Going in Style

by Robert Grossbach

  Al doesn’t worry. For a month he sells Christmas trees, then lands a bartending job at the Bilt-more Hotel in Manhattan. He is still lovable, still a free spender, still enjoys a good time. Twice a week, after work, he and a bunch of friends make the rounds of the whorehouses on MacDougal Street in the Village. One day in 1943, Al spots a face that is wrenchingly familiar.

  “Mary?”

  The woman, on her way to one of the bedrooms with a john, tries unsuccessfully to hide.

  “Mary Doyle?”

  They talk. He asks why she stopped writing, why she never answered his letters. She explains how she met someone else, married when she was seventeen, divorced, and married again. “He was killed at Pearl Harbor,” she says vacantly.

  Al sees her a few times, but feels vaguely uncomfortable, and finally he breaks it off. The fact is, a lot of girls are crazy about him, and he is having too much of a good time to think about settling down with anybody. The metal plate in his head (from the butting accident) has made him ineligible for the Army; while America’s young men are overseas defending the country, he will see to it that their women are kept happy. In 1952, a tiny article on page twenty of the Mirror catches his eye: Prostitute Murdered in Village. Al sees the name: Mary Doyle. Stabbed to death by a customer. His melancholia lasts for nearly a week.

  Always, he is a ladies’ man, but always he remains unattached. Photographs show him on city beaches—Orchard, Brighton, Coney Island—with a beauty on each arm. He bartends at many different hotels, many different restaurants. He is happy-go-lucky, a free spirit, “no permanent obligations,” as he puts it. In 1979, Al is seventy two years old. He has high blood pressure, arteriosclerosis, and frequent headaches. He still has no permanent obligations. His income from Social Security is 237 dollars a month.

  5

  The Glass Hill

  Three Puerto Rican kids entered the car at the Thirty-sixth Avenue station and immediately set up shop near one of the doors. While the oldest, a teenager, knocked out a furious beat on a set of dilapidated bongos, the other two—a boy and a girl who appeared to be less than ten—did a frantic series of shimmies, tap steps, cartwheels and handsprings down the center aisle. Then the younger children made their way among the passengers, collecting the proffered coins.

  “How old are you?” asked Al, when the boy stood in front of him.

  The child had the honey-brown skin of the Caribbean Latin. He wore a loose, torn cotton shirt that exposed his dark, skinny chest, and one front tooth had been jaggedly broken off. He held up nine fingers.

  “Nine?” Al said.

  The boy nodded shyly.

  “Barely older than Kevin,” muttered Al. “You dance very well,” he added loudly.

  “Come on,” Joe prodded, “give him his dough. He’s waitin’ to go to the next car.”

  Al, who had been groping in his pocket for a quarter, decided on a dollar. He put the bill in the boy’s hand. Imagine if it was Kevin, he thought. Go-in’ through trains like this.… These kids probably don’t eat if they don’t get a certain amount of money.

  “Gracias, senor,” said the boy.

  “You’re a good lad,” said Al. He reached out to pat the boy’s head, but the child had already moved on.

  “Probably make a fortune, those kids,” said Joe, when the troupe had disappeared into the next car.

  “There’s the germ of Joe’s next idea,” said Willie. “The Three Dancin’ Old Men. Al, you can play the ocarina, while me an’ Joe does a soft-shoe in the aisles.”

  “Sounds good,” said Al.

  The subway train rocked and rumbled on its way to Thirty-ninth Avenue. It was late morning, past the rush hour, and not too many people were riding. The inside and outside of the car were covered with elaborate graffiti. Willie scanned the messages, which were mostly obscene insults, and was amazed, not by their subject matter but by the artistry with which they had been created. Giant red, blue, and yellow letters, painted by seemingly accomplished calligraphers, covered almost all the wall and ceiling areas. It seemed strange that such gifted artists chose to express only the most banal sentiments.

  “Willie?”

  “Wha?” Willie looked up as he felt Joe’s elbow nudging him.

  “It’s great to be doing something, huh?”

  Willie’s expression remained pensive.

  “Come on,” chimed in Al. “Admit it.”

  Willie raised his eyebrows slightly. “All right, I admit it. But only because you’re forcing me.” His smile was barely noticeable.

  At the station, a very skinny old man entered the car. He was carrying a paper shopping bag. His chest was so concave, and his back so hunched, that he looked like a question mark without the dot. When the doors closed, he tottered toward a seat.

  “I hope I never look like that,” whispered Joe.

  “You do look like that,” said Al.

  Joe punched him lightly on the arm. As the car lurched, the old man stumbled. Quickly, Al leaned forward to steady him. The train accelerated just as the man began to regain balance; once again he fell back, and once again Al gave him support. Al remembered a children’s story he’d recently read to Colleen; it was about a beautiful princess marooned on top of a glass hill. Would-be saviors would mount furious upward charges, only to slide sadly and inexorably back to the bottom.

  Al stood up and put his arm around the old man’s shoulders. “Damn motonnen nowadays,” he said. “They don’t teach ‘em how to drive proper anymore.” He steered the man toward a seat.

  “I’m going shopping,” said the man. His voice was a thin, dry rasp.

  “I see,” said Al.

  “I’m seventy-three years of age.”

  “Nice,” said Al. He waited till the old fellow was comfortably settled before returning to Joe and Willie.

  “Thank you,” the man called after him.

  Al waved. “Too bad we can’t take him along with us,” he said to Joe.

  “Too old,” said Joe.

  “He’s younger than you.”

  “He’s too young, then. He can barely move. I think in a strong breeze he’d blow away like so much dust.”

  “A shame,” said Al.

  Joe shrugged. “What can you do? I felt like him two days ago.”

  The train crossed over the Queensboro Bridge on the way to Manhattan. Far below, even in the bright sunshine, the East River was a cloudy blue-brown, gentle swells too muddy to reflect much light. Barges and tugs dotted the length of the waterway; ten thousand toy cars clogged the East River Drive. Ahead, the sky was crowded with the thrusting spires of the city.

  “I used to swim in that river,” said Willie.

  “You did?” said Al.

  “Sure. When I was a kid. We lived in Long Island City then, about a block from this bridge. Every summer afternoon you’d have maybe twelve, fifteen kids in the water.”

  “Bet it was a lot cleaner then,” said Joe.

  “Oh, it was cleaner,” agreed Willie, “but you’d still have the river rats to look out for. Sometimes I’d raise my face from the water, and next to me would be this big, ugly snout—large as cats they were—twitching, covered with fur.”

  “Scared the hell outa you, I’ll bet,” said Joe.

  “Nah, we was used to it,” said Willie. “We’d use the breast stroke, push ‘em away with our arms.” He paused, remembering, feeling the cool water lapping against his ribs, hearing the shouts of his friends. “The real danger was the current,” he said. “It would carry you down toward the harbor, and some days it was pretty strong. Most times, of course, we’d just go with it, swim back to the Queens shore further down or catch the tip of Roosevelt Island. One friend of mine didn’t make it though.”

  “He died?”

  “They found his body two days later. My friend, Frankie Calmani. He was eleven years old.”

  “That was too bad, Willie.”

  Willie nodded. “It was a long time ago,” he said. “A long time ago.”


  They walked south and west, heading generally downtown, their path pretty much aimless, determined mainly by which traffic lights happened to change.

  “I hear they may close this place,” said Al, when they passed the Radio City Music Hall.

  “Geez, I hope not,” said Joe. “I used to go here with my kids.”

  “That’s the problem,” said Al. “People wanna see adult movies these days. Nobody cares about the children anymore.”

  “Tell you,” said Joe, “the thing my son used to like best was the electric hand driers in the men’s room downstairs. He wouldn’t even care about the movie. The girls would be watchin’ the picture an’ he’d say, ‘Daddy, take me down,’ an’ we’d go to that men’s room, an’ he’d press the buttons on every damn drier in the place. That was his big enjoyment.”

  They turned down Sixth Avenue, then cut over toward Broadway.

  “It’s a different era now,” said Willie, as they paused under the marquee of the Belasco Theater. “City’s dyin’. Middle class is movin’ out, government can’t pay its bills, Bronx and Brooklyn turnin’ to bombed-out graveyards… I think the whole thing’s gonna collapse on our heads.”

  “Not my head,” said Joe. “I’ll be gone.”

  They reached Broadway. “There!” Willie.

  They reached Broadway. “There!” Willie pointed. “There’s what’s replaced your Radio City and your legitimate stage.”

  Joe sighted along Willie’s shaky index finger. “The Adventures of Marla?” he said.

  “Sex shows,” affirmed Willie.

  They approached the Honeybunch Theater, darting glances at the explicit, lurid photos outside.

  “Pornography,” said Willie. “It got its place—I ain’t no prude—but it makes an area cheap. Brings it down.”

  “Let’s go in,” said Al.

  “I’ll wait outside,” said Willie. “I’d be ashamed someone should see me coming from a place like this.”

  Al laughed. “Come on, Willie, we was just teasing you. We got serious work to do.”

  “Glad to hear it,” said Willie, as they moved on.

  “We’ll catch this on the way back,” said Joe.

  At the corner, a crowd was gathered on the sidewalk, blocking pedestrian traffic in both directions. A bearded man in a white sheet stood on a wooden box, gesticulating wildly. The onlookers would occasionally gesture back, occasionally break into laughter.

  “They will tumble at your feet!” shouted the orator. “Mark my words: The earth shall tremble at its core and the orifices of sin and defilement will be rent asunder!” He scanned the crowd, his long hair brushing his shoulders, his eyes smoldering.

  “Orifices means holes,” said Willie to Al. “Don’t orifices mean holes? I think he used the wrong word.”

  “He meant edifices,” said a well-dressed man next to Willie.

  “See that?” said Joe. “Whyn’t you go up an’ take over from him, Willie? You could do just as good.”

  “Maybe I will,” said Willie.

  “God will cast a pall over the land!” shouted the orator. “He will drive out the purveyors of filth, those who would bestialize the human body, and pitch them into a damnation of eternal, unendurable agony! And thus will those who delight in the carnal pay the price with their own flesh!”

  Joe squinted. “On second thought,” he said, “I don’t believe I will go back to that theater.”

  “Let’s get outa here,” said Willie. “This guy’s nuts.”

  They resumed their walk downtown. At Forty-third Street, halfway along the block, they passed a branch of the Chase Manhattan Bank. “For years,” said Al, “I thought I had a friend here. Then one day I went to get a loan.”

  Joe peered inside. “Two guards,” he noted. “Both with guns. That would be really tough.”

  “Forget it,” said Al.

  They wended their way back toward Broadway, where a veritable sea of people made walking as well as driving almost impossible.

  “Jesus,” said Joe, “don’t nobody work up here? I mean, we’re old men, we done our time, but what’s everyone else’s excuse? The whole world is out on the street.”

  They heard metallic, syncopated drumbeats. “Somethin’s over there causin’ the bottleneck,” said Joe. The clanky rhythms grew more distinct as they moved on downtown.

  “You know,” said Willie, “I don’t think I been in the city since I stopped driving the cab.”

  “You ain’t missed much,” said Joe.

  “I have,” said Willie. “The changes are slow, but they’re there. I see ‘em.”

  A young woman cut ahead of them. She was earing a clinging pink cotton blouse and tight, thin white slacks.

  “Look at that,” said an awed Willie. “You can see her drawers right through the pants.”

  “You’re supposed to,” said Joe. “That’s how they design ‘em these days.”

  “Why not just leave off the pants and walk around in the drawers?” said Willie.

  Al clicked his tongue. “I’ll tell you, it’s been a long time for me too. I forgot how many beautiful girls are around here.”

  “New York’s got the best lookin’ women in the world,” said Willie.

  “Lotta good it’s gonna do us now,” said Joe.

  “Yeah,” said Al, knowing that this time the teasing was simply the truth. “I suppose. Still, I kinda like to look at ‘em.”

  “Can’t arrest you for lookin’,” said Joe.

  They saw now the source of the hypnotic rhythms: four black treet musicians, a steel band. Silently, Al directed Joe’s attention to Willie, who was smiling vacantly and gently bouncing his head in time to the music. A moment later, Al himself was caught-up in the cadences. Gradually, his walk shifted to a kind of home-made-mambo-Jackie Gleason shuffle. Joe began to clap, and several people turned to watch. They were directly in front of the musicians now, and Al began to dance around a slightly embarrassed, but smiling Willie.

  “Fred Astaire!” shouted Joe. “Fred and Ginger, right here!”

  The crowd joined Joe in his clapping, and this seemed to encourage Al. He two-stepped around Willie with increasing speed. His elbows and forearms flew in all directions. The band, grinning, began to alter their rhythms to conform with his. One of the musicians left his drum and joined Al in his orbit around Willie. After a moment, the three of them joined hands and did a rough approximation of a Zorba-the-Greek dance, with Joe providing the handkerchief. The crowd was now applauding steadily.

  Finally, with a grand flourish and drumsticks tossed in the air, the musicians brought their song to a pounding climax. Al raised both hands in the air, then bowed deeply to the appreciative gathering. He, Joe, and Willie all slapped hands with the musicians. Dollar bills littered the street in front of the drums. Amid the crowd, a uniformed policeman applauded along with everyone else.

  “Man,” said the drummer who’d left his instrument to dance, “you gahs terrific. You the best.”

  “We enjoyed it,” said Willie.

  “It was great,” puffed Al, still short of breath. Droplets of perspiration beaded his forehead. His cheeks and neck were flushed.

  “We best team up,” said -the drummer. “We get next to a heap o’ bread.”

  “I was thinkin’ the same thing,” said Al, smiling. “We’ll have our agent give your agent a call.”

  Joe and Willie and Al began to walk again. The crowd had largely dispersed, but several people waved to Al and patted him on the back.

  “I was gettin’ worried there for a second,” said Joe, as they reached Fortieth Street.

  “Why’s that?” said Willie.

  “Well, in the first place, I figured maybe you and Al would take that drummer serious. I mean, with you admirin’ them kids in the subway, an’ then I could see you were eatin’ up the attention of that crowd… I figured, these guys ain’t cut out for stealin’, they oughta be in show biz.”

  “And what’s the second place?” said Al.

 
“What second place?”

  “You said, ‘in the first place’ about why you was worried. That means there’s another reason.”

  “It does?’ said Joe blankly. “I dunno. I forgot.”

  Al bared his teeth. “Jesus!” he said forcefully. “I hate that! My mother, God rest her soul, used to do that all the time. Sometimes I’d wait the whole day to see what she had in mind, and she’d never deliver. Tor one thing,’ she used to say, and then there’d never be another thing. It drove me nuts.”

  “We can see,” said Willie.

  “Wait a minute, I just remembered the second place,” said Joe.

  Al shut his eyes and muttered a mock prayer. “Thank you, O Lord, for grantin’ this unworthy soul his poor wish.”

  “My second worry was that you or Willie or both would suddenly keel over an’ drop dead from heart attacks. Then who’d I have to help me pull off the job?”

  “Listen,” said Willie, “when I was twenty-nine, I went to some doctor on the Grand Concourse. He examines me for a half hour with a stethoscope cold as an ice cube. ‘You got six months to live,’ he tells me. ‘Maybe a year if you’re lucky.’ I say, ‘What’s the trouble?’ He says, ‘Rheumatic heart, young man. When’d you have the fever?’ I say, ‘What fever? I hardly been sick more’n three days in my life.’ He says, ‘You got two valves stuck nearly shut. You musta had it.’ I tell him I feel fine except for I got this cough. An’ I never had no rheumatic fever. He says, ‘Yeah, yeah, you had it. A lotta people from the other side had it, they don’t even know it.’ I explain I was born in the Bronx. He tells me, ‘Don’t matter anyhow, you’ll be dead inside a year.’” Willie smiled. “I guess he was a little off.”

  Al nodded. “Just goes to prove my point.”

  “What point?” said Joe. “You didn’t make any point.”

  “I didn’t?”

  “You ain’t said anythin’ sensible in a week, if you must know,” said Joe.