A Matter of Love in da Bronx

by Paul Argentini

  Closing the front door carefully, he left a brooklet behind him on the detritus covered concrete floor, maneuvering the obstacle course toward the cutting table. He stripped down to what was decent, and if not dry, damp. What remained were bare feet, moist cuffs rolled up above ankles, damp undershirt--somewhat as he looked sweatbathed and torpid percolating in the summertime broil. Chilled now, though, he shivered and shook spastically, uncontrollably. He made a step, not thinking, and took a tack in his heel. Yelping, hopping. Ouch. Tail against the worktable, gentle probing fingers found the barby blue, taking the hero's route; he pulled it smartly and flung it dripping red to the room. He felt he should swear, though it wasn't his habit. Fu. Fu. Squeeze hard. Fucking bastard! Fucking rain! He apologized to the Rain. To the Air. To unknown Deities. Everyone understood. It was madding. Maddening, too. He winced more at being sensible and slipping back into his clammy shoes. What about breakfast? He'd make do the sandwich. He checked the armpit pocket in the coat. Dry. Reverently, he two-handedly raised the fat-spotted host from deep within to eye level, placing the double-wrapped carcassed body and juices of the pork at the far corner of the cutting table out of the way but squarely in the path of a rising appetite. Coat, hat, shirt, sweater, socks he asked, will you be drip dried by quitting time? He could go bowling, even out for pizza and beer, in cold, wet clothes, but no, not ever could he go and sit in the movies. Even a really hot show.

  Sam looked down at himself and smiled.

  One potato, two potatoes, sad potato all! How would he ever make it through the day? Like he did all the others. He’d open his hole. Wide. He'd hump out the work. Work! Work! It was his salvation. He'd go and grind, and for once he'd make the quota. He'd show him. “Him” was the one person in the whole and entire world who might conceivably give a shit for Sam Scopia.

  Him was Sol Youchah.

  He wore either a yarmulke or a spotless pearl grey homburg that matched his hair, and complimented the faded blue wash of distant-looking eyes. He had a huge, angular precipice of an arête for a nose with a tiny rip of a mark for a mouth; craggy lines in sunken cheeks--all framed with unbelievably enormous African elephant ears. He was tall, but so emaciated his old-man all-wool coat sweaters threatened to slip off his bent-like-an-overloaded-wire-hangar shoulders, down over his baggy-assed pants and onto the floor to his black, truant-officer clumpenklotzers. Always with a bow tie. He spoke with a balky accent, half-Bronx, half-Bessarabian; always in complete exclamation points.

  --You here!

  Sam first heard the two-syllable explosion as he was walking home from high school. Even at this tender age, he was already free of the world's demands, and ignored the command he heard. I don't need anybody, and nobody needs me. You can't take advantage of me because you think I need something. I need nothing! Leave me alone you strange and mysterious being of a grownup.

  --Ah nickel! You should feel sorry!

  Why should I feel sorry for you? Because you have a delivery to make and need someone to help lug the sofa and easy chair up two hard flights? Get someone else. Don't pick on me! What did you say? I should stop feeling sorry for whom? For me you say! Why you old mockey bastard! I'll take your lousy nickel. Why shouldn't I be mad?

  Because this is ah business, the old man said hurtfaced. Ah business is ah business. The contract was made, the job done, Sam paid.

  Sol made Sam show him where he lived, and told him to tell his mother what he said: This Saturday! Be ready quarter-to-seven o'clock! You come woik for me! You will make a good woikah!

  And he was a good worker. Not just because Sol was a willing and expert teacher who saw the value in a dedicated student. Not just because of the boy's fine Italian hand from a thousand years back that quickly demonstrated an able dexterity. And not just because he was a willing, quick-learning student. More it was because Sam was in need. He had a vast void to fill, and was desperate up to the moment he met the man on how to conquer the demon in and around him. Stickball, bike riding, ice skating, baseball, handball, swimming, and dozens of other doings were available to others, but not to this isolated lad. He was a straight "A" student, but didn't participate in a single extra-curricular school club or activity. He was considered a sainted scholar in Sunday school--for as long as he attended--and conceivably could've been primed and tutored for the priesthood if only they needed someone who could scare the BeJesus out of the Devil on looks alone! There was only so much studying he could do; only so many words to read in a day--until he found a passion in cookbooks. But, even they left an unbearable hollow. He found himself with a desperate need to do something about the dead and decaying time on his hands, and Sol offered salvation and work therapy. Sam gave more and more of his time to the shop. At first, it was just Saturdays. Then, telling his parents he would be out doing things with his friends, instead he'd be there on Sundays, too. Then, the school's vacation days. Then, from morning to night every day during the summer. From the beginning it wasn't a case of Sol inventing work for him to do. Each assignment was vital to the well being of the business which meant, primarily, of course, in the long run Sam's training. Sam's first assignment was to take tacks and staples out of furniture that had to be stripped and cleaned so it could be reupholstered. There were thousands of the little devils in all sizes and all degrees of difficulty to remove. Even Sol offered words of compassion; the task was one great big pain in the ass. Then, as the opportunity presented itself, Sol would teach Sam one small aspect of the trade, then another. Gradually, all the tools and materials and their application, the short-cuts and tricks of the trade became comfortably familiar to him. Soon, even before he started working for him full-time, Sol came around merely to check on his pupil's work; and, finally, the student, now a master mechanic, was showing the teacher some tricks of his own.

  Sam was in his third year of high school when he decided to quit school and work full time, much to the chagrin of his guidance counselor, Mr. Higgenbotham.

  --Sam! For Cry Sakes! You're I.Q. is 145! Higher than anyone else's in this whole school! You can be anything you want to be in the world! Anything! I can get you into any college in the country on a full scholarship! Doctor, lawyer, whadayawantabe? You're telling me your folks will let you quit school to be an apprentice upholsterer? Are they mad? Are you mad? No! I won't let you do it! He went on musing about many things, none of them valid, because he understood only the what, not Sam's anomalous reasons, the other side that tilted the scale. There wasn't one social reason, not one relationship of any meaning to stay in school. A self-isolated outcast who found the potential of being accepted the bed of hot coals on which he walked daily with less and less impunity and greater and greater danger of emotional immolation. Besides, his folks made it plenty clear they could use the money. Not some small bit of pressure coming from his only recognizable basis.

  Next, he told Sol he was quitting school, and wanted to work for him full time.

  Sol turned him down. No. There was no full-time work for him there.

  Sam stared hard at the sternfaced man. He didn't understand. He'd been around the old man long enough to know not to ask his reasons. Sol liked for Sam to figure things out for himself. Sam also knew he wasn't to plead, or ask again, he disdained wimpy petulance. Sol was a demanding boss who drew hard, sharply defined lines and never expected they would be begged or crossed. Ah bargain with him was Ah bargain! And on his word, one could build a ‘kessel,’ if not ah castle. He never once broke his word with Sam, and Sam never hedged one on him.

  --Vy you look me like dot? Is tellink you ever you have full-time job here? Promises ever? No hint of fog in the air with Sol. If Sam worked the long hours, he did so because he wanted to do so. There was no mention of it being idiotic to quit school. It was said quite clearly by his manner.

  Dejected, Sam left the shop to think on it.

  Later that afternoon, he returned with his mother.

  She marched to within six inches, toe to toe, of Sol; stretched herself to her greatest
height, elevated her chin until she was staring eyeball to eyeball, and, with pride taut on her face, told him: He's quitting school because the family needs the money. If he doesn't work for you, he'll work for someone else. You trained him. You should get the benefit.

  A slight shrug and Sam was hired with a bit of a nod. There was one condition, Sol called to her as she started for the door, the boy was to get his high school diploma, and be allowed to attend night school whenever and as long as he choose. Mamma Scopia turned away quickly, before the tears in her eyes could be seen. She answered, a bit of a nod.

  Sol handed the tack hammer in his hand to Sam. He pointed to the chair he was working on. To be done before the day was over. He worked on the quota system. Serious business meant serious quotas. Usually, it was something like: finish the sofa and the chair, order material, send for supplies, find out when we can deliver work done, put out the trash, and when--if--it's all finished today it's ah big bonus!

  Big bonus! Small bonus! Bogus bonus! Sam never collected so much as ah nickel in bonus money because he was never able to complete the quota of work Sol assigned. Sol told him once, big fish stay small in a little tank. But, the unattainable tasks didn't frustrate Sam--they challenged him! It was a hardbound fact that the more he tried to meet the quota, the absolutely less time he had to think of himself. That was his salvation. At night, he was almost too tired to eat, and when he slept, he slept the sleep of the dead. In the meantime, the shop's gross receipts rose accordingly.

  The fact of it didn't escape Sam.

  One of his night school courses was in bookkeeping which he used to supplement his own record keeping. He used his school loose leaf notebook as a diary. Every evening, before retiring, date, the day, the hours he worked, and the day's accomplishments. After several years, not only was he able to tell precisely how long a certain task would take, he knew pretty much what he was earning for Sol Youchah. It didn't take much to compare that with what he was paid. The difference was considerable, but Sam's consideration of it negligible. He needed the freedom Sol gave him to bury himself in work. He knew he wasn't overpaid, putting it kindly, but he wanted only what would satisfy his parents and their neverending financial emergency. When they groused about his salary, he'd approach Sol who was without exception amenable and sympathetic, almost, as if, he knew exactly what was going on. It was Sol's way, too, to express his good fortune to have such a dedicated, loyal, hardworker.

  If Sol was concerned about how long he could keep Sam, it was mentioned a little while after he left school when Sam offhandedly spoke of one day owning a shop of his own.

  --A shop for your own self! What crazy! All this be yours some day! Vat for ve need two shop? Through the years, the reply became standard repertoire.

  Of course they didn't need two shops. There were only nine days in the week, not ten; and worse, there was only one Sam Scopia. If there was! Then! There could even be a franchise! International! Either that, or find someone else who would work from dawn to dark, all week long and be forced to stay away from the shop on Sunday. Additionally, such a person would have to be satisfied with a pittance for such yeoman's work, quantitative and qualitative. And who else could understand so quickly so precisely what Sol meant in so few words? It was rare for the old man to wax eloquent, and he did under duress, with deep, weighty thoughts when he instinctively felt some words were needed for Sam to do battle against the forces of life. No encyclopedia was needed to plumb his world. Not that Sam was a groaner. On the contrary it was a rarity to sound with any line hooked with depression. Wasted life! Was the most he might say to himself unintentionally picked up by the old man? It might be a day, a week later, Sol, in a disassociative and abstruse manner, might speak of Emerson and self-reliance, or perhaps of the corrosiveness of self-deprecation, or even the mere transformation of arthritic, inanimate articles into decorative home delights. Didn't that make Sam feel useful? Indeed! To Sol. To his mother and father. Lo! Even to humanity. Not Sam to himself. Scratch encynopticity. Fulfillment was bedded in his importunate prayer he voiced firsthing in the morning and which ended his words and thoughts for the day, maybe tomorrow something happens that'll change my life.

  --Things sure are different today. He spoke to himself, as those who work alone are wont to do. He would have to meet the quota today if only to keep warm. Besides, Sol liked to find him at work when he came in, it seemed an assurance that the world was functioning, as it should, workers should be working, and bosses should be on time. That was another difference today. Sam knew it was past seven o'clock. Sol always came through the door just before seven to shout: --You here!

  --I hear. Sam would answer. Morning after morning the ritual. Even the picayune afforded him no relief from minddeadening ordinary repetitive repeating repitionrepetitionrepetition. Sam never knew if the greeting was a question or a sign of incredulity on Sol's part to actually find him still on the job; or, if he was merely testing him for his physical presence, or auditory acuity. Whatever, Sam acknowledged only that he heard the man, he could decipher his own conundrum. Fair, inasmuch as he gave him one of his own.

  Where was he? He's not here. Sol is missing. It's not every day a man breaks a near-two-decade-old habit! When he was going to be late, he'd announce. Did he announce yesterday that he wouldn't be there today? No. Sure? Yes. Did he have such a terrible memory as the bad joke went that he was like the old man who when he went to complain to his doctor couldn't remember why he was there. Try to remember, the doctor urged. Ah! Yes! I have trouble remembering! And how long has this been going on, came back the polite inquiry. To which the old man asked how long has what been going on? But what was worse was when he recalled his problem and told the physician the nature of his memory lapse especially embarrassing with his pant zipper. Not so bad, everyone now and then forgets to run their zipper up! Not so he, the old man explained, he would forget to run his down. No such thing in this matter. The old man never said a word about being late today. It didn't make it a calamity. It did make the day different. And how. It didn't change the work before him. He set to. There was no need to contemplate and consider. To re-determine yesterday's ending point to learn of today's starting point. To Sam, it was as if there was never an interruption. Almost it was like a grande musical portamento with the motion of his arm interrupted only for earthly necessities before continuing with the task at hand. He had to do the arms of a tuxedo couch, now up on the sawhorses. A pretty print. Dark blue background had climbing ivy with a dusty blue morning glories and bright red primroses. Someone else would have a difficult time to match the pattern climbing its way up and around, but not Sam. Vy bother? Was the question which came from the fact that it could be absolutely, positively guaranteed that the sofa could sit in its home for centuries and no one in its whole and entire life would notice, including other upholsterers who on seeing such craftsmanship would be embarrassed for their own work so why bother? Because if it's done right, it's done right forever; but even more simply, because he knows how to do it right; but in its simplest form, because he himself would know. If he wouldn't work any other way, and it took him the same amount of time why should he hear a complaint from the boss? A strange fact came to the forefront of his mind as his nimble fingers fashioned a thing of beauty: How little their personal lives entered into their business arrangement. Sam realized Sol knew he was an only child, and that he turned over his paycheck every week to his mother and father with whom he lived. Period. It wouldn't be difficult for Sol to guess about anything else, although he was extremely careful always never to lecture or make a comment that would betray him as a busybody, much as the aunt would say to Sam: You should be married! Have a family, which would unleash unseen daggers from those who held the leash to the keys to Sam's coffers. But Sol knew. Why else would a robust, healthy lad seek refuge in daylong backbreaking work without relief? Besides as Sam himself realized, didn't his affliction benefit Sol, too? So why would he say anything? But, really, that wasn't the point at all a
bout what they knew concerning each other's personal life. Was Sol married? He never actually said he was, but Sam would think it a solid bet. He heard him cry out in a condemnation of forgetfulness within Sam's hearing that he had to go see his "Bela." It was a minute, momentary thing, but recorded well in Sam's mind, so when he heard a somewhat similar term followed by the incomprehensible foreign tongue of Russia, he casually asked what it all meant. There was no way of knowing in the contact of these two men if Sol did or didn't know exactly what he was doing, but as it was done, it allowed them to share as two beings an unsharable secret. The definition was simple and clear: Belaya is a river; then, caught in a quiet click slipping away more by anima than sound, he ended...that overflows my heart.

  Sol? A sweetheart? Was he? Ever? Did he know the rapture of lying between the thighs of welcoming, giving warmth. This bony, obelisk of a man could give the heat and softness to inspire a fire deep in the bowels of a lover? What sort of an erection would he present? Daring and bold? Obsequious and catering? How would he do those moments when tenderness became throbbing thumps, pube to pube? the passion driving him to harder and deeper thrusts, did his shaft work so well it cleaved wide the responding flesh so it's work would be unerring, ramming hard the deephid uterus to respond to its plunging, spurting inoculations? And what of him when his nerves short-circuited to set his flesh to peaks on fire, his rectum puckering tight with each constriction, did he mumble weakly, gasp uncontrollably, or explode in a paroxysm of ecstatic improvisational godly imputations. He could find a partner, a mate; he could be a sweetheart; he could be a lover. The thought crossed the path it had taken in Sam's brain. It made him ask what kind of a world it was that could provide so lovingly for one who could win no prizes on any score, and not once come close for him. What was the charm? Did Sol have children? He didn't know. A religious man? It seemed so. On Friday afternoons, late, he would change into a smartly tailored pin stripe, white on white shirt with gold cuff links, a striking silver silk four-in-hand and a silk and mohair black chesterfield with black velvet collar. He would remove his yarmulke, and carefully aim and place his hat on his head at just the right angle with two hands. Without a word, he would wave Sam out of the place, and business at four o'clock ended for the day. Sol would depart for a place Sam knew not. His home address was on a tiny card taped to the bottom of the front door glass in case someone had to reach him, the owner, at the request of the police, but Sam never so much as glanced at it again after the first time years ago. What for? So, late on Fridays, Sam would leave the shop, and go to a restaurant in the west side of the Bronx where he had worked in the kitchen sometimes until the early morning hours. It was all he had to satisfy his lust for living. It was his holiday, and, just as interestingly, it was something that he knew Sol didn't know! Sol would never presume to ask where he went after the shop closed on Fridays.