A Hero Grows in Brooklyn Page 10

  “It’s how Kipling felt about who’s a real man. I like how he says that if you could trust yourself even when everyone else is doubting you, and yet make allowances for their doubting too, and if you could watch the things you gave your life to, broken, and have the courage to start all over once again, you’d be a man, my son. The poem, to me… well, it seems to me to be strong and wise.”

  * * * *

  At the bell, Steve and Ron walk together down the softly lit hallway to their Health class. Just as they’re about to enter the classroom, Steve spots a couple of girls talking amongst themselves.

  “Hello,” says Steve to one of them as he smiles and gazes into her eyes. “I like your long hair, the way you got it flipping under like that.”

  “You do?” she responds, fixing her eyes on him, a smile forming on her pretty lips.

  “Very much.”

  “I just started wearing it like this. I’m glad you like it.”

  “It really does look good,” says the girl standing next to her. She’s wearing her hair bunched up in the back with bangs combed a little to the left.

  Steve turns and gives her a smile.

  She blushes while returning the smile.

  “I’ll see you girls around,” says Steve giving both a friendly nod, and then he walks into the class.

  Ron follows him in. “Pretty smooth with the girls, aren’t you?” he comments.

  “Actually, I was real nervous saying what I said.”

  “Well at least you were able to say something. When I try to say something to a girl it’s like I’m a bubble and suddenly I burst,” and as Ron is saying this he makes a roundness with his hands and arms and then his hands and arms suddenly go flying every which way. “I’m not kidding,” Ron continues. “With girls I just completely burst.”

  * * * *

  At the end of Health class, Ron hurries to catch Steve before he leaves the room. “Hold up a second, Steve. Listen, you ever go bowling?”

  “I’ve always wanted to,” answers Steve, “but I ain’t ever gotten the chance.”

  “Well, me, Jerry, and Tom go a lot,” says Ron. “We’re gonna go Saturday. Ya interested in going with us?”

  “Jerry goes with ya?” asks Steve a little surprised.

  “Yeah.”

  “Ain’t Jerry Jewish?”

  “Jerry’s okay,” says Ron. “So ya gonna come, or what?”

  Before deciding, Steve hesitates. I’ll look pretty awful next to experienced bowlers, he says to himself. The image of Mr. Imperiale’s list of pros and cons flash in his mind. If I go, I’ll have to miss two of my favorite TV shows, “The Untouchables” and “Gunsmoke.” Aaaa, I watch enough TV during the week. Money! Yikes! But it’s a chance to make new friends, to increase my power like Uncle Ricky would. Biting his lower lip, Steve turns to Ron. “Yeah, I guess I’ll give it a try. Money’s a little tight at home right now but I think I’m gonna be able to raise enough money shining shoes on Saturday. In case I don’t, Ron, whyncha give me your telephone number so I can call you if I have to bow out.”

  * * * *

  Steve’s Mechanical Drawing class, without Godzilla, is considerably better. But from time to time he touches his neck scratches, gets an anxiety pang, and thinks about Monday when Warren will return.

  * * * *

  The 3:00 dismissal bell rings. It marks the beginning of Steve’s first weekend in his new neighborhood.

  He gets home a few minutes before Pete and finds the landlord has fixed the refrigerator. Steve smiles as he sits in front of the kitchen window that looks onto busy Avenue U with its movie theater, ice cream parlor, and shops.

  “Congratulations,” says Steve as Pete enters the apartment. “You got through your first week. That boy, Glen, give you a hard time today?”

  “I told him I was gonna handle him wit’ out you. If he calls me a name I’m gonna let it slide. Then I told him that if he touches me I’m gonna go at him, an’ I don’t care what he or his brudduh does ta get even.”

  “How’d this Glen guy react to that?” asks Steve as physical unease shoots through him.

  “We got ta talkin’ ‘bout baseball cards and I guess he ain’t so bad.”

  “SHOO! I’m glad it worked out. With some kids that plan can backfire.”

  Yesterday, Steve’s mother had bought some cookies and some fresh milk so the boys could have an afternoon snack. After downing a glass of some of the cool white beverage, they put a few cookies in their jacket pockets and head out to Battery Park.

  When they get to the train station, Steve takes out some of the money he received yesterday from returning the bottles.

  “Two tokens, please,” says Steve to the man in the booth as he hands him a dime. Both boys look at the shinny tokens and exchange a smiling glance. With exaggerated dignity, they march over to the turnstile, slip the tokens into their slots, and push through its hindering arms.

  * * * *

  By six o’clock the sun has set. The boys have returned to their neighborhood and they’re pretty excited.

  “Okay, Pete, first we’ll need two of these shoe shining boxes,” says Steve in an isle at the Woolworth’s five and ten cent store a few blocks from their apartment.

  “Can we get one of these, Steve?” says Pete lifting up a steel coin changer. It has separate slots for pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters. A spring loaded arm for each type of coin protrudes at the bottom and when pulled releases one coin at a time.

  “Not just yet, Pete. When we’re raking in the big bucks we can come back and get some stuff like this. Come over here by the shoe polish section.”

  “That will be four dollars and twenty three cents, young man,” says a grandmotherly woman at the checkout line.

  Steve looks dismayed. “I only got four dollars and twelve cents.” He shows her all the money he’s brought.

  “You need eleven more cents young man.”

  “We just gotta have this stuff,” says Pete, his eyes looking ever so sad.

  The woman calls over some man and whispers in his ear. “You boys are in luck,” he says smiling, “those shoe boxes just went on sale. They’re six cents less than the ticket price. Here’s a penny change.”

  The boys take their bag of supplies and sit down on a bench that’s on a triangular island in the middle of Kings Highway and near Coney Island Avenue. Pete looks carefully at their investment: some brushes, cloth, different colored shoe polish, and two shoe shining boxes.

  “We did it, Steve! We finished the first part of our plan!”

  Steve makes a fist and punches Pete in the shoulder.

  Pete swings back and the two begin swinging at each other, laughing wildly amidst the steady flow of people and traffic heading home for the day.

  CHAPTER 21

  The next morning Steve and Pete go to the boardwalk around ten. It’s a beautiful fall Saturday in the third week of November: the sky, deep blue, the temperature, in the 50s. The boardwalk is modestly populated with joggers, mothers pushing carriages, a crowd of people watching handball games down in the West 5th Street park just beside the boardwalk, whole families strolling along—Asians, Blacks, Whites, Indians, and Latinos.

  The boardwalk, which runs beside much of the area’s white sandy beach, begins at the eastern part of Brighton. As you walk west there is no clear dividing line as you leave Brighton and enter Coney Island, but as you come closer and closer, its famous landmarks come more and more into view.

  Nearest to Brighton is the thrilling wooden Cyclone, far and away the greatest of all roller coasters. At about the same time you begin to make out the Cyclone, an enormous Ferris wheel with rolling, swaying cable-cars also comes into view. And then, of course, is the sky scraping Parachute Jump resembling the Eiffel Tower, but on its top sits a majestic industrial crown of bent red steel girders. If you were to approach these structures, drawn by your inner-most sense of awe, soon you would find
that you’re in a world-class amusement area with an abundance of games, rides, sideshows, and food stands. But the morning Steve and Pete arrive, many of the summer attractions have closed for the season despite the mild weekend.

  Hanging from shoulder straps, the shoe shining boxes are swinging off their hips. Within minutes Steve spots a well dressed man sitting on a bench reading the newspaper. Steve glances at his shoes and see they’re a bit scuffed.

  “He looks like he might have a little change to spare,” Steve whispers to Pete. Then, bracing himself for rejection, Steve calls out, “Hey mister, a dime for a shoeshine?”

  “I’m busy right now. Maybe some other time.”

  “You could go ahead with your reading,” says Steve. “I could shine your shoes and you won’t even know I’m here.”

  “I’m busy right now,” the guy repeats more loudly.

  “All right,” says Steve. “Maybe we’ll catch ya later.”

  A little further on, Steve spots a group of well dressed men standing on the side of the boardwalk farthest from the beach. There’s a brown brick, six-story apartment building there that leans up against the boardwalk. On its eastern corner the brick abruptly ceases and yellow stucco forms the image of a castle with a turret jutting up a floor higher than the rest of the building. As Steve and Pete approach this edifice they discover that it blocks the wind and, with the sun out like it is, it feels almost summery.

  “It looks like the Mets’ new stadium will be ready for the home opener this April,” says a balding man in a herringbone sports jacket as Steve and Pete walk over.

  “I guess they’re going to call it Shea Stadium,” says another man, this one short and heavyset, wearing a brown air force leather jacket and a brown tie.

  “Shoeshine, gentlemen? Just a dime.” Steve inquires.

  The short, heavyset man puts his hands in his pocket and jingles some change. He continues on with his conversation with the other men, but as he does so he sits down on a nearby bench, points to Steve, and then to his shoes.

  Steve slides the strap off his shoulder and positions his shoe shining box while the man puts his right foot upon it. Going to work, first by applying some black polish, Steve waits for a break in the conversation.

  “I went over to the site,” says the heavyset man as he keenly observes Steve. “The stadium looks almost done now, at least on the outside. It’s over in Queens by the World’s Fair. Every few minutes they got these real loud jets flying overhead.”

  Here there is a pause. “Gentlemen,” says Steve, “give my brother, Pete, a chance to do a pair of shoes. I know he’s young, but he does a great job. If you don’t like the way it comes out you won’t have to pay and I’ll fix it up for you for free.”

  “I’ll give the boy a try,” says a thin man with a broad grin who looks like he could be a rabbi, with his thick black beard, charcoal brimmed hat, and long black wool coat. He sits down on the bench beside Steve’s customer. Pete immediately gets down to work.

  Steve takes out a long brush and starts sweeping it back and forth on the black leather shoe, spreading the thick polish evenly.

  “We hang out by this warm spot regularly on the weekend,” says Steve’s customer. “This is the first time we’ve seen you boys. Just getting started in the shoe shining business?”

  “Well, we practiced a lot on our relatives,” Steve answers as he takes out a long strip of soft white cloth and, with firm steady pressure, he begins to rapidly slide the cloth back and forth. A bright gleaming shine has begun to appear.

  When Steve is done, his customer inspects the results and smiles. Reaching into his pocket, he takes out a shining dime and an old buffalo nickel and hands it over to Steve.

  “Thanks a lot, sir,” says Steve.

  “The name’s Mersh Blumfeld,” says the customer. “I admire your initiative. When I was a boy during the Depression I had to go out and earn money to help my family.”

  “Wow!” Steve exclaims. “I heard about the Great Depression. It really must have been hard back then.”

  “Hard? It was worse than hard! You shouldn’t know from it, young man. Lines would form for blocks and blocks at the mere hint that someone might be hiring for a job. I went out and sold apples on street corners to help my family from starving.”

  Another gentleman sits down in Mr. Blumfeld’s place and puts his right foot on the shoebox. Steve begins to apply some polish.

  As the gentlemen continue to talk wistfully of their difficult childhoods, Steve listens intently. He likes hearing the stories of how others struggled while they were young and managed to learn something useful from the experience. Steve’s interest in what these men have to say converts into nice tips.

  As well as Steve’s doing, Pete is doing even better. It’s not difficult to guess why. Six-year old Pete is certainly cuter than Steve and it’s his seriousness in this work, the pride he takes in a good shine, his reaction each time he gets paid, how his eyes dance. When he takes the money, he puts it in his pocket and jingles the change that’s mounting there.

  “Keeping the money in my pocket,” he says, “it’s only for this week. Next week I’m gonna buy one of those silver coin changers you wear on your belt. Me and Steve, we seen one in Woolworth’s.”

  The men are so taken by Pete that one of them, encouraged by his friends, gives Pete a dollar tip just to see his reaction.

  “Steve! Steve! Look! Look!” he yells, his face beaming.

  Steve smiles and looks over at the generous customer and thanks him.

  “Will you boys be coming back tomorrow?” Mersh Blumfeld wants to know.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, in that case, I’ll be sure to wear a pair of my particularly scuffed up shoes.”

  * * * *

  As the boys make their way into Coney Island, they stop six times to serve customers. Then they come to the base of the two hundred and seventy-seven foot high Parachute Jump. It looks a bit lonely standing there, for it is closed until next summer. The hustle and bustle that had gathered around it during the long, warm days of May, June, July, August, and September is nowhere evident. Tilting their heads back to look up at its distant top, their mouths open wide.

  “You ever go up in it, Steve?”

  “Yeah—with Uncle Ricky.”

  “Was it scary?”

  “Going up is pretty smooth and you get this great view of the ocean and you can even see the Empire State Building and everything. But when you hit the top… yipes! I noticed before I got on the thing that when you get to the top you get shooken-up a little. So I was expecting this sudden jerk-shake kinda feeling but I didn’t think that it would be quite as rough and I thought something went wrong and I kinda kissed my life goodbye. Then we started to drop down real fast and then the parachute caught the wind and we were yanked into going slower. A few seconds later it was all over—we were back, safe, on the ground. Whew! I tell ya, I didn’t exactly press Uncle Ricky for another ride on it like I did when we went on the Cyclone.”

  “I’d like to give it a try, Steve, you know, just ta say I did it.”

  Should we see if there’re any customers out there?” says Steve pointing opposite the Parachute Jump. Jutting out at a right angle from the boardwalk, across the sand and out over the ocean, is the Coney Island Pier.

  “There’s no way the fishermen out there are gonna stop to get a shine, Steve.”

  “Yeah, but look. There’s some folks out there relaxing, watching the fishermen. Let’s check it out.”

  A mossy smell begins to enter their nostrils as they stroll out over the water. Below their feet, under the wooden planks, waves rush against the pier’s pillars producing a pleasant swish, swish, swish….

  “What are you after?” Steve asks a weather beaten man who is putting a chicken leg in a cage that’s attached to a long string.

  “Crabs,” comes the low gravelly reply, and with it, the man p
oints to a deep bucket. Steve and Pete look down to its bottom and see a few pearly white and brown clawed creatures crawling over one another.

  “Interest you in a shoeshine?” Steve asks an observer with a splendid pair of scuffed shoes.

  “Not today, young man,”

  A few yards further down a couple of men are observing someone who has just pulled in a catch—a silvery fish about fifteen inches long. Again Steve’s offer of a shine is rebuffed.

  A few more offers—a few more rejections.

  Then four men who are playing dominoes on a little portable table look up at Steve and smile. “Why don’t we take a break for a few minutes,” one of them says. “Our shoes can use a bit of a work over, don’t ya think?”

  “You gentlemen are all right!” Steve exclaims as he and his brother get down to work.

  CHAPTER 22

  “You boys, when you’re done, you give me a call, hear,” says Ron DeFelipo’s father as he pulls up to the bowling alley in his brand new 1963 blue Dodge Dart GT convertible. “I know it’s just a few blocks but I don’t want ya walking home! They haven’t caught the punks who knifed that boy!”

  “I told ya three times already that I’ll call, Dad!” Ron replies while his hands wave about.

  “You make sure you do!” hollers Ron’s dad while he begins to drive away.

  “The kid who got killed,” says Tom Giordano, “he went to our school. He was a pretty decent guy. It’s that stupid Harold and Anita’s gang, the Skull Bones, from East 16th Street that did it.”

  As Steve steps into the cavernous building, he hears the sounds of balls rumbling down the alleys, pins crashing, and people talking. Jerry Miller’s leaning over the sparkling Wurlitzer jukebox that’s playing the hit single, “It’s My Party,” by Brooklyn born Lesley Gore.

  “Hi Jerry,” says Steve while giving him a two finger salute. “How’s Killer Miller doing?”

  Jerry looks up and smiles. Seeing Ron and Tom, he asks: “Hey, ya got my money?”

  “Steve,” says Ron, “whenever we go bowling we always chip in fifty cents apiece so Jerry comes a little early to get us on the waiting list. If we don’t, we’d have to wait over an hour for a lane.”