Adrian Del Valle - Diego's Brooklyn Page 2

  “A dollar five.”

  “Ju forget to pick up dee milk?”

  “I’ll go in a minute, I have to use the bathroom first.”

  D’avino’s Grocery sat on the adjacent corner, a store owned by an old Italian couple. Holdovers from the neighborhood’s better days, the D’avino’s carried on like always, despite their advanced age. They were friendly to everyone even though they lived through the trials of two world wars and escaped the takeover of their country at the hands of Mussolini and the Nazi’s.

  They used to sell a lot of sausages and cheese, hung from the ceiling in rows. Back then, Olives and pickles came right out of barrels, as well as a dozen forms of pasta. These days, loose rice and various kinds of beans sell by the pound. Plantains and a root called yucca are prominently displayed below ripe bananas, apples and oranges. Puerto Rican spices and the cheaper cuts of meat, like chicken and salted cod, sell well. Unpackaged coconut macaroons on wax paper lay on the counter by the register. Guava, mango, and coconut juice in single serve cans were popular with the newer residents.

  Outside, The Daily News and New York Times sit at the forefront. To the right are the Mirror and Post, the latter two, sheepishly displaying copied headlines with steel paper weights stamped with The Daily News logo. Below those are the Spanish newspapers, la Prenza and el Diario.

  Inside, fly paper hangs from the ceiling with nearly every square inch black with bug eyed carcasses. Lying on a towel at the end of the counter, a fat cat sleeps the afternoon away. In a back room, parakeets, Luciano and Annabella, chirp from the front kitchen of a rear apartment where the D’avino’s live.

  Diego pet the cat while waiting for the line at the counter to shorten. He finally took a spot behind the last customer, a quart of milk under his arm.

  “Ay a Dieg, Howsa you motha?”

  “Oh…uh, fine, Mrs. D’avino. Here’s for the milk.”

  “Howsa you lika theesa summa. You havena gooda time? No more of the school, ay?”

  “No…we finished school a month ago, already.”

  “A whola month? My, howza the times shes a flies, no? Here iza you change.”

  “Thanks Mrs. D’avino. I gotta go, bye.”

  As Diego exited the store, the owner called after him. “Hey, taka care of you self. Sayza hello to Ana for me?”

  Outside, ol’ Bill finished up sweeping the front of the store. At six foot four, the robustly built black man from the Deep South never lost any of his muscular tone despite an advanced age of 75 plus. His hard lined, craggy face tells of a difficult life of laborious jobs. There were many of those and none of them paid much. Like a lot of his generation, children had to leave school to help provide for their families. School was a luxury and poverties grip hard to break away from. It was a vicious cycle. No food on the table meant everyone had to avail themselves for work. Back in the south, children labored in coal mines, sweat shops, or out in the fields for very little, and whatever they made went to the household. Without a solid education, the cycle carried on from generation to generation.

  All Bill and the missus had these days to show for it was a furnished room in a basement and a paltry social security check to live on. Surplus Government food, dispensed once a month, helped: a block of American cheese, a can of peanut butter, a brick of butter, 1 five pound bag of rice and a 2 pound box of corn meal.

  Their furnished room is in a three story brick over on Bergen Street, one block away. They were lucky. It’s an absentee landlord building and only three steps down from street level. They have a worn sink, an old noisy fridge, a stove with two burners and a large bed in the corner of the room. Bill even had the use of the yard, though it had been over grown with weeds when they first moved in. With Beulah’s help, they grow vegetables and blueberries. The little extra money Bill makes, he gets from doing chores around the neighborhood.

  “Hi, Mr. Jackson.”

  “Diego, what all yawls up to? I ain’t seen you in days.”

  “Nuthin’ much, Mr. Jackson. Picked up a dollar five downtown, today.”

  “You did? Now, how in tarnation you do that? Missus Davina ain’t paid me but twenty five cent to do all o’ this here.”

  “With a lock…you know…the bubble gum thing.”

  “Oh…oh, oh…yawl went fishin’. Yeah, I got ya. Well, ah needs to do somethin’. I gots to pay my ‘lectric bill. It be two months late and the missus cayn’t be without no ‘lectric. And old Geezer the cat needs to eat, too. Momma been feedin’ him scraps, but thems cats got to have theys meat, and I ain’t seen a mouse in the house since the winter time. I do believe that little bugger went and et ever one of them critters.”

  “I can help you make a little money, Mr. Jackson.”

  “Yawl can? Now how do you propose to do that, son? It’s nice of you to offer, but you ain’t nothin’ but a young sprout.”

  “No…really Mr. Jackson, we can do it together.”

  “Bill!”

  “Mr. Bill, sir.” I know a lot of ways…”

  “No, just plain Bill. Just call me Bill, okay, Diego?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “I’m sorry son, what was it yawl was sayin’, now?”

  “Oh…uh…there are a lot of bus stops and subway stations I haven’t even touched, yet. We can go partners, fifty, fifty on everything.”

  “Fifta, fifta? Well, that’s mighty generous of yawl.”

  Bill gave it a moment’s thought. “You know what? I think it just might work. Heck, at this point, I’ll tries anathang.”

  “Sure it’ll work and I have a lot of other ways to make spare change, too.”

  Bill’s arms folded across his chest as he looked warily at Diego. “Now, Is they legal son? You know…the good Lord…”

  “No, really. It’s all on the up and up. We can make lots of spare change.”

  “I believe you know what you’re sayin’, son. Our wallets are going to grow fatter than a happy tic in a barrel o’ blood. Ain’t that right, Diego?”

  “Ha ha! I sure hope so.”

  “Well…if’n you’re a goin’ to be ma partna, then you gots to come and meet momma for her approval. Is that okay with you?”

  “Sure, Mr. Bill…, I mean Bill. I have to run home real quick first to drop off this milk, but I’ll be right back.”

  “Takes your sweet time there, now. And say hello to your Momma for me. Ain’t no rush, I got to finish up here, anyways.”

  Bergen Street is a narrow and busy roadway, too narrow for the two way street it was. Named after a Dutch settler back in the 1600’s, the cobble stones beneath the street had long ago been paved over with asphalt. Here and there, where blacktop is missing, the stones show through.

  This is also the Bergen Street trolley route. The bus was a hybrid cross on wheels and runs on power from electric lines overhead. Kids liked to hitch free rides on the back bumper. Diego even did that himself. Once in a while, a kid would hold onto the pole ropes that connect the bus to the guide wires overhead, the source of the vehicle’s power. Nothing but electric current held the connection together, and if too much weight was applied on the pole ropes, the connection separated and the bus lost power.

  The driver, interupted from his hypnotic trance on the double line, now had to exit the bus to reconnect the power. This was done by maneuvering the pole ropes to guide the shoes back onto the electric lines

  “That’s Mommas place right there. It’s the building next to that hallelujah church. Just listen to them a sangin’ insod.”

  Nothing but a store front, the Pentecostal church door stood wide open and alive with song. Tambourines shook in energetic hands, with Spanish lyrics shouted loudly in unison. A few overzealous patrons had fallen to the floor and were either passed out or begging for salvation and exoneration for their sins.

  “Come on in, son, meet old Momma. Say, Momma, I got here a frien’ o’ mine.”

  Diego stepped down the three steps and passed through the outside door into a long hallway. It creake
d closed behind him with the help of a rusty attached spring and barely hung on to the wooden door like an afterthought. He followed Bill to the back end of the house and into the musty air of the Jackson’s furnished room.

  “Well now, who all we got here?” said a deeply wrinkled, kind faced Beulah. Her eyes smiled as she tried to focus through her cataracts, her head, turned to the side for a better view.

  “This here be Diego…ma frien’ from Dean Street.”

  Beulah laid a washed dish on a towel, wiped her worn hands on her plaid apron, and in a high pitched voice, said, “Dean Street? Well, I is pleased at meeting yawl, Diega.”

  “Me too, ma‘am. I mean…I’m pleased to meet you, too, Mrs. Beulah.”

  “Oh, shesh! Just Beulah, that’s all. So, what’re you doing hangin’ ‘roun’ with this ol’ troublemaka here?”

  “Bill wanted me to meet you, ma‘am.”

  “We come to see you, that‘s all, Mamma.”

  “Want some corn braid, Diega?”

  “Sure ma’am.”

  “I’ll puts some butter on it for ya. Well sit on down and set a spell,” Beulah added, impatience in her voice.

  Looking around himself, Diego picked the corner of a well-used couch and sank into it. Springs popped somewhere below him, frightening a couple of roaches that fell from the bottom and then scurried across the floor.

  “Comftable ain’ it?” Beulah said. Papa found it right outsod. I bet you it belonged to that church next doe, ain’t that so, Mista Jackson?”

  “Sho ‘nough is, Missus Jackson.”

  Beulah crossed the multi flowered linoleum, though much of the pattern had long ago worn through. In places all that showed was the dull, reddish-brown base from the underside, and the imprint of the floor’s wooden boards.

  In the corner of the room, a bed, consisting solely of a mattress and box spring, lay neatly made up.

  She handed Diego the corn bread on the only saucer that wasn’t chipped.

  “How come you ain’t in school these days?”

  “We’re on vacation.”

  “Vacation? Wale ah’ll be! I guess that’s proper. Can’t be all work and no play.”

  Bill interrupted. “We is a goin’ into a partnership on er, a…a, a business ventcha.”

  “What kind a business ventcha you talkin’ ‘bout, Papa Jackson?”

  “Work ventcha! We’s is a goin’ to have a root. Goin’ to cover all of thems bus stops what’s got them thare grating thangs peoples be standing on and dropping they change. Ain’t that so, son?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Jackson. We’re going to make some money and split it fifty, fifty,” said Diego.

  Beulah’s eyes lit up. She energetically raised an arm up and slapped her thigh in jest. “Fifta, fifta? Well glory be! We all gonna be rich, now ain’t we, Mista Diega?”

  The boy caught Beulah’s wink. “Well, ha ha, no, not exactly.”

  “How’s that corn braid?”

  “Real good, Mrs. Jackson. I mean, Beulah, ma‘am.”

  “Here, take this piece on home with ya.”

  “You mind if I give it to my mom?”

  “Well shucks no! Here’s another piece…let me stick it in with the other one.”

  Two blocks away on Bond Street, Officer Bob Scanlon, huskily built with a pot belly and craggy face, turned the corner and headed up Dean Street. He’s nearing Leroy’s father, Thomas, who is in front of his house sweeping the sidewalk.

  “Afternoon officer, good weather we got here today.”

  “Humph!” Scanlon kept looking straight ahead.

  Thomas was left staring at the back of the cop’s head as he passed by, and as usual, there had been no reply.

  He frowned. Why do I bother?

  Next door, Laura Swift emptied her mailbox at the top of the stoop and closed the lid. “Hi, Bob. I saw you at Saint Paul’s Sunday. You were standing in the back of the church.”

  “How you doin’, Laura, how’s Joe?”

  “Good! He’s home early from work.”

  “That church was crowded yesterday. If you get there a minute late, you don’t get a seat.” Seeing Thomas go inside, Scanlon covered his mouth and softly growled, “The neighborhood’s going to pot really fast. All this welfare moving in and the likes of people like him buying up the houses cheap. It sure ain’t like it used to be.”

  “You’re right, there, Bob. But he’s not that bad for a colored man. I guess the Jamaicans might be a better quality, if you know what I mean?”

  “Nah, they all suck. The jail’s full of his kind. Them and the Puerto Ricans. If Hitler was here, he would know what to do with them.”

  “Well…I…I can’t really say, I…well…I really don’t mind so much, as long as they don’t bother me.”

  “That’s just it! You gotta nail everything down. They don’t know how to live right. If it was up to me, I’d ship the whole lot of them back to Africa. And the Puerto Ricans, too. They can go back to their freakin’ island. I don’t trust none of ‘em.”

  “Well, eh…I…I don’t really know what to…”

  “Yeah, sure, take it easy. Say hello to Joe for me.”

  “All right Bob, enjoy the good weather.”

  Approaching the corner, the cop crossed over to the other side of the street. He passed Diego at the broad sidewalk in front of D’avino’s grocery while looking around for a violation. Neither one looked at the other.

  Cow bells jingled behind as the cop entered the store. Standing on the scuffed, plank floor in the middle of the aisle, he stared at Mr. D’avino, who looked back with worry from behind the counter.

  “Well…where is it?” The cop demanded.

  “Hey, looka Officer a Scanaleen…I’m a know I’m a late for the money, but you come a tomorrow and I feex everything.”

  “That ain’t gonna fly with the captain and you know it.”

  “It’s a okay. No worry. I’m a …”

  “I’m a what? That envelope is supposed to be in my hand every Tuesday. Today’s Wednesday, already. How come I don’t have this problem with Herzog on the next block? Hey, you know what? Come over here you old guinea bastard. How many times do we gotta do this?”

  At that moment, Mrs. D’avino exited the back room. “Pleasa, leava my husband alone. We pay tomorrow.”

  Scanlon scowled. He opened the red lid to the trunk shaped, Coca Cola fridge and pulled out a Yoo Hoo. He popped the bottle open in the machine’s built-in bottle opener, with the cap dropping into a collector at the bottom. Taking a sip, he said, “One more day. Otherwise, we can’t be responsible if somebody should break that nice big window and torch the place while you’re sleepin‘.”

  “Yes, offeecer. Tomorrow eesa no problem.”

  “Yeah! Two o’clock! Don’t’ forget!”

  “Yawl got that gum?” Bill asked Diego.”

  “I sure do…and the lock.”

  An odd couple, the two made their way up Nevins Street—Bill, all of 6’4” and Diego, a chest level, 5’1”.

  “That old Herzog’s deli sure ‘nough has lots o’ customas. That’s where the ‘spensive stuff be, ham and all that. I don’t neva go in that sto’. It is way too ‘spensive for me.”

  “I go to the Italian grocery, myself,” said Diego. “We don’t buy ham, hardly.”

  “Why…dontcha likes it?”

  “Well…yeah! Say, if we do real good today, you and I could buy a whole half pound of ham, right, Mr. Jackson? I mean, Bill.”

  “Sure son. We might end up buyin’ all theys hams whats theys got in that ol’ sto’”

  “We can have a feast at my place.”

  “Well now, that’s a deal, but let’s see how wees do fust. Can’t be a countin’ no chickens before theys hatches. Gotta watch out for that ol’ fox, don’t ya know. He always be hangin’ ‘round the coup when you’re least expectin’ it, and before ya knows it? BAM! He’s got another chicken in his mouth. I still got that ’lectric bill to take care o’, too, so I don’t righ
tly knows about no ham. At least, not for a while.”

  It took the entire day to cover the rest of the gratings along that same side of Flatbush Avenue toward Grand Army Plaza. Minus the subway fare back, they netted: 31 tokens, 17 quarters, 12 dimes and 6 nickels. Three dollars and fifty three cents apiece; not a bad take for the first day out.

  The following day they picked up where they left off, the other side of Flatbush Avenue where they worked their way back toward the bridges. By the end of the week, bill had half of his electric bill covered. Eventually, however, the subway gratings dried out.

  “We needs to find another way to make money, Diego.”

  “I know, I’ve been kind o’ thinking about that. If we can get our hands on an old baby carriage, we could make a wooden box for it and help people carry groceries home for a tip.”

  “Well, that’s a fine idea. Now you’re using that ol’ grey stuff in that head of yours. I’ll get busy on the box.”

  “Okay, and I think I know where we can get us a carriage.”

  Wednesday 10:22 A.M.

  Clang! Bang! Crash!

  “Diego, wassup?” said Louie, from behind the truck.

  “Hi, Louie?” Diego turned from him and yelled toward the driver’s window. “Anything today, Petey?”

  “Yeah, hi kid. Nah! I ain’t got nuttin’ for you today, sorry.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. Thanks anyway.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  Louie shouted at his partner. “Hey Fat Tony, get your head outa the freagin’ bags, huh? Jeez! We ain’t never gonna get finished. So, how’s it going there, Diego?”

  “Real good, Louie. Say, do you ever find baby carriages?”

  “Baby carriages? Who’s gonna have a baby?”

  “No! Nobody! I need it for myself.”

  “Aintcha kinda too young to be thinkin’ about those things?”

  “Oh…no, it’s not for a baby. I need it to make money.”

  “Now, how are you gonna make money with a baby carriage? Hey, Fat Tony…you hear dis?”

  “Yeah, I hoid,” Fat Tony answered. “So what!”

  “The kid needs a baby carriage. You had a bunch a dem bambino things yourself, didn’t you, ha ha?”

  Tony’s head reemerged from deep inside a shopping bag. “Very funny. Yeah, sure, I’ll look in my basement when I get home. I got a carriage down there somewhere. The Cadillac of carriages. You’re gonna like that one if I find it, Diego.”