The answer New Yorkers would give is, “Because we can.”
We had been in motion since we got off the bus three-quarters of an hour earlier. When we finally came to a stop, it was when we had arrived at Papaya King. It was a stand, similar to several hot dog stands we had walked past. This one had a lot of signs and slogans all over: Tropical Deliciousness and Snappy Frankfurters, one said. Hot Dogs Tastier Than Filet Mignon, was another. Nature’s Own Revitalizer, and Vitamin Packed, Health Giving. The stand was on the corner of 86th Street and Third Avenue. It had a window, open to the street, at the 86th Street end, where you could walk up, order something, and take it away. Around the corner, it was all glass, with a narrow metal counter facing the windows. The space where customers could stand was comparatively small, most of the space was behind the counter.
The place was crowded with people holding big paper cups of juice, and gobbling hot dogs on buns, dripping sauerkraut and mustard. In what I was coming to understand was a New York style, they were able to manage in a small space without getting mustard and sauerkraut all over themselves. Leni told me that a New Yorker can eat a large slice of pizza, and read the newspaper, while running to catch a bus, not get run over and killed, and show up at work without pizza stains or hunks of cheese on clothing.
There was a bunch of guys working behind the counter. They moved fast. Leni shouted our order to them, and I paid. It was two hot dogs, mustard and kraut, and a large papaya juice apiece.
I had never had filet mignon, and didn’t know what it was, but I was sure the hot dogs were tastier than it could possibly be. I was impressed, but the real surprise, the real reason to ride the bus for three hours, and walk fifty blocks, was the papaya juice. Here’s how I would describe the papaya juice . . . I can’t describe the papaya juice, it’s smooth and soft and creamy, I can tell you that. I can’t tell you exactly what it tastes like. It’s papaya, a taste all its own, and it has some kind of power. You can feel it working on your whole body, and especially your brain, from the first sip. The stuff is jumping with vitamins, and all the signs around Papaya King don’t do it justice. My first thought was that I had to tell Arnold Babatunji about this. I respected him, and knew he would not be distressed to learn there was something at least the equal of his pizza. If it were possible to have both things together, that could be the start of a new religion.
“Can we take some of this back to Kingston?” I asked Leni.
“We can, but it won’t be like this. It doesn’t travel well. You have to have it straight from the secret, patent-protected, papaya-juice juicing machine. So, what do you think of it?”
“I’m emotional. I would burst into tears, only the stuff has me feeling too happy to cry.”
“See? That’s what I admire about you. You appreciate stuff. The average New Yorker stops in and drinks this stuff, and naturally loves it, but doesn’t realize there would be no perfectly good reason for this whole city to exist, except you can get papaya juice here.”
“Where do papayas come from?”
“Southern part of this hemisphere, also from the produce section of most supermarkets.”
“Do you think the Papaya King would sell me a secret, patent-protected, papaya-juice juicing machine? I want to give one to Arnold Babatunji.”
“It’s a closely guarded secret.”
“I’m prepared to pay any price.”
“Then, yes.”
18.
MOST SUBWAY ENTRANCES IN NEW YORK are straightforward sets of stairs going down, surrounded by iron railings that look to be about a hundred years old, and probably are. But some subway entrances are inside big buildings, or partially inside them. The stairs might be set back from the sidewalk in a big open space. And most of the subway stations are just what you’d expect, a set of railroad tracks with a platform running alongside, but there are big stations that are like an underground plaza, with booths where you can buy subway tokens and passes, shops of various kinds, maybe a barber shop, maybe a food shop, a pizzeria, a hot dog stand. The idea of getting something to eat in the subway, which is filthy and foul-smelling, struck me as insane, but I suppose if you are a New Yorker in a hurry, and do not care if you live or die, or perhaps do not believe in the germ theory, it’s something you might do.
The entrance to the subway near Papaya King is one of those partially-in-a-building ones, and partway down the stairs is the entrance to a shop, not underground and not above ground, with a strange assortment of goods in the windows. On our walk uptown, I had noticed that most of the shop windows showed carefully arranged and artistic displays, mostly of expensive-looking merchandise. This half-underground place had an assortment that could only be described as crazy, a plastic model spaceship, taxidermied squirrels, plates, cups, and saucers with a crummy image of the Statue of Liberty, T-shirts with a picture of King Kong, and a set of bagpipes. In gold letters on the window were the words Das Kleine Museum. Maybethe papaya in our bloodstreams was making us seek experiences and adventure. Leni and I drifted through the door.
If the window had been crazy, the inside of the shop was a complete insane asylum. There were model airplanes, and inflated cartoon animals hanging on wires from the ceiling, shelves and display cases had plastic dinosaurs, carved wooden masks that sort of looked like they were real tribal masks, but you could see they weren’t. Rusty spears, swords, and pool cues leaned in a corner, there were books about flying saucers, and vegetarian cooking, racks with weird articles of clothing, sweaters with nuts and shells worked into the knitting; hats with logos saying NY Mets, Yankees, Yorkville; and a big dollhouse, complete with electric lights and tiny furnishings.
The proprietor was a tall guy with an elaborate, shiny black beard. It looked like he’d had it permanent-waved in a beauty parlor. He also had a gold earring and was wearing a New York Yankees hat.
“Welcome to the finest shop in Manhattan,” he said. “My name is Carlos Chatterjee. If you don’t see what you want, just ask. If I don’t have it, I can get it for you in twenty-four hours.”
In a large glass case, sort of like a freestanding wardrobe or closet, was an elaborate red suit of clothes, a tall kind of helmet-hat, and an old-fashioned musket. I had seen outfits like this before. I was about to ask a question, when Carlos Chatterjee came out with part of an answer.
“That item is NFS,” he said. “Not for sale. It is the completely authentic in every detail grenadier’s uniform belonging to a sergeant major in the 46th Regiment of Foot, under the command of the Honorable General John Vaughan, circa the year 1775. And it is my personal uniform.”
“It’s yours? That would make you a lot older than you look,” Leni said.
“It’s mine. I wear it to reenactments.”
“Reenactments?”
“I am a reenactor, a Revolutionary War reenactor. We get together and act out famous battles. There are reeanactors who reenact battles of the Civil War, of the War of 1812. I happen to reenact battles of the Revolution. Some important ones happened right in this neighborhood: the Battle of Brooklyn Heights, Fort Washington, White Plains, Trenton, Princeton . . .”
“How about Kingston?” I asked.
“Oh, sure, the burning of Kingston, in 1777, my general, John Vaughan did that. Confidentially, he was a bit of a stinker. Us grenadiers did some bad stuff. I would rather have been an American troop, but this was the only uniform I could get. Yes, I’ve been to the burning of Kingston a few times. It comes around in October.”
“Do lots of reenactors show up for that?” I asked.
“Maybe a dozen, it’s not one of the biggies. We don’t get to actually burn anything, or there would be a better turnout.” Then he burst into song.
Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules
Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these.
But of all the world’s brave heroes There’s none that can compare,
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, to the British Grenadiers.
We thanked
Carlos Chatterjee for being so informative, and for the song, of course. Just to be polite we bought two of the cheapest items in the shop, a dollar forty-nine apiece for baseball hats printed with 86. STR., which, Carlos explained, stands for sechsundachtzigste Strasse, which means 86th Street. Carlos gave us cards that read, Das Kleine Museum/The Little Museum/El Pequeno Museo/Makumbusho Kidogo, and an address and phone number. We put on our hats and went down the stairs to my first subway ride.
19.
THE NEW YORK CITY SUBWAY is a miracle and a monstrosity. It’s a miracle because it can move huge numbers of people all around the city, safely, and in a short time. Our walk from 42nd Street to 86th Street had taken about forty minutes. The subway ride back took ten minutes. At going-to-work time and coming-back-from-work time, actual millions ride the subway. It’s a monstrosity because it’s far from clean, there are a great many smells underground, none of them nice, and it has rats. These are not like ordinary rats you meet in the woods, nice little animals going about their business. These are city rats, they’re big and filthy, and they look you right in the eye.
While riding the subway, I thought I’d have to learn not to be afraid and disgusted by it when I moved to New York, which I would ultimately have to do in order to be near Papaya King. I looked at the faces of the other riders, and they seemed perfectly calm and happy, so obviously, it was possible to adjust . . . unless they had lost their minds from all the noise and funny odors, and weren’t capable of realizing what an unnatural situation they were in.
On our way across town, we picked up a couple of slices from one of the pizzerias with a serving window open to the street. It’s not that I was hungry, I was still riding the wave of satisfaction the papaya juice had created. I just wanted to compare New York City street pizza with Arnold Babatunji’s. It stood up pretty well. Arnold’s had more finesse, and was more like a work of art, but the slices (we held them folded, one-handed, and ate as we walked, like real New Yorkers) were not bad at all.
Our bus was loading when we arrived at the ghastly Port of Authority, and I felt relief as I sank into the big bus seat. Finally, we were in a quiet place, and I realized I had not relaxed for a moment, or been without many kinds of stimulation all at once from the moment my sneakers hit the pavement.
The doors closed with a whoosh and a thunk, the little air vents whispered, and the bus lumbered forward.
20.
ON THE BUS, Leni started in again. “About my aunt . . .”
“Oh yes, your aunt.”
“Her name is Margaret, by the way.”
“Aunt Margaret.”
“She’s a bit of a flake.”
“Do tell.”
“I mean, she’s no one to trust with a confidence.”
“Unlike you and me.”
“Exactly. Anyway, Angus McMelvin, who is also unable to keep a secret, told her about the gangsters, and their plan.”
“The plan to get hold of my gold.”
“Well, not just yours, they believe the Dwergs have a whole big hoard of gold hidden away somewhere.”
“This is correct. We’ve been stashing gold away since forever.”
“Like in Snow White.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. The dwarves had a gold mine.”
“That’s right! I never made the connection before. I wonder if Walt Disney knew about Dwergs.”
“Well, the gangsters know, and their plan is to follow you, or somehow find out where the Dwergs keep the gold, and take it all away.”
“I’m not worried. It’s a lousy plan.”
“Why lousy?”
“Well, it would take a dumber than average gangster to assume that the Dwergs would not go to considerable lengths to hide all their gold. I mean, they wouldn’t just keep it in bags in the closet, would they? Wouldn’t they would keep it in a hiding place so clever that nobody living can find it?”
“How about somebody not living?”
“I assume you’re referring to Leg Rhinestone, the ghostly gangster?”
“Among others. He has a couple of henchmen. Also, there are some living gangsters willing to hench for him.”
“Well, the living ones can’t find the gold. They can’t even find the village, assuming that’s where we keep the stuff. I suppose it just might be possible for ghosts, I wouldn’t know, but since ghosts can’t lift or carry material things, I’m not seeing a very serious problem. Of course, I suppose live gangsters might try to take away the gold I carry on my person, which amounts to two coins, but they’d have to be tougher than I am to get it, which I doubt.”
“My Aunt Margaret says that Angus McMelvin says that the live gangsters, who are the ones he is friends with, say they have a way to do it. It’s all figured out except for a few details.”
“Such details being?”
“Well, the actual location of the hoard of gold is one, and then they need to time the theft with something that will distract everyone’s attention while they make off with it. Apparently they’ve found out that the not-ghosts, not-dead, not-alive redcoats who’ve been seen around are going to do something distracting, such as set fire to the place. I don’t know if they know that exactly, but they plan to use the redcoats as cover, or possibly get them to fetch the gold for them. The word is, as soon as the soldiers do something beside stand around eating disgusting things, they’re going to follow them and watch for their chance.”
“I’m finding it hard to take this seriously,” I said. “It sounds like a goofy plan, but I am only a girl, and don’t know all the answers. Unlikely as it seems, maybe Leg Rhinestone and the other no-goodniks have found a way to lay hands on the Dwerg geld. This might be the time for me to get advice from the ancient Dwerg, who is older and wiser than anybody else, and knows all the secrets from the beginning of our people.”
“I think you should do that,” Leni said.
“The only problem is we don’t have an ancient Dwerg like that. The closest thing we have to a village wise man is my uncle, Norbert, who knows all the ways there are to cook eggs, and is otherwise sort of an imbecile.”
“So what are you going to do?”
21.
WHEN I GOT BACK TO KINGSTON it was already dark. Most of the shops on the block were closed. The lights were on in the pizzeria, and Arnold Babatunji and some policemen were standing around.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“What’s going on is while you were in New York, I got held up,” Arnold said. “
Held up?”
“Robbed, mugged, boosted, hijacked, knocked over, some guys in red uniforms came in and helped themselves.”
“They took your money?”
“No, they took pizzas. You know the ones that are half-baked? I keep them on the counter, someone orders a slice, and I put it in the oven, finish baking it. They took those. They just muscled in behind the counter, grabbed all the pizzas, and walked out, munching. They never even said a word.”
“Weird. And you called the police?”
“Of course I called the police, and you know what? These police tell me the exact same thing happened to my friend George Pafadopolis, who sells the horrible hot dogs. Same guys in the red suits, fished all the hot dogs out of the very hot water, and walked out eating them.”
“When was that? About a week ago?” I asked. It had been about a week since I’d seen the redcoats on Frog Alley.
“Yes, a week.”
“So what do you think it’s all about?” I asked the policemen.
“It could be a crime wave,” one policeman said.
“Or just a coincidence,” another policeman said. “You know, some minor criminal types, who happen to all have red suits, just took some pizza without paying, which is a serious crime, of course.”
“They all looked exactly alike,” Arnold Babatunji said.
“How long were they here, would you say?” the policeman asked.
“Maybe a minute, ma
ybe two, no longer than that.”
“Hard to make a definite identification in such a short time,” the other policeman said. “And you must have been surprised when they pushed behind the counter.”
“Their faces were all the same,” Arnold said.
“Well, if you should see them again, give us a call.”
“Thank you, officers. And your pizza with bacon, sausage, peppers, mushrooms, eggplant, and olives is ready, please accept it as a tribute from a grateful merchant.”
“We’ll share it with the boys at the station. You are a fine citizen, Mr. Babatunji.”
22.
"BILLY BACKUS, I am appealing to you for help with a problem, because the closest thing to a Dwerg wise man now on earth is my uncle, Norbert, who, I say with no disrespect, is a drooling idiot.”
“You understand that it has been a long time since I was a boy genius, and I may be out of practice.”
“I only ask that you do your best.”
“And no non-Dwerg knows much about Dwerg-lore.”
“Not a problem. Dwergs themselves appear to have forgotten most of what they once knew. So you can’t do much worse than Uncle Norbert, for example. Besides, I’m not sure this problem is exactly Dwergish.”
“Then it’s not about the bunch of gangsters, living and dead, who are planning to locate the fabled stash of Dwerg gold and make off with it.”
“You really are Professor Knows Everything. The gangsters may figure in the story. I haven’t quite decided yet, but mainly I want to go back to something we talked about before.”
“The redcoats.”
“Them. You expressed the opinion that they were not ghosts, and thus not dead, but also not alive. What could that mean?”
Adventures of a Dwergish Girl Page 5