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Chapter 1- City Folk Types

Once ago, the world was organized into categories. There were categories of people, categories of places to live, categories of things to eat; the list was endless. Until recently, the city was the focal point of most commerce and activity. With structures as diverse as they are vast, everyone went along their day in the ordinary fashion. There were people who lived in the cities, worked in the cities and sought entertainment in the cities, but as every action causes a re-action, there were also people who sought refuge from the cities. The people who fled the overcrowded areas were married, had children, or could no longer afford the high cost of living associated with such luxuries as Park Avenue addresses, door men, alternate side of the street parking and lest we forget, the ‘luxury’ of public transportation. Commuters came from places never before known to earn a wage in the larger city. Many commuters languished on trains, buses, and automobiles in order to arrive safely, but more importantly-on time to their daily grind.

Suburban apartment buildings were idyllic, monolithic structures built from brick and mortar, with the highest regard for finery. But, they had to have parks in the cities to offset the carbon footprint necessary to build these tremendous structures. In the suburban landscape stood one of these parks; it was across from one of the utopian-style-apartment-buildings. Several boys, about nine or ten years old played the timeless game of stickball. There were no bases for them to run to, no fences to contain their balls and no mound to pitch from. What the boys had was imagination, and a few tennis balls, gloves, bats, and a portable strike zone. This strike zone was little more than their imagination; the physical structure of the zone was merely a box painted on a wooden plank, supported by another piece of wood attached to the zone’s rear. Any pitch thrown within the painted lines was considered a strike. Anything outside the lines was considered a ball. This strike zone, coupled with their imagination allowed them to estimate the results of their actions. and extrapolate the possibilities into common baseball results.

The smallest of the boys hit the ball toward one of the other boys. The other boy bobbled the ball, and the smallest boy said to him “you bobbled the ball, there’s no way you would have thrown me out.” With his head down, the other boy replied, “you’re right, even if I’d have thrown it cleanly, if we had bases, you would have beaten it out.” The other boys on his team began to tease him, but he didn’t seem too worried. He said to his teammates “don’t worry, Robby’s up next; he’ll definitely ground into a double-play.” With their attention diverted, the teammates focused on Robby. He stepped confidently to the plate, the pitcher wound up, and threw. Surely enough, he hit the ball to the boy who bobbled the previous play. The boy picked up the ball cleanly, and threw it through the strike zone; he yelled to his teammates “double play, told you guys!” The boys on the field were exuberant as the inning ended on the double play, and the players switched from offense to defense and vice versa.

Since the commotion of the stickball game wasn’t enough, a piercing police siren blared perpetually in this neighborhood. Trash, leafless trees and other refuse lined the streets. On one of the hottest days of the year, two old men sat happily on beach chairs in front of their brick and mortar apartment building. The first man, Luigi, had a dark tan and small potbelly. His white hairline was still somewhat intact, but genuinely receding, and it protected his skull from sunburn, as did the old fashioned derby he wore. His potbelly prevented him from moving like he once did, but he still got to his feet pretty quickly when he heard the bells of the ice cream truck around the corner.

When Luigi heard the bells sound, he rose rapidly, but winced markedly. On some occasions, he would even let out a groan, muttering under his breath in an Italian accent, “how the hella’ did I get so old?” On this occasion, he rose, and muttered his catchphrase. But, he wasn’t rising rapidly to quench his own sweet tooth. He was merely trying to get to his wallet, because he knew that within seconds of the truck’s anthem being heard, several of his grandchildren would come running to him in order to shake down the old man for a dollar or two and convince him to provide them with money to buy that sweet, milky treat that all kids crave.

His friend, Giovanni, laughed each time the children ask Luigi for money, and he sardonically mocked Luigi’s attempts at getting up from his chair by grabbing his lower back, and yelling “I’m hit.” Giovanni is shorter than Luigi, and has a lot less hair. With several teeth missing, crow’s feet around his eyes, and his hunched stature, Giovanni appeared to be much older than Luigi. In truth, however, they are the same age; Luigi is eight days older. They have been friends ever since they left the island of Sicily, fleeing the Nazis. The men had lost their short term memories long ago. But, they could still recall the death, and destruction that over took their serene island.

Although they have lived in the United States for many years, both men retain thick Italian accents. “Youa’ knowa’,” Luigi says in his heavy accent “manya’ time I wished I coulda’ played baseball.” Giovanni laughs, and replies “Asure’, I coulda’ seea’ you now, youra’ fat ass trying to chasea’ that little a’ basea’ball. There a’ no way you catcha’ the ball. Now, if it was a lasagna, on thea’ other hand, you never miss it.” Both men laughed simultaneously and genuinely enjoyed each other’s company. It wasn’t often that a man could find such a good friend as each had been to the other throughout the years.

Many of their neighbors wondered if these two old men had ever left New York, or for that matter Brooklyn. During the day, the two men liked to discuss the world, current events, the news, and many other aspects of their lives. Now that the United States had colonized much of the civilized world, it gave them, and other Americans plenty to talk about. “Youa’ knowa’ Louie” Giovanni said “once, whena’ you en’ I camea’ to this country, all you hadda’ do was buy a house, raise your family and save a few dollars.” “I understand,” replied Louie. “Giovanni, I thinka’ now a day, having a house is the worst thing for a man. Between the taxes, oil cost, insurance and alla’ the pain in the ass that comes witha’ the house, most people are better without a house.” Giovanni added, “I think youa’ right, but like I always say, youa’ talk too much, and the man that a talks, usually doesn’t knowa’ much, but the man who doesn’t saya’ much, usually knows the most.”

While the police siren still rang, a neighborhood teenager sauntered past the two men. He was tall but scrawny and bone. The kid walked the streets without much purpose. His large brown eyes were withdrawn, sunken into a skull that seemed too big for his body. His clothes were loose, and baggy, his pants pulled low; they barely concealed his groin. He didn’t wear a belt. With unrighteous indignation the youth quipped, “what the hell are you two coots yappin’ about?” “Minda’ you own business!” the two men shouted simultaneously. The disaffected boy said, “man, you guys just sit here, feeling sorry for your miserable old asses, every day, talking about the same old nonsense, none of it affecting anyone, and no one cares whether you two geezers live or die. I mean, look at you, you’re half dead anyway, what good are you to anyone else in our society? Me, I’m going to be somebody. I’m going to have money, wealth, power, everything I want, and I’m going to have television sets as big as the building you live in. That will make me happy, and I won’t end up like you two, sitting on a cement walkway, feeling sorry for yourselves. When are you two going to shave those stupid Hitler styled moustaches? They haven’t been en vogue since the Fascists invaded Italy.” The two men were astonished; they looked at the boy, but did not speak. After a moment, the boy walked away. Louie said “doesa’ he reminda’ you of anyone?” “Yeah,” Giovanni replied, “us, a long, long time ago.”

The two men long ago married women who, over the years, had become good friends. Louie’s wife, Rosamaria, was the picture of beauty seventy years ago. Now, while she retained a bit of her vivacity, she seemed to be slowing down a great deal. During her lifetime, it seemed as though she shrank, and lost some of her height. She took short, slow steps, as she came outside. Giovanni’s wife, Adelena also left her apartment, and walked laboriously toward the two men. Both women had been in the United States significantly longer than their respective spouses. Adelena, also retained some vivacity, but had long ago started losing her wits. Rosamaria wore a long dress which was too long, torn, and tattered. She began to pester Louie about changing a pipe behind the washing machine. The superannuated machine had served a useful purpose until recently, when many of the washers began to wear out. “Notta’ now, Rosamaria,” Louie bantered back to her. “Yeah, we area’ busy, can you see?” Giovanni snickered as he spoke.

Adelena arrived, and said to her husband “why don’t you go upstairs, and see if that nice man in the other building wants to eat with us tonight?” She spoke these words, and both men immediately uttered the word “no!” “You seea’,” Louie...