Getting Old is to Die For

by Rita Lakin

  They stand for the anthem.

  As soon as they sit down, Tim says, “Now your girlfriend will never find out you were fried. It’s a win-win situation.”

  “Yeah.” More like lose-lose, Jack thinks.

  Jack and Tim jump up again with the thousands of others as the Yanks come running from the dugout.

  Jack feels fantastic. The years seemed to fall off. He’s going to enjoy every minute. What’s the line—eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow you die? Or something like that. He takes another big bite out of his ballpark dog.

  It finally sinks in. So Gladdy’s coming in tomorrow. Now what do I do? Never mind. It reminds him of one of Gladdy’s favorite expressions, borrowed from Scarlett O’Hara: I’ll think about it tomorrow. And that’s what he intends to do.

  First, let’s play ball!

  GLADDY IN NEW YORK

  Evvie and I have a lot to talk about on the flight. Mostly about will we or won’t we tell our daughters about our unhappy emotional state and the men who brought us grief. Our plan: Enjoy the kids and grandkids. Enjoy being back up north, where we grew up. Find fun things to do.

  At the airport, we find the ground transportation area. I leave Evvie with the van driving her up to her daughter Martha’s home in Westport, Connecticut.

  The cabbie who is taking me into the city seems normal. At least I hope so. I smile, remembering cabdriver stories. New Yorkers collect these and treasure them to share at cocktail parties. One of my favorites was about the driver who went through a red light. I was a bit shaken when we missed a group of pedestrians by inches. When I pointed out his scofflaw behavior he made one of my never-to-be-forgotten comments of all time. Assuming I was a tourist, he said, “Listen, lady, in my town a red light is only a suggestion.” I got out at the next suggestion.

  Of course there were the crazies. I’ll never forget driving over the Brooklyn Bridge in a blizzard with the driver who told me he was on antidepressants and described his dream; he would turn the wheel and go over the side of the bridge, and all his troubles would be over. I started babbling idiotically about how spring would soon be here and the flowers would be pretty and the sun would be shining, all the while clutching my door handle. Don’t let this be the night he acts out his dream.

  I realize I spoke too soon. I’ve got another Looney Tune. Here we are just turning off the Triboro Bridge and the driver pulls up to a curb and jumps out of the car, wielding a gun. In an accent I don’t recognize, he says, “I be soon return.” With that, he locks me in the car and starts running back toward the bridge.

  Swell. I suppose I can get another cab, maybe. I can call 911 on my cell. I am sure getting attached to this cell. But the police will think I’m the crazy one. Locked in a taxi, with a cabbie toting a gun, running along the bridge? And besides, it’s late, and I don’t know how long I’d have to wait for another cab, and besides, I don’t want to stand alone outside on a dark, empty street in a neighborhood I don’t know. Forget all that; my luggage is in his locked trunk.

  By the time I finish trying out my nondecisions, my vigilante cabbie gets back in, stows his weapon under his seat, and relocks the car. He turns around and, with a half-toothless smile that tells me he comes from a country with poor dental care, reports in whatever his accent is: “I a politzia in mine country. I see police chasing man on bridge. I go help arrest him.”

  My first thought is, Lucky the police didn’t shoot this lunatic running toward them waving a gun.

  My second thought is, If they did shoot him, he has the trunk keys and I’d be stuck in this taxi forever.

  Welcome home.

  My daughter’s apartment is mostly dark. I let myself in with my own key. I assume Emily will be in the kitchen waiting up as she usually does when I come to visit. Some good gossip over rugallah and coffee! Light on, yes. But no Emily. There is a note telling me there is cold chicken in the fridge, if I’m hungry. They had a long day and had to get some sleep.

  Welcome home?

  I wake up to noises. The muffled sound of the coffee grinder whirring with something being held over it. Then the clatter of dishes and whispers of “Be quiet” and “Don’t wake Grandma.” One eye opens and I can’t believe I’m seeing seven A.M. on the bedside clock. On Sunday? Are they crazy? I bury my head under the pillow and try to fall back to sleep, but finally, after fifteen minutes of twisting and tossing, curiosity gets the better of me.

  Pulling on my robe, I stagger into the kitchen and voice my opinion. “On Sunday? Since when do you get up early on Sunday? Why is everyone up? Good morning.”

  I get a chorus of good mornings back. Then— “Golf,” says Alan, rushing by me sipping at his scalding coffee. “Gotta grab a sunny day while we still got ’em.” And he is gone.

  “Soccer,” says Lindsay, looking adorable in her lavender uniform. She and brother Patrick are stuffing Pop Tarts down their throats. “Our team is in second place! H’ray!”

  “Skateboard for me,” says Patrick, dressed like something from Mars in his huge black helmet, protective black-rimmed glasses, black knee and elbow pads, and all the rest of the paraphernalia.

  Emily hands me a cup of coffee. “And guess who the designated driver is?”

  That sounds familiar. “Wait a few minutes and I’ll throw on some clothes and come with you.”

  “No time,” Emily says. “Besides, I know you. When you come up to New York you always want a day to revisit your old haunts. So have fun. We’ll see you later.”

  And the whirlwind whizzes by me with little cheek-pecks and lots of “Have fun”s and the kitchen is abruptly empty.

  Huh? My night-owl daughter goes to bed early and my love-to-sleep-in-on-Sunday family are already out the door? And I want a day to myself? I told her Sunday was our play day. She didn’t mention any previous plans. Oh, well, no use feeling sorry for myself. But I do.

  I doctor my coffee the way I like it, toast one slice of wheat bread, sit down at their lovely oak table, and start to tackle the ten pounds or so of the Sunday New York Times. What bliss. Heaven.

  Is this good parenting? Children and grandchildren so guilt-free, they leave Grandma to entertain herself? Or are they so used to being without me they don’t need me at all? I always hoped my family would be independent, but this is ridiculous. Well, what should I expect? I call, give them one day’s notice, and want them to change their already-made plans for me?

  Well, yes. Actually.

  Come on, I tell myself. Finish your coffee and fold the paper ’til later. Time to hit the streets. I’m so excited, I can hardly wait.

  It’s getting cooler, a little brisk, a harbinger of autumn in the air, but the sun is shining. It feels so pleasant after Florida’s heat and humidity. Walking the streets of New York is one of the great joys in life. A thousand things to look at. A twenty-four-hour nonstop drama for your entertainment. Never boring. It’s always risky for me to come here. I tend to go through the same shopping list each time and compare what the city offers and what Fort Lauderdale doesn’t. Stimulation. And excitement. New York has everything. Fort Lauderdale? Well, it’s a nice easy life, I guess. And I always ask myself the same question. Why am I there when I could be here? Never mind. I have places to go, things to see, and plenty to do.

  First stop is always Zabar’s. This world-class deli is the place closest to where Emily and Alan live. I turn off Eightieth Street onto Broadway and there it is. And it’s the usual early Sunday morning chaos—the store is full as always, cars double-parked out front, lines around the block. The most amazing selection of food delicacies to be found anywhere. If there is a cheese somewhere in the world, you’ll find it here. Or a fish, smoked or otherwise. Coffee, teas, incredible breads—you name it, they’ve got it. I walk in and let the smells engulf me. It reminds me of a sign I once saw in a deli. It read: “If I could live my life over, let me live it over a deli!” And this is the deli of all delis. A perfect way to begin my day. With a cheese Danish in hand I happily continue on my way.<
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  Broadway, then Columbus Avenue eventually gets me to Lincoln Center, and I pay my homage to all the operas, the ballets, the concerts, I ever saw.

  And then traveling a familiar path in Central Park, of course I walk awhile, recalling a hundred little memories—from necking on a bench with my first Jack when we were courting to wheeling Emily in her stroller, boat rides on the lakes, summer concerts, and on and on. A sudden pang of longing for Jack Langford hits me, wishing I could someday share all of this with him, but for the moment I am putting all of my Fort Lauderdale life out of my mind and focusing only on New York.

  I head over to the real Broadway and all the wonderful plays I saw that shaped so much of my learning, honing my sensibilities, molding my life’s philosophies.

  When my feet start to ache, I hop on a bus. Later, for variety, the subway or a cab.

  A short stop at the famous Forty-second Street Main Library where I used to work. It’s closed Sundays, but I say hi to Patience and Fortitude, the celebrated pink marble lions, now faded gray, that guard the entrance to that beautiful, stately structure. Being as old as I am, I remember our famous Mayor La Guardia changing the names of the lions from Lord Astor and Lady Lennox (after the library’s founders) to Patience and Fortitude to inspire us to muddle through the economic depression of the 1930s.

  I stop for lunch. In the old days I would have gone to one of those wonderful Automats, but that grand old tradition is long gone.

  Then hello to my alma mater, Hunter College, on Sixty-eighth Street. I dreamed of a picture-postcard Ivy League campus, but reality gave me a school to which I traveled by subway and received a vast and varied education. When I think of all the knowledge—schooling and experiential—that I’ve acquired in my life, stuffed in my brain, I wish there were some way to download all I know into some younger brain and save someone a hell of a lot of learning time. Who knows, maybe the computers will do that one day, too.

  Onward. I have a very busy day ahead. And when I get home, that family of mine better be there to greet me.

  THE GIRLS HIT NEW YORK

  “Wake up. I’m dying for a cup of coffee.”

  Ida peers, through one half-closed eye, at her little travel clock on the plain brown- painted bedside table next to her matching brown-painted twin bed. She becomes aware of Sophie, leaning over in preposterous yellow Minnie Mouse pajamas, poking at her.

  “It’s only seven A.M. Are you nuts?” Ida shuts the eye and rolls over to the other side of the bed, puts the blanket over her head, and ignores Sophie. She mumbles, “I didn’t dream you were a mouse; you really are wearing those pajamas.”

  Bella lifts her head up from the cot placed at the foot of both twin beds. “Is it time to get up?”

  Ida mutters, “No, go back to sleep. We’re on vacation here, remember?”

  “But we didn’t have any dinner last night,” Sophie wails.

  “Is it my fault the plane was late and we couldn’t find an open restaurant when we got here? So much for the city that never sleeps.” With both hands Ida pulls her pillow down over her head.

  Frustrated, Sophie goes back to her bed, the other twin, and plops down.

  Bella sits up on her cot, yawns and stretches. She is wearing a match to Sophie’s mouse pajamas, only in pink. “I could use a cup of coffee, too,” she says wistfully. She tries to get up, but flops back down, unable to get off the cot and onto the floor.

  Sophie comes over and helps her up. “Sleep well, sweetie pie?”

  “Not very,” says the martyr. “The cot is lumpy. But I don’t mind as long as you girls got some rest.”

  “All right. All right. I’m up already.” Ida, wearing white cotton thermals, jumps out of her bed. “Let’s throw on some clothes and get a bite to eat.”

  With that, they are all in motion, not an easy job in the closet-sized room. Each one of them bends to the floor to riffle through her suitcase for an outfit. There is hardly space enough for the three of them to move.

  “Where are we, anyway?” Sophie asks.

  “We’re in the Village, Greenwich Village,” tour guide Ida informs them. “It should be fun down here.”

  “Right,” says Sophie. “Besides we don’t want to be uptown and accidentally run into Gladdy.”

  Ida shakes her head unbelievingly. “Yeah, there are only a few million people in the city; we wouldn’t want that to happen.”

  After jockeying for turns in the bathroom and wiggling into their clothes, bumping into one another as they do, they finally leave their hotel room.

  The streets are empty. No people anywhere. Sophie is musing. “Bagel and a schmear of cream cheese would be good.”

  “I’m thinking along the lines of scrambled eggs and onions with a kaiser roll,” says Bella, licking her lips.

  “Dream on, girls,” Ida says. “I don’t think we’re going to find a Jewish deli in this neighborhood.”

  Ida points to a banner strung across from one side of the street to the other. It’s held together from the top of opposite lampposts. It says, “LITTLE ITALY. WELCOME TO THE FEAST OF SAN GENNARO.”

  Bella wails, “But nothing is open.”

  “I guess we’re up too early,” Ida says with a tone that reprimands. “We could have slept another hour.”

  As they wander down the narrow cobblestone streets with their turn-of-the-century tenement buildings, they pass one closed store after another, one closed restaurant after another, a series of food carts on the sidewalks and in the gutters, each with huge signs hawking their covered wares: “MANGLA! MANGIAP “GET YOUR ZEPPOLI HERE!” “EAT HERE! OUR CANNOLI IS THE BEST.” “GET YOUR ITALIAN FLAGS HERE!” “GUCCI BAGS FOR SALE, $5.00! WE HAVE THE LARGEST SELECTION OF MADONNAS ANYWHERE.” Sophie’s eyes are wide, Bella’s mouth is open. Ida laughs. “You told me to pick someplace exotic.”

  “Oh, well.” Sophie sighs. “When in Rome, eat... Roman.”

  Bella tugs at Sophie’s sleeve. “Look, somebody else is here.”

  They glance over across the street to a huge, imposing church. On the bottom step an elderly woman dressed in black, shabby clothes dozes, her head leaning against the stone. Suddenly, to their surprise, the church door is flung open and a man comes running down the steps, both fists full of money. The old woman’s eyes pop open and she jumps up screaming. “Thief! Thief, you rob the poor box!” She grabs at his leg to try to stop him. He easily shrugs her off. She screams in Italian, “Aiutame! Aiutame!”

  He smacks her in the mouth. “Shut up, old fool!”

  But she won’t. He keeps hitting her, as she keeps screaming, banging her head against the wall.

  Ida moves first. She starts running across the street, yelling at the top of her lungs. “Stop it! Leave her alone!”

  Sophie and Bella are right on her heels. They are yelling “Help!” over and over again. The thief sees them and runs quickly around the corner. The girls can’t possibly keep up with him.

  They rush back to the woman, leaning over her, trying to help by wiping blood off her head, saying comforting words to her. Now others arrive, having heard the commotion. Someone shouts, “Call the police! Get an ambulance!”

  An authoritative voice clamors, “Let me through, let me through.” The owner of the voice is a large man, someone who obviously enjoys his food. His face seems chubby and jolly, though his eyes are hard, as if he’s seen the shady side of life. A thin ring of grayish black hair circles his otherwise bald head. He wears an apron over his three-piece black, pin-striped suit.

  “Philomena,” he says, “are you all right?”

  She reaches her hand out to him, and abruptly falls unconscious.

  Over hot delicious cappuccinos and hard Italian rolls and butter, the girls are officially thanked for saving Philomena Pasquale’s life by this man, who introduces himself. “I am Don Giovanni, father to all, of Mulberry Street. “This is my Ristorante Firenze. We specialize in the best gnocchi in all of New York City and opera every evening at nine.”

 
The girls look around and mumble their appreciation. The cafe is small, but intimate. The walls are hung with pastoral pictures of the old country. The tables are covered with brighter- than-white starched tablecloths. Each table has an empty round wine bottle tied with raffia string and a candle stuck in it. The Muzak is playing the theme from The Godfather.

  Ida asks about the old lady. Don Giovanni shrugs. “Philomena Pasquale, eighty-eight years of age. She lives here in Little Italy all her life, since 1919.”

  Ida can’t resist asking, “Why was she sleeping on the church steps? Is she a homeless person?”

  Don Giovanni puffs his huge chest out. “Never! In Little Italy, we take care of our own. Philomena—how do you say it—she is a bit eccentric? Her whole family lives here, but in 1963, there is a big family fight and she moves out on them. She has anger of them all. She refuses to live with them, so she sleeps in front of the church in good weather and in the vestibule in bad. This is to shame them in front of everybody. The street provides her with blankets and much food.”

  Bella is impressed. “Since 1963? Wow! That must have been some fight.”

  The front door opens with a jingle of the overhead bell.

  The police have arrived.

  One is big and brawny, the other shorter but also brawny. They both have black hair and olive skin. They are both Italians and Don Giovanni knows them. Waiters rush over and immediately bring the cops tiny demitasse cups of espresso.

  “So, what happened here, Don G?” asks the bigger one, whom Don G. refers to as Sal, as he takes dainty sips of his espresso.

  “The poor-box robber finally hit our street. We watch for him day and night, but with the festival keeping us so busy, he caught us off guard. He finally hit our church and poor Philomena was in his way and he beat her up.”

  “No!” says Rocco, the other cop, crossing himself, shocked.

  The Don nods. “She’s at St. Vincent’s. If it wasn’t for these nice lady tourists here, she’d be at Pasquale’s Funeral Home.”