hypocrisy and portray daily life honestly.

But in doing so, Bruce opened a can of worms. What he was doing went way over most people’s heads. Profanity became a lazy way of getting cheap laughs. If you don’t believe me, go into any comedy club in the country. Bruce was about social commentary, but that social commentary has degenerated into the insulting shock humor of Howard Stern.

Fifty, sixty years ago, we were a nation of rules: open the door for a lady, don’t wear your hat indoors, get up from a subway seat to let an older person sit down, call an older person “sir.”  Those rules have disappeared. Again, in an effort to do away with hypocrisy, the hippies of the 1960s sought to do abolish the old rules. They thought they would replace the authoritarian society of the 1950s with one based on communal values, but that never happened. Instead, what eventually replaced it was one of extreme individualism, of sneering at others who are less successful. The hippies believed in free sexuality as an expression of honesty, but what we have today is free sexuality as a way to sell cars or soft drinks. I certainly don’t want to go back to the society of the 1950s, when James Joyce was banned. But someone like Miley Cyrus is no James Joyce.

Some people might say, “Why don’t you criticize the real problems of society, rather than someone dancing naked on stage?” But to me, these problems are part of the same bag.

On one side of the coin, we have corruption in government, cheating on Wall Street, huge corporations like Walmart paying subsistence wages, politicians refusing to cooperate with their colleagues across the aisle, manufacturers shipping what had been American jobs overseas, people not caring about the homeless and the poor.

On the other, we have movie stars gyrating like only porn stars did a few decades ago, violent gangster rap, a record number of divorces, a record number of children being born out of wedlock, kids disrespecting teachers, and, yes, the constant use of four-letter words in public.

Yes, these are two sides of the same coin. And that coin is the degeneration of American society into one ruled completely by self-gratification and selfishness.

A Hospital Is More Than a Money Drain

Originally Published in Brooklyn Daily Eagle

This newspaper has been faithfully chronicling the ins and outs of the Long Island College Hospital (LICH) and, to a lesser extent, the Interfaith Hospital controversies. Turning our attention to Manhattan, we’re sure most readers are also familiar with the St. Vincent’s Hospital conflict of several years ago.

Implicit in all these controversies, however, is the idea that a hospital is nothing but an endless money drain. There’s some truth to this—many patients are on Medicare or Medicaid. When funds are cut, the hospitals suffer. But hospitals indirectly contribute large amounts of money to the community at large, and when a hospital closes, the entire community suffers as well.

Let’s take hospital beds. Beds require linen, pillows, and so on. The company that supplies linen to the hospital probably employs many people and pays a good deal of money in taxes. Without the hospital as a client, that company may have to lay off employees. It will also pay fewer taxes, thus depriving the government of much-needed tax revenue.

Let’s also take food. Every hospital has a cafeteria and also delivers food directly to patients in their rooms. Food concessionaires also hire employers, pay taxes, and purchase large amounts of food from suppliers. No cafeteria, no cafeteria employees. In a normal, healthy economy, these employees would find new jobs in a few weeks. But we’re not living in a healthy economy.

Same thing for the various coffee shops, restaurants and bars around a hospital. Many of these places mainly cater to hospital employees and visitors. If there’s suddenly no hospital, then half of these places may very well close. Their former employees will then spend less money at the supermarket and other local stores, sending negative waves through the local economy.

Transportation? Private car services near hospitals also rely on hospital visitors for much of their trade. If there’s no hospital, there will be fewer trips. Ultimately, fewer cars will be needed.

In macroeconomics, all of this is known, appropriately, as the “ripple effect.” This effect is worse when a hospital is the major employer in a neighborhood, as Long Island College Hospital probably is in Cobble Hill. As bad as the closing of St. Vincent’s Hospital was, the total economy of Greenwich Village wasn’t impacted that much because the West Village is jumping with hundreds of bars, clubs and souvenir shops. Closing LICH and Interfaith would hurt the areas surrounding these institutions much more.

The presence of a hospital can even cut down on crime. No one wants to mug a passer-by or sell drugs across the street from a hospital because people are constantly coming and going. But once a hospital closes and all you have are some big, empty buildings, the criminal element could see this as a green light to move in.

To sum up, hospitals aren’t just annoying, although necessary, institutions that cost millions of dollars. They generate lots of money into the local economy through purchases, services for visitors, businesses that cater to employees and much more. They also help keep the neighborhood safer. Hospitals don’t just generate physical health – they generate economic health, as well.

For More Riders, Make Amtrak Travel Into an Adventure

Originally in Brooklyn Daily Eagle 

In the cost-cutting frenzy that is sweeping Washington, Amtrak is a prime target. Contrary to what many people think, Amtrak is not an arm of the government – like the Postal Service, it is a separate corporation created by legislation, with some federal and state input and funding. It’s safe to say that if passenger rail had stayed profitable in the U.S. in the 1950s and ’60s, Amtrak would not have been created.

The most recent threat to Amtrak service comes in the Midwest, where Indiana has balked about continuing to fund the Hoosier Express linking Indianapolis and Chicago. And because Amtrak often shares its route with private freight railroads, performance on many lines is “iffy.” For example, I once waited for an hour and a half in Amherst, Mass., for a train to New York. When I called the Amtrak help number, I was told that our train had to wait until a huge freight train cleared the tracks.

Despite  the problems, Amtrak’s ridership is growing rapidly. According to a Brookings Institute report that was released this year, Amtrak went from carrying 20.1 million riders in 1997 to 31.2 million today. However, the Boston-to-Washington segment provides 44 percent of the traffic for the entire system (it also provides enough of a surplus to pay for most of Amtrak’s other short routes). Some of Amtrak’s long-distance routes, according to the study, only operate at about 20 percent of capacity. Indeed, the great majority of Amtrak’s ridership increase comes from people who travel less than 400 miles.

Some politicians have talked about cutting Amtrak down to its highly-traveled East Coast and, to a lesser extent, West Coast corridors. However, before we try that, maybe we should take a look at the way Amtrak is promoted.

Government proponents of Amtrak say that it costs less per person to subsidize passenger rail than it does to subsidize bus lines, that passenger rail creates less pollution, that it promotes “green” energy, and that if Europe and Japan can do it, so why can’t we?

While these arguments all have merit, they’re all somewhat abstract and won’t necessarily move the average American. Many people have never been to Europe or Japan, don’t care about green energy, and don’t spend time thinking about pollution unless it hits their immediate neighborhood.

If you want more people to take Amtrak, focus on the train experience itself. Show people that it’s much more comfortable to travel by Amtrak than by bus, that you can move around in a way you can’t on a long-distance bus, that you can look out the window at scenic sights such as the Rockies like you can’t on a plane, and that you can’t get food on a bus or (nowadays) a plane—but you can on Amtrak. Tell them that being in the train stations, many of which are historic buildings, is a pleasing experience, unlike the seedy atmosphere you find in many bus stations and the confusion you find at airports.

Make rail travel itself into an adventure. If you do so, you’ll definitely increase ridership.

Post Mortem: Anthony Weiner

Originally published in Brooklyn Daily Eagle

In the aftermath of the recent Democratic mayoral primary, some (although not a lot) of attention was paid to the concession speech of former Brooklyn-Queens Congressman Anthony Weiner. He maintained that he had the most innovative ideas of the campaign, but that he was an “imperfect messenger.” Perhaps to prove this point, he was photographed “giving the finger” to a reporter.

The strange thing is that Weiner may have been right about his election platform. A look at his usually-ignored “Keys to the City” reveals some strikingly innovative, far-reaching ideas. Here are some of them:

·        A single-payer health plan for the uninsured in New York City. Consider this—several states, such as Vermont and Massachusetts, have their own health care plans. New York City has more people than the entire state of Vermont.

·        Push mold elimination requests to the front of maintenance requests for housing projects. Mold is as toxic today as lead paint was yesterday.

·        Conduct an air rights audit for New York City properties, such as schools and police stations. Taking advantage of unused air rights could add millions to the city treasury.

·        Create a new Mitchell-Lama-type program to build housing for the middle class similar to the well-known program of the 1960s. Since Mayor Bloomberg took office, it seems that residential construction is done either for the well-to-do or for low-income people (the latter often proving a bonanza for politically connected non-profits).

·        Encourage the Housing Authority to buy energy-efficient lights, boilers and windows that will pay for themselves in energy costs and save untold amounts in repairs and day-to-day maintenance.

·        End arrests for small amounts of marijuana that take officers’ attention away from fighting serious crime. The main reason these laws are on the books is so that officers can show their superiors how many “collars” they made.

·        Give incentives for experienced teachers who choose to teach in low-income schools. Nowadays, most teachers who work in these schools are beginners who are waiting to get tenure so they can transfer out.

·        Eliminate city income taxes for New Yorkers who make $40,000 or less. This, Weiner said, will cost the city only “one half of one percent of the total budget, while generating hundreds of dollars in savings for middle-class and struggling New Yorkers.”

·        Put cab stands for yellow cabs in every borough. This would make it easier for yellow cabs to find fares in the outer boroughs and would attract more of them to Brooklyn, the Bronx, etc.

·         Institute “lead time” for pedestrians at traffic lights, giving them a few seconds of walking time before cars start to move. This would be a godsend to seniors who can’t walk fast.

·         Give incentives to cab fleet owners who choose hybrid or other energy-efficient cabs, rather than insisting that all cabbies drive the same vehicle (the “Taxi of Tomorrow”).

·         Give a bonus to families on food stamps who buy fresh fruits and vegetables, rather than penalizing those who buy unhealthy foods.

While some of these ideas may already be in Mr. de Blasio’s, Mr. Thompson’s or Mr. Lhota’s playbook, others are probably unique to Mr. Weiner. Just because Weiner’s personal behavior is suspect doesn’t mean his ideas aren’t worthwhile. If some of them are put into action, they, rather than the “Carlos Danger” scandal, could become Anthony Weiner’s most lasting legacy.

 

Memo: A Diner Isn't the Same as a `Greasy Spoon'

Originally published in Brooklyn Daily Eagle

Recently, to my surprise, I have seen many online references to diners as “greasy spoons” on the web. I have seen this misuse of the term on local blogs (one called the El Greco diner in Sheepshead Bay a greasy spoon, which is akin to calling a Mercedes Benz a jalopy) and even in the New York Post. I first saw diners referred to as greasy spoons about two years ago, which leads me to believe that this use of the term is fairly recent.
For the record, throughout most of my life, a “greasy spoon” referred to a small, unhygienic luncheonette that has about 10 items on the menu, has wobbly counter stools and a cracked counter and fries everything on the same griddle throughout the day. The very name “greasy spoon” connotes unhygienic conditions – it means the spoon is still greasy when they give it to you, meaning that they didn’t do such a good job of washing it.

Today, because of changing populations, the rise of fast-food joints and higher commercial rents, the number of these places is declining. But in my childhood, they were plentiful, and usually had a sign saying “luncheonette” outside. There usually was one person behind the counter who often didn’t make much of an effort to be nice to the customers. Nobody ate in these places if they could help it.

By contrast, most diners are extremely clean, occupy a large amount of space, are very well-lit and have waiters or waitresses who are very helpful. Just the large number of offerings on the typical New York City menu takes these establishments out of the realm of “greasy spoons.”

Of course, diners and greasy spoons do have several things in common. Both offer basic, non-pretentious types of food, usually of American origin (those foods of European origin that they do serve, such as eggplant parmesan, became assimilated into the American diet years ago). By contrast, I’ll be that many of the food writers who lump diners and greasy spoons together grew up eating sushi, tapas and Asian fusion cuisine. Diners are not what they’re familiar with.

People like myself, on the other hand, who grew up eating at diners, neighborhood Chinese restaurants, pizza places and Jewish delis, are very attuned to the differences between good and bad diners, good and bad pizzerias and so forth. We don’t lump them all together.

It may come as a surprise to some people that there is a movement to preserve classic diners. I remember when one famous Manhattan diner, the Cheyenne near Madison Square Garden, closed and preservationists started looking for places it could be moved to. There was a possibility that it could have been moved to Red Hook, but eventually the Cheyenne was separated into two parts, put onto trucks and taken to Birmingham, Alabama. Another old Manhattan diner, the Moondance, ended up in Wyoming. Diners were never a New York-only phenomenon.

I don’t think diners are the beginning and the end as far as cuisine is concerned. I’d rather have eggplant parmesan at an Italian restaurant than at a diner. I’d rather have grilled or poached salmon at an Asian restaurant than at a diner. But for good basic food – especially late at night, after other restaurants have closed -- you can’t beat the typical American diner.

So it’s time to honor the diner for its place in society. Please don’t call it a greasy spoon.

Why Not More Money for the Social Sciences?

From Brooklyn Daily Eagle

A while ago, in these pages, we ran an article about a plan to make the Brooklyn Tech Triangle (DUMBO-Navy Yard-Downtown) the biggest tech hub in the city, overtaking California’s Silicon Valley.The plan included re-doing office space with fiber-optic wiring, establishing new business incubators, collaborations between universities and tech firms, and creating amenities such as new pathways, restaurants, bike lanes, bus service and more.
Not expressly stated in the press conference, but closely related, is the upcoming conversion of the old MTA building at 370 Jay St. into a high-tech applied sciences school sponsored by NYU-Poly.
All in all, according to one of the organizers of the press conference, the Tech Triangle area is expected to support 19,000 tech-related jobs and 43,000 indirect jobs within two years.
I think this is a good thing – but it’s not the only thing. When the government and business “powers that be” can rest for a few minutes from pouring money and support into technology, why not have a similar effort to boost the social sciences?
Yes, that’s right. The social sciences, which have been around forever. I can just see someone asking, “What are the concrete rewards of someone studying sociology, history or political science?”
Well, look at all the problems of the world and the nation. People talk about the persistence of poverty in urban neighborhoods and rural hinterlands. If any solution is at hand, it will most likely come from sociologists and social workers.
Other people point to the ineffectiveness of state government, the persistence of the filibuster in Congress, how important bills can get bogged down in committees and so on. If there is any real reform in politics, it is likely to begin at political science departments at the universities.
Or maybe you’re worried about the sluggish economy, slow job growth, low interest rates and why Wall Street growth isn’t reflected in the general economy. If you’re preoccupied with these issues, you’ll have to turn to economists for answers.
Cultural anthropology? Well, the U.S. sends ambassadors all over the world. Many, perhaps most, American embassies are in non-Western nations. If U.S. diplomats want to make friends with local leaders, they have to study the beliefs, habits and customs of the local people.
But what about history? you ask. Surely, that’s frivolous – it already happened! Yes it did, but what happened once can happen again. If the government had studied the history of Iraq before we invaded that country, we wouldn’t have been so shocked when the moment after Saddam Hussein was overthrown, various factions started fighting each other in the streets.
I submit that the social sciences are as necessary to the development of society as is technology. However, their importance often gets lost in the pervasive cry of “We need more people proficient in math!” or “We need universal broadband access!”
By all means, let’s have more broadband access, more high-tech incubators, more schools of applied technology. Technology can save lives – look at the ways medical technology, such as laparoscopic surgery, has helped people. It can also save people from endless drudgery – look at the way computerized drafting has replaced what we used to call “mechanical drawing.”
But let’s have some support for the social sciences, too. No, they won’t bring in lots of jobs in the near future. But in the long run they will improve the quality of life on this planet.

Why all the Political Indifference

Originally published in 'Brooklyn Daily Eagle"

The other day, I was collecting signatures for a political club I’m a member of to put candidates on the ballot. I was given the task of trying to accost passersby and lead them to our table, where the petitions were stacked. 
Over and over again, I asked people, “Are you a registered Democrat? Do you live in New York City?” Several people were interested, but the great majority, about 19 out of 20, weren’t interested. Some were tourists, some didn’t speak English, some were Republicans, some were Democrats who didn’t live in New York. But the great majority just ignored me and kept walking. The most disconcerting thing is that, by and large, the younger the passersby were, the less interested they were.
Let’s look at how short-sighted many of these people were. What would have happened if there were no student loans? Some of them would never have gone to college. Well, most student loans are sponsored by the federal government, and would never have come be if not for the political process.
What if they decide to go into a restaurant? In most cases, they don’t have to worry about suddenly getting sick, or eating contaminated food. Why is this? Because of pure food and drug regulations, again, an outgrowth of the political process. It took more than 20 years of struggle to pass the Food and Drug Act of 1906, which was a centerpiece of President Theodore Roosevelt’s administration.
If these people keep walking, sooner or later they’ll have to cross the street. They have the political process to thank if they’re not menaced by a railroad train. That’s right, a railroad train. Once upon a time, in both Brooklyn and Manhattan, railroads ran at street level. It took a lot of agitation in both state and city legislatures to mandate that they run either above or below ground level.
I realize that politics isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, in the same way that physics, chemistry and math aren’t my cup of tea. I also realize that not everyone is a member of a political party, not everyone votes in primaries, and many people don’t vote in elections. For an increasing number of Americans, the only times they pay attention to politics are during presidential elections and when something affects them directly, such as the building of a tall building across the street from one’s home.
Still, the fact that in one of the most informed, most educated cities in the world, only one out of 20 people or so were willing to even talk about the petition is a bad sign. After all, we weren’t from a fringe religious group, selling a new variety of flavored coffee or promoting one of those “day spas” one of my fellow Eagle staffers writes about. We were from a major political party, and our petitions clearly identified us as such. Even if more people stopped to debate – which happened twice, once with a pro-life Republican and a second time with a radical socialist who called the Democratic Party a sham—that would have been more welcome than people totally ignoring us.
Perhaps someday, when martial law is declared and civil liberties are a thing of the past, these same people will finally develop an interest in the political process. But then, it will be too late.

Moish--short story, about the working-class Jewish Bronx, 1940-41

 

The five-story tenement at 792 East 175^th Street was the most rundown building on the block. It was built shortly after the subway came to this part of the Bronx, around 1905. That was 35 years ago, so now the building had irregular heat and hot water, mice, roaches and creaking floors. And of course, Moish and his mother had to live on the top floor. That was a problem whenever Moish’s mother sent him out to buy groceries. Not that they had much money to spend--she’d been on home relief for years.

Moish had always given his mother grief. When he was in grade school, the teachers told his mother that he was “slow” and left him back twice. In high school, he tried to concentrate, but it was like bees buzzing around inside his head. He never graduated. He had a seasonal job as a “hackie,” driving neighborhood families to and from the Catskills. But like every year, the guy from the hacking company had laid him off at the end of the summer. So he was sleeping late today.

Moish yawned, put on his clothes, washed up and went into the kitchen.  On the wall were a yellowing magazine portrait of  President Roosevelt, a Jewish calendar from a local synagogue, and a long-ago photo of old-country relatives in beards and black coats. The landlord finally gave them a second-hand refrigerator last year, but Ma still called it “the icebox.” As usual, Ma was sitting at the table, listening to her Yiddish radio station and inhaling her asthma powder, with its sickeningly-sweet smell. Moish lit up a Lucky.

“Hi, Ma,” he mumbled. “I’m goin’ out to the luncheonette.”

She looked up. “If you don’t stop eating dat greasy treyf food, your hair vill fall out.”

“Yeah, ma,” he said dismissively. “Like your tuna croquettes, canned peas and mashed potatoes are any better!”

“Who you gonna meet? That trumbanick, Shmooey?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “What of it?”

“Dat guy’s a bum!” his mother nearly screamed. “He alvays vas a bum, and he’ll make a bum out of you!” Moish ignored her tirade and went out the door. Shrugging her shoulders, his mother lit up another handful of asthma powder.

Reaching the ground floor, Moish opened the mailbox just to see what was there. Aha! He smiled. A letter from his older brother, Artie. That was one guy he couldn’t figure out. Artie had always wanted to be a newspaperman. But when he graduates from CCNY, does he get a job on the Post or the News or the Journal-American? No, he goes up to Boston and starts working for some tiny magazine called the New England Grocer. Well, Moish told himself, I’ll look at the letter when I get home. He closed the mailbox and headed toward Tillie’s Luncheonette.

“Hi, Tillie,” he said, sitting down on one of the revolving stools at the counter. Tillie, a fiftyish woman with a pockmarked face, was a character. She had a German shepherd, smoked cigars, drank vodka straight and carried a gun.

“Your friend said he’ll be late,” Tillie said as a commercial for Shredded Ralston came over the radio. “What’ll ya have?” There was no point in looking at the menu. The luncheonette had a limited menu – eggs, burgers, BLT sandwiches, grilled cheese sandwiches, warmed-over Campbell’s soup, tuna fish, fries and the special of the day, which was usually hot pastrami or corned beef.

“ I think I’ll have a grilled cheese with tomatoes, fries and a Coke,” he said. He glanced at the rack of newspapers and magazines. “Trial of Christian Mobilizers Begins” was the headline on the Post. He boiled with rage. He hated all those Nazis, Christian Fronters, Christian Mobilizers. Those fuckin’ anti-Semites! If he could just get his hands on them, he’d tear them limb from limb....

Just then, Shmooey walked through the door. Moish forgot his anger, smiled and waved to him.

Moish and Shmooey had been best friends since Moish’s family moved here from the Lower East  Side. They had played hookey together, cheated off the smart kids together, and even had their own “stealing service” in which, for a fee, they would steal comic books and candy bars. This worked fine until the owner of Zimmy’s Candy Store discovered the scheme, threw them into the back room and beat them up. Even now, 10 years later, they weren’t welcome at Zimmy’s.

“So, what’s doin’?” Shmooey, who was a head smaller than Moish but much stockier, asked, “You wanna go to the track tomorrow?”

“Naah,” Moish answered. “I’m not workin’ now. I got no dough.”

“What about the Fair? I hear the World’s Fair is still on for a few more weeks. Always something doing at the Fair!”

“I told yiz,” Moish answered, getting angry. “I got no dough!”

“Hey, Moish,” Shmooey said, nudging his pal with his elbow. “Jake, who lives downstairs from me, was telling me that some of them rich girls on the Grand Concourse is more liberal than the ones around here! That means they put out!”

Moish turned to Shmooey and looked at him with disdain. “Them girls don’t want anything to do with guys like us! To be with them, you gotta be some kind of intellectual! Or someone studying to be a doctor or a dentist or an accountant!”

“Yeah,” Shmooey said, “I guess you’re right.”

“Hey, you two Lotharios,” Tillie said. They turned around, even though they had no idea that word meant. “We’re having a pinochle game in the back tonight. We’re only playing for loose change. Even you guys can afford it!”

“Sure thing,” said Moish. Maybe he’d get lucky.

At that moment, a new Packard sedan – a rarity in this neighborhood – pulled up to the curb, and a man with a wide-brimmed hat, an expensive suit and spats walked in. Everyone knew who he was. He was Mr. Finkel. No one asked him where his money came from. They knew better.

‘Hey, Mr. Finkel,” Moish said, trying to be friendly. “I was readin’ in the paper about Lepke and Gurrah and Abe Reles. You ever work wit them guys?”

“Sure, kid,” Mr. Finkel said. “I worked with all them guys. I worked with Lucky Luciano and Frank Costello too. I worked with Schultz, back in the Prohibition days! You name ’em, I worked with ’em!”

The phone behind the counter rang. Tillie picked it up and handed it to Mr. Finkel.

“What? You can’t make it? He can’t make it either? Oh, shit! I got a delivery tonight” He looked around. “Wait, I got an idea. I’ll call ya later.”

Mr. Finkel walked up to Moish and Shmooey. “Listen, yiz guys,” he said, “I got a job for you!”

“What is it!?” Moish asked, learning forward. He hoped they could get to do a big job, maybe even rubbing someone out!

“Nothin’ like that,” said Mr. Finkel, as if he could read Moish’s mind. “I want you guys to go to this address on Third Avenue under the el,” he said, giving each of them a slip of paper. “You take the Tremont Avenue streetcar to Third Avenue, then take the el down to 149^th. Then you tell ‘em that Louie sent you. Uncle Louie. Ya got it? Just take the package they give you and bring it back here. By that time the pinochle game will be starting. I’ll be there!”

“What’s in the package,” Shmooey asked.

“Never you mind,” answered Mr. Finkel. “Don’t ask so many questions!”

“Uh, Mister Finkel,” said Moish, “My ma’s cookin’ dinner tonight. What do I tell her?”

“Never mind about your mama,” Mr. Finkel answered. “I’ll go up there and tell her you’re busy. On second thought, I’ll send a kid. That way, she won’t be suspicious!”

Moish and Shmooey went to the address -- a second-floor office above a shoe store -- picked up the package and went back to Tillie’s. Mr. Finkel gave each of them a ten. They couldn’t believe their luck.

Soon, they started making deliveries for Mr. Finkel on a weekly basis. Moish’s demeanor became more self-confident. He stopped smoking Luckies and started smoking Chesterfield Kings. He ate dinner at Fu Manchu’s. He and Shmooey went to see the football Giants at the Polo Grounds. They went to a dance at the Schiff Jewish Center, although, as usual, they both struck out.

“Hey, vere you getting all dis money?” his mother asked him one day. “You henging out mit gengsters?”

Moish was startled. How did she know? He said the first thing that came into his head. “No, I’m, uh, repairing bicycles! At a bicycle store!” His mother looked at him suspiciously, then took another hit of her asthma powder.

After a few months, the moment they had hoped for finally came.

“How would you like to do a big job?” asked Mr. Finkel.

“Sure!” said Shmooey. “What’ya got in mind?”

“You know Bummy Schwartz’ auto body shop?”

“Who doesn’t know it?”

“Well, Schwartz is on vacation for two weeks and closed up the shop. He keeps a lot of money in that cash register of his. We want you to break in and get that money. I swiped the key when he wasn’t lookin’.”

“Doesn’t he have an alarm system?” asked Moish.

“Yeah, but we got a secret weapon! We know this kid, Dino Petrocelli, he’s an electrical genius. He’s in college right now, studying to be an electrical engineer. He can disable any alarm system in a minute!”

“Dino. What the fuck kinna name is that?” Moish interjected.

“It’s a good guinea name! But don’t worry about that. He’s good people,” answered Mr. Finkel. “Now, you come here at 11 at night tomorrow, you’ll meet Dino, then you go out.”

Dino was a kid a few years younger than they were. He was short, dark and better dressed than either of them. “So,” Moish said awkwardly, “You with the outfits?”

“Naah,” Dino answered. “I’m gonna be an engineer. Strictly legit. But my mother knows some of them guys because she works as an operator in the garment center.”

“Hey!” Moish said. “That’s what my ma did, too, before she got sick.”

“Good. We have somethin’ in common. Anyway, those guys helped to pay some of my tuition at NYU. So, once in awhile, because they did us a favor, we do them a favor.”

“Hey, Dino,” Shmooey asked, “Where ya from?”

“I’m from Arthur Avenue! You guys know where that is?’

Moish knew. One day, when he was 13 years old, he wandered into that neighborhood and found himself surrounded by a group of Italian kids who called him a dirty Jew and a Christ-killer. He hadn’t gone back there since.

“Now, I got a question for you,” Moish asked. “They still like Mussolini over there?”

He had expected Dino to be embarrassed, but Dino just laughed. “Naah! Some of the older people, they still have his photo in their wall, but most of us, once he signed that pact with Hitler, we washed our hands of him!” That was exactly what Moish needed to hear. He shook Dino’s hand. Now he had a new pal.

When it came time for the job, they put on the gloves that Mr. Finkel had provided, walked over to Boston Road and circled the block three times to see if there were any cops in the area. Looking near the front door, Dino found the metal panel that contained the alarm system.  He took out a screwdriver, started fiddling with it, and told the guys, “Now it’s OK.” He took out the key that Mr. Finkel had stolen, opened the door and walked in. Moish and Shmooey looked at Dino with awe.

Once inside, they found the cash register, but couldn’t figure out how to open it. Moish was about to throw it down when Dino said, “Allow me!” He pushed a couple of buttons and the drawer opened. “I used to help out in my aunt’s dress shop,” he explained. They counted the money. Two hundred and twenty four dollars–not a bad haul. They scooped it up, went out the back door and headed back to Tillie’s.

After that it was back to delivering packages, although Moish and Shmooey didn’t mind. It was money. One night, Mr. Finkel had them go out to the Rockaways to burn down a vacant bungalow for the insurance. They laid out some oil-soaked rags, poured a trail of gasoline leading to them and lit a match. They were thrilled when the place went up in flames – just like in the movies! Moish would have stood there watching endlessly if Shmooey hadn’t nudged him, reminding him that they had to get out of there fast if they didn’t want to get caught.

Although they never did any jobs with Dino again, they did see him a few times. Once, he asked them, “Hey, either of you boys ever have real Italian spaghetti?”

Moish shrugged his shoulders. “I had spaghetti a few times at Bickford’s Cafeteria. Nothin’ special.”

“WHAT?” Dino exclaimed. “Bickford’s Cafeteria? That stuff is to real spaghetti what a White Castle hamburger is to a real hamburger!” Before you knew it, he called a cab and took them to Rocco’s Trattoria, where he watched in amusement as Moish shoveled down three plates of spaghetti and meatballs.

Once, at the beginning of March, Moish met Heshie, the guy who owned the hacking company, on the street.

“Moish!” Heshie said. “We’re gonna be starting our cars to the Catskills again in a few months, and we’d like to have you with us again. You’re a good man, Moish!”

“Are you kidding?” Moish replied, blowing smoke at him. “Me havin’ to be nice to those fat mamas and their bratty kids just for a lousy 10-cent tip? Those days are over. I’m going places!”

“Very well,” Heshie answered. “But if you change your mind, let me know.”

A few weeks after that, Mr. Finkel called them in.

“OK, you guys, I’m gonna give you a bigger job. See whether you can handle it.  We control Local 49 of the Bakers’ Union, and it’s been very good for us, bringing in a lot of money. So now there’s this young kid who’s making trouble for us, trying to get up a slate to run against our candidates in the union election.”

“Is he a Red?” Moish asked.

“Naah,” Finkel answered, waving his hand. “You don’t hear much about them Reds nowadays, ever since they started playin’ footsie with Hitler. No, this is just some college-kid punk who wants everything squeaky-clean, thinks honesty is the best policy. You know the type–they think they’re better than us!”

“Yeah!” Moish shouted. His own loudness surprised him. In his answer, he expressed his hatred not only of this punk but of every smart-ass “A” student who ever made him feel humiliated.

“So,” Shmooey asked, excited, “You want us to rub him out?”

Mr. Finkel laughed. “You been seein’ too many movies! We just do that as a last resort. We just want you to rough him up a little. Don’t break any bones or leave any marks where people can see them. We don’t want the cops to get involved. Just kick him in the shins a few times, and hit him in the kishkes with THIS!” He reached behind his desk and took out what looked like a bundle of rags, but contained several metal rods inside.

Shmooey and Moish were fascinated. “What’s that?” Shmooey asked.

“That’s called a schlammer. We used ta use it in the Garment Center all the time! So take it–here’s a canvas bag you can put it into. Now, he gets out of work about 10 o’clock–bakers work all kinna crazy hours–so he’ll get home around 10:30. Before that, I want yiz to catch a movie at the RKO Chester, so I can keep track of you. The movie gets out at 9:45, so that’s plenty of time. Here’s a piece of paper with the guy’s name and address: Abraham Bernstein, 1580 Crotona Park East. Put it in ya pocket, and DON’T LOSE IT!”

Seeing a movie seemed like a pleasant way to kill time, especially before a job. The day’s feature was “How Green Was My Valley.” Moish frowned: a serious picture. He hated serious movies. Give him a musical, with singing and dancing and dames kicking their legs. As a matter of fact, the last movie he saw was “Sun Valley Serenade” with Glenn Miller and Sonja Henie. Now THAT was a movie.

After the movie ended, a Daffy Duck cartoon came on. That was more like it. Moish and Shmooey laughed hysterically at the antics of the screwy duck as he bounced around the screen, taunting and evading the hapless hunter. Next on the program was a comedy short. When he saw the familiar Columbia logo, Moish hoped it would be the Three Stooges, his favorite. However, it was Andy Clyde, who was a close second in his book. Moish almost split his sides laughing. You had to admit – Andy Clyde was tops.

Then the newsreel came on, and the mood changed. Scenes of destruction and agony flashed on the screen. “Last week, the Luftwaffe bombed Liverpool, England for six days straight, resulting in 360 deaths and untold injuries and property damage. German planes also bombed Belfast, Northern Ireland, where several shipyards and factories helping the war effort are located. The Luftwaffe didn’t target only the factories–they bombed at least 20 churches, government buildings and even hospitals. And, in a shocking move, the Nazi planes attacked Dublin, the capital of a neutral country, killing 28 people and leaving over 400 people homeless.....”

Moish gritted his teeth and banged his fist. He could barely stop himself from shouting. He should go to Canada, he though, join the RAF and then bomb those Nazi bastards out of existence! But he didn’t know how to fly a plane! “Who ya kiddin,’” he thought....

Shmooey tapped him on the shoulder. “Time to go,” they said. They went into the lobby Moish reached into his pocket–where did he put that piece of paper? He frantically searched his pockets. It must have fallen out! “What are we gonna do?” he whined.

“We go back to Mr. Finkel and get it again!”

“Fuhgedaboudit! He’ll start yelling a mile a minute! I remember–Crotona Park. Here’s a phone booth,” he said, going in. He leafed through the phone book and searched for “Abraham Bernstein” and “Crotona Park.” Aha! Abraham Bernstein, 750 Crotona Park North. That must be the one!

In front of the building, they got the sense that something was wrong. A group of 14- or 15-year-old kids were standing around, talking about going to an ice skating rink. That could be trouble. They didn’t want any witnesses. Moish and Shmooey were relieved when they left. They waited for 10 minutes, 15 minutes, a half hour. “Hey,” Moish said, “I thought this guy comes home around this time! Maybe he went to buy his wife a present or sometin.’” Shmooey put his finger to his mouth and made the “shhh” noise.

Out of nowhere, a young man in his twenties walked down the street and headed into the building. Moish and Shmooey approached him.

“You Abraham Bernstein.”

“Yes,” the man answered politely. “Why?

They grabbed him, and he trembled with fear.“What’s, what’s wrong?” he stuttered. “Er, what is it you w-want? You want money? Here, I’ll give you money!”

“This ain’t about money,” Moish growled, trying to sound as tough as possible. “It’s about you tryin’ to take over the union!”

“What?” The guy panicked. “I tell you, you got the wrong guy!”

“Tell it to Sweeney, ya fuckin’ bum!” Shmooey answered, clamping his hand over Bernstein’s mouth. Moish reached into his canvas bag and raised the schlammer.

* * **

The day after Moish saw the New York Post article, he knew he was sunk. The article read:

 

“Mystery Attack in Bronx.

 

“An up-and-coming swing drummer was beaten up in front of his home in the East Tremont section of the Bronx on Thursday night in what police believe was a case of mistaken identity.

 

“Abraham Bernstein, 27, who goes by the professional name of Al Burns, described his assailants as both having dark eyes and dark hair. One was about 6 feet tall and thin, the other was described as 5 foot 6 and stocky. Bernstein, who was in stable condition at Fordham Hospital, says one of them mentioned something about a union dispute.

 

“Last summer, Bernstein had a two-month engagement at the Wigwam Inn, Loch Sheldrake, N.Y. Since then, he has been playing weddings, parties and other private engagements. Next week, he was scheduled to start a two-week stand at the Rustic Cabin, Alpine, N.J., with another outfit, Harry Hirschberg and his Hotcha Five. Bernstein also teaches music at Herman Ridder Junior High School in the Bronx.”

 

When Mrs. Friedman came in from next door and told him there was a phone call for him, Moish knew who it was and where he had to go. When he got to the back room of Tillie’s, Shmooey was already there, flanked by Mr. Finkel, Tillie, and Tillie’s German shepherd. In the background, the radio was faintly playing “The Breeze and I.” Mr. Finkel banged the table.

 

“All right,” he said. “So by now, you know ya got the wrong guy. If you lost the paper, you should have come to me, ya fuckin’ dim-wits! Sure, I woulda gotten a little angry, but nowhere near as angry as I am now!

 

“So here’s the way it’s gonna be. You guys don’t work for me no more. You’re finished! Don’t even see each other for the next two months. If someone sees you two together and remembers what happened, they might put two and two together. Whatever clothes you guys were wearing when you did the job, just burn ‘’em! Yeah, that’s what I said, burn ‘’em!”

 

“But....”

 

“Hey, there ain’t no buts! And don’t come in here, either. If Tillie sees either of you guys, she’s gonna throw you out on your ear, and don’t think she can’t do it either. If you want someplace to hang out, there’s always Max’s Deli up the block. Now, GET OUT OF HERE!”

 

Meekly, Moish and Shmooey rose from the table. Just before they went out the door, Mr. Finkel had one more thing to say.

 

“Oh, if it makes you guys feel any better, when the REAL Abraham Bernstein heard about this, he was so scared that he got in touch with us, and we cut a deal. The bakers and the drivers get a raise and shorter hours, and he gets to put two of his guys on the executive board. But we keep control of the local and the pension fund.”

 

* * *

 

The next two months were hell for Moish. No more Chesterfield Kings – it was back to Luckies. He went back to the hackie company and begged for his job back, but Heshie told him they were all full for drivers this summer. “We need someone in the office,” Heshie said, “but let’s face it, you don’t have those skills.”

 

Moish went to the factory in the Garment Center where his mother used to work, hoping someone would remember her and give him a job out of pity. But no one who knew her worked there anymore. He went to the WPA office on Tremont Avenue, but even they weren’t hiring. He got so desperate that he went from store to store, asking if anybody had work. Finally, he got a part-time job at Old Man Feigenbaum’s butcher shop on Mohegan Avenue. He swept the floor, carried heavy sides of beef from the delivery truck and plucked chickens. He especially hated the fact that Old Man Feigenbaum sent him out for coffee and bagels. Mr. Finkel had also sent him out for bagels, but at least there, he felt like he was part of something.

 

He spent more and more time at two places. The first was Max’s Deli. The waiter didn’t even have to ask what he wanted–he always got a hot dog and a potato knish, the two cheapest things on the menu, along with a glass of hot tea. Just like the guy who always asked for “One Meat Ball,” he thought, sadly.

 

The second was the Bijou Theater near 180^th Street, because it cost five cents less than other theaters. The Bijou showed two- or three-year-old features, “B” westerns and crime thrillers, and occasionally Yiddish films. The neighborhood kids called it “The Itch,” because it you went there, you never knew whether you were coming home with lice.

 

In June, he finally made an appointment to see Moish at the deli. But that morning, Mrs. Friedman knocked on the door and told Moish there was a call for him. He went into Mrs. Friedman’s living room – which was furnished 100 times better than his mother’s – and got on the phone.

 

“Yeah?” he said.

 

“Hey, it’s me.” It was his brother, Artie, calling from Boston. “Why the hell does Ma have to be one of the last people in the building not to have a phone?”

 

“Ahh,” Moish responded, “you know how it is. She just doesn’t have the energy to arrange it! I don’t think Home Relief would mind. At least she could order her groceries that way and have ’em delivered. So what’s goin’ on?”

 

“Nothing. We went to shul for Shavuos.”

 

“You went to shul? For cryin’ out loud! Next thing ya know, you’ll be growin’ a long beard!” Both laughed.

 

“It’s not like that,” Artie said apologetically. “It’s just that Arlene’s father is old-fashioned, and he’s sort of strict that way. If nothing else, you do get to meet a lot of people there. Anyway, that’s not the reason I called.”

 

“So what is it? Shoot!”

 

“I read in the Boston Globe, and I’m sure it’s in all the New York papers, that the Bethlehem Steel shipyard in Staten Island got a government contract to build ships for the British. I’m sure you know about the Lend-Lease act they passed earlier this year, right?”

 

“Sure thing! I seen it in Life Magazine.”

 

“Anyway, they’re hiring nonstop for two weeks. They’ll be interviewing thousands of people every day, and most of them, they expect to get jobs. Again, I’m sure it’s in the New York papers. And it’s a union job.”

 

“OK, I’ll take a look!” This appealed to Moish. Not only would he making good money, he’d be working to defeat Hitler. And it would be the first time in his life he would have a union job. Like 99.9 percent of the people in the neighborhood, Moish was pro-union.

 

“You oughta come up to Boston sometime,” Artie continued. “We live in a big Jewish neighborhood, just like our part of the Bronx, but there’s smaller buildings, more trees. It’s, uh, more nice. The area’s called Brighton.”

 

“I still can’t figure out why you went up there!”

 

“If I told you once, I told you 1,000 times,” Artie repeated. They both joined in on the familiar answer: “TO GET AWAY FROM MA!” They laughed.

 

“Hey, I just remembered something,” Moish said. “You remember when those old graybeards was sayin’ tashlich in Crotona Park, you know, the prayer before Rosh Hashanah, and we got these cherry bombs and other firecrackers and put ’em in old oil drums, and threw them in the lake? Remember that explosion and the water shootin’ up? I never knew those graybeards could run so fast! Hey Artie, did we have a lot of fun when we were kids, or what?”

 

“Yeah,” Artie answered. “We had a lot of fun. But things change.” Both said goodbye and hung up. Moish went back into his own apartment, looked through the copy of the New York Post on the kitchen table and found the item right away. He tapped his mother on the shoulder.

 

“Uh, ma, I got somethin’ to tell you.” He turned off ma’s Yiddish radio program.

 

“Vot is it. You von a million dollars? Or maybe you getting merried?”

 

“No, ma. I found out about this good job. I’ll be building ships and helping the Allied war effort against Hitler. It’s at a shipyard in Staten Island.”

 

“Oh, now you’re goin’ up to Kennadeh?” she asked. Ma was beginning to lose her hearing lately on top of everything else. “You’re joining the Army up der? Vot did fighting ever get anybody? Look at your uncle Morris, ohav hasholem, who volunteered in de foist var. He vanted to be a hero, too. And vut did he get? A bullet in his tochis!”

 

“No, ma, I’m not goin’ to Canada. It’s in Staten Island. I gotta get to sleep early so I can leave early in the morning. I wanna make sure I’m one of the first ones there.”

 

“And ver are you gonna stay?”

 

Moish hadn’t thought of that. He looked at the floor. “I, um, I guess I’ll get a room somewhere around there,” he mumbled. “I’ll send you money every week.”

 

“You’re leaving me all alone? Vell, I guess it’s fate. First, your fader, he dies in de flu epidemic ven you vas just two years old. Den, I meet Max, dat lousy bestit, but he decides at de last minute to marry somevun else. Den, your bruddeh, he should only croak, he goes up to Boston. Now you’re going to Stetten Island. You’re all rotten to de core!”

 

“You’re a real card, Ma!”

 

“By da vay, meester big shot, are you forgetting dat you’re late to meet your trumbenickishke friend, Shmooey, in de delicatessen?”

 

“Oh, yeah! Thanks for reminding me. Wait till he hears about this!”  He bolted out the door without saying goodbye. She shrugged, poured a new batch of asthma powder into the tin container, then lit the match.

 

* * *

 

Shmooey was waiting for Moish and starting in on a tongue sandwich when Moish got to the deli. “Hey, where were ya? I thought that maybe you went to Cockeyed Jennie’s or something!” They laughed. Cockeyed Jennie was a fictional prostitute, the butt of 1,000 old vaudeville jokes.

 

“No, there’s something big going on!” He motioned to the waiter and ordered a corned beef sandwich and a Cel-Ray soda.

 

“Corned beef! Somethin’ must be up. But first, let me tell you what I’ve been doing! I met Dino!”

 

“You been hangin’ out with him?” Moish asked, taking a drink of water. He was a little jealous.

 

“Naah, I just ran into him on Southern Boulevard. It wasn’t planned or nothin.’ But he told me what was in them packages!”

 

Moish’s eyes widened. “Was it dope?”

 

“Well, once or twice it was dope, and once it was counterfeit money. But most of the time it was joke books!”

 

“Joke books? You shittin’ me?”

 

“DIRTY joke bokes,” Shmooey said, moving closer to Moish. “They have characters like Mickey Mouse or Popeye or Superman, but they’re, ya know, DOIN’ SEX! Some of ‘em are pretty wild – they got ‘em fucking dogs, pigs! They make them in Mexico, den sell ‘em under the counter up here! Strictly illegal!”

 

“Wow!” At that moment, the waiter brought Moish’s sandwich and soda. Moish put more mustard on the bread than Shmooey had ever seen before he bit into it.

 

“Hey, you two geniuses,” said the waiter, “How about tonin’ down the language. There’s kids and old ladies here.” Shmooey apologized.

 

“That Dino, I really envy him,” Moish said, “Once he gets outta engineering school, he’ll be making twice as much money as the two of us put together.”

 

“Hey, whatever he got, he earned it!” Shmooey continued, “Dino also got me a job! “

 

“Is it legit?” Moish asked, suspiciously.

 

“STRICTLY legit. It’s in an electronics store, way down around Canal Street. Dey sell components.”

 

“Components? What’s components?”

 

“Components, ya dim-wit.That means, like, parts! Parts for radios, for vacuum cleaners, for toasters, for anything electronic. Tubes, dials, capacitors, all kinna stuff. The guy’s learnin’ me the business!”

 

“Hey, I’m happy for you, Shmooey!”

 

“And I had a date!”

 

“YOU had a date? That’s the first time in more than a year, right? What’s she like?”

 

“Well, she works in one of the office buildings down there. I met her on my lunch hour in a luncheonette.”

 

‘She Jewish?”

 

“Naah, but, ya know, it’s not serious, just for fun. It’s not like I’m gettin’ married to her. Still, she’s a nice girl, not some hoo-wah or nothin.’ I took her to the stadium, we saw DiMaggio hit one out of the park!”

 

“Great!”

 

“No, it wasn’t great. It was Dom, not Joe! The Yanks was playin’ the Red Sox!” They both laughed.

 

“Let me tell you what I’ve been doin’,” Moish said.” I’m goin’ down to Staten Island to get a job in a shipyard. Ya know, building ships for the British.”

 

“WHAT? That’s backbreaking labor”

 

“Hey, I’m not gonna be carryin’ no sacks of steel on my back. I’m gonna be sittin’ at a bench, doin’ a machine.”

 

“Moish, did ya ever realize that you’re the same guy who had to take the road test four times, when you was startin’ out to be a hackie? What if you have trouble learning the machine?”

 

“Then I’ll ask to learn ANOTHER machine. The fight against Hitler and Mussolini is that important!”

 

Shmooey shook his head. “Moish, I never figured you out to be someone who was tryin’ to save the world!”

 

“Well, maybe somethin’ happened, and that somethin’ is Adolf Hitler!”

 

“Well, to each his own. As far as I’m concerned, all that political stuff is fixed from the get-go. And anyhow, my boss at the electronics shop says that if the U.S. gets into the war, which we will, sooner or later, with the stuff he’s teachin’ me, they’ll put me right into the Signal Corps and I’ll be safe!”

 

Moish was becoming angry. He never figured Shmooey for a goldbricker. “Well, gotta go now. I’m gettin’ up early tomorrow morning, get an early start. It’ll be hard for my ma without me, but she’ll manage. Maybe the landlord will finally put her on a lower floor.”

 

“Sometimes I wish I could move out, too,” Shmooey said. “We got these refugee cousins from Czechoslovakia living with us. Every morning and evening, the place is like Grand Central Station. I’ll be glad when they get jobs and find their own place!”

 

“Cousins, eh? What are they like?”

 

“We’ll, they’re modern. It’s not like they’re from the shtetl 50 years ago or nothin’. But they’re very European. They don’t know nothin’ about baseball, they dress real formal, they listen to that long-hair classical music all day. They do know about American movie actors, like Clark Gable and Gary Cooper, so at least we got somethin’ ta talk about! But I don’t see why they have to be with us anyway!”

 

Moish couldn’t believe that Shmooey couldn’t make the connection between these refugee cousins and what was happening to the Jews of Europe. He guessed he wouldn’t be seeing much of that guy anymore.

 

 Shmooey had been his best friend for years, but, as Artie told him on the phone just now, things change. He walked to the cashier, paid the check and headed out the door.