108
PARTISAN REVIEW
corner of 206th Street and Bainbridge, flanked on one side by the Fordham
bus stop, on the other by theJerome Avenue bus stop. Beneath it, the last stop
on the D train. Independent Line. Sandow
&
Israel, owners . Proprietors in
America. The adolescent boys slouched against the green wooden and tin
newspaper stand, casting their collective courage at the feet of young women
returning to the neighborhood after a day at "business ." The boys were
students , not yet in the" real world ." The women worked . Tired secretaries
and receptionists and stenographers and salesgirls emerging from the subway
with a jaunty step , strong breasts challenging the soft woolen sweaters , their
willingness for verbal combat easily matching our daring . The air cloying , the
perfumes too sweet. "Mama, mama, look at the boobs on that one. Hello,
Alice ." Body bending across our rigidity to grab a
Post
or
World-Telegram .
A
smile, a wink , and just enough body show to force us back into our silence .
No matter how often Jack the counterman mopped it , the candy store
floor was dirty . Linoleum had been placed over the white hexagonal tiles, but
it cracked and broke away . But no one minded the dirty floor. The store
bustled with activity. Here ambitions were announced , plans formulated ,
men and boys laid siege to possibilities . Neighborhood voices made their
demands-cigarettes ,
The Sporting N ews,
egg creams, a huddled conference
with Pete the Bookie who used the last of the three telephone booths as an
office , the dip and flow of men discussing the track line , the ethnic juices of
Jewish cabbies and Italian bus drivers . Man against man , tribe against tribe ,
language like an unsheathed knife , the restless anticipation with which the
neighborhood staved off the threat of summer nights.
A repository for the neighborhood's legends . Feats of strength and
daring passed from mouth to mouth, each time embroidered in the telling.
Observations of the actual-the frozen smile on Polo's childish face as he
hands his money over to Pete the Bookie, an eighteen year old hustler
suffering from an excessive love of money . A bad disease for a gambler. The
horseplayers knew that money was fortuitous , a symbol of the action , not the
action itself. "Polo, " says my cousin Leo, ' 'I'll make a
mensch
of you yet . The
day'll come when you hand your money to Pete like a goddam king. Money is
for dying , Polo . All you want is to enjoy the action . You 're alive . At best,
you 're a little loser."
No one was above letting a tip go . " I have thirty dollars here , Dave ,"
says the old priest as he stands in front of the cigarette counter to pay for the
Journal-Amen·can
he has just taken . "Collected from my two fledglings at the
parish ." He hands the money and a piece of paper to Dave. "Across the
board. A parishioner'S suggestion ." The priest leaves. Dave studies the
paper, fingers the money , then walks over to the counter where my uncle is
sitting. He shows my uncle the piece of paper.
