A Rosedale Farms ice cream truck, a graffitied mess, or a traveling art show, depending on your view, approached Yankee Stadium, playing the same few notes over and over; my God, I’d hate to have to listen to that all day. The neighborhood kids who should have been in school were on the stoops chillin’,’ some doing a little weed.

Told my girl I’d be looking for work today, but I said that yesterday, so I’m not sure which today I was talking about. I was a dishwasher, my importance apparent to anyone who found other people’s food on their plates. My problem? Allergic to dishwater. Genetic even though the Social Security disability didn’t think so. Government. No friend of the people.

Before that I was a burger flipper. Could flip them behind my back and up to the ceiling. When it fell to the right height, I’d balance it on my nose and walk around like it was part of me. That usually got me a standing ovation from folks who were already standing. Stopped doing it during the lunch rush, crowd would watch me perform. Before you know it, it was time to get back to work and they hadn’t ordered a thing. Got fired. Was that the problem? No. Joey, my boss, felt he had the right. If he had a better handle on his wife, or if she didn’t like teenage boys, I’d still be a burger acrobat.

But just then I wasn’t thinking about work, no sir, not about that, was thinking everything looked all right with the world on this 90-degree April day, except, not ten feet away, under the noisy elevated subway of D train, the morning rush over, the lawyers in the nearby courthouse waiting for their cases to be called, the perps waiting to learn if they would be going home, some folks waiting to get unhitched, some getting hitched, ladies in white dresses unaware that the best part of their future husbands came with an expiration date, injured folk, or those claiming to be, wondering if the jury would be their Santa Claus, under the elevated subway of the D train near the courthouse where you’re as likely to see a unicorn as see a cop, was a twenty-year-old purse snatcher plying his trade on the oldest-looking, shortest, whitest-haired, most wrinkled, bony-fingered, four-eyed woman in the largest pink framed sunglasses I had ever seen. Her glasses, resting heavily on the bridge of her nose, were taller than she was.

They were doing a tug of war over a plastic purse with zebra stripes, artificial, I presume, and the question I had was, should I call 911 and wait for the police to not show up or walk away?

My ice cream was melting. I needed to make a decision before it became soup, so I flipped a quarter. I watched it rise and then lost it in the sun. Before I heard it drop, I saw the shortest, whitest-haired, most wrinkled, bony-fingered, woman in the largest pink framed sunglasses I had ever seen, her knees covered by a yellow floral summer dress look him over like he was a blouse she was thinking of buying. Then pow! Her knee. His pee shooter. Perfect landing.

She did it again. Then, one more time. I’m sure that hurt. I imagined seeing his dong tumble down his pants leg onto his formerly white Nike high top, then roll along the sidewalk like a hot dog without a bun before being scooped up by a rat.  The kind that testifies. Must of confused it for a Havana.

That would have been a good time for her to run, but her left leg gave her trouble the kind older folks get. Arthritis. I’m guessing her problem was arthritis. Still, she managed to get away with them sunglasses, taller than she was, remaining in place while a sparrow rode lookout on the bridge of her frames.

She reminded me of my momma’s older sister Delores. My aunt didn’t say much when she was pissed, just gave the look, hard as Miss Landau’s algebra class, backed up by the story. When she heard Nathan, her husband, was stepping out on her, she slapped him hard. When he said, “Same name, thought it was you,” folks knew she slapped him silly. Since then, she pretty much had things her own way. My momma, may she rest in peace, was a yeller. I didn’t like it when she did it to me.

“Maybe if you didn’t give me reason,” she’d say. Maybe if I didn’t.

Moma would say I was a slacker. And I would say something like, “Compared to Snoop Dogg I suppose I am.”

Mom got hit by a car. They just drove off like it was no big deal which I’m sure it wasn’t to them. Not looked for. Not found. No matter? City billed a grand for momma’s ambulance ride to the morgue.

Wrote back, “Should have taken a cab.”

Bills keep coming.

The would-be purse snatcher? He stayed put, doubled over like a taco shell, trying to right himself. I could have given him a hand, but that wasn’t where my interests lay. Wondered if he was sorry. For himself. Not wondered, it was more like a passing thought.

It seemed like she ended my problem and hers while the Yankees playing the Red Sox, down by one, bottom of the ninth, two outs, men on second and third, had one last turn at bat. The stadium was as quiet as a turned-off radio. Then it started.

” Let’s go, Yan-kees.”

” Let’s go, Yan-kees..” The rebels could stay behind and visit America’s first Hall of Fame and other Bronx attractions neither the tourists nor the locals knew about. How do I know? My third-grade teacher told the class on believe it or not day. A Hall of Fame in the Bronx, one no one ever heard of. A Hall of Fame that wasn’t famous. Made as much sense as anything else I was learning.

Anyway, from the sound of it, fifty thousand people all at once saying the same thing; imagine that, ain’t an everyday occurrence. Never heard anything like it, maybe because my connection to the stadium was as a nobody living in a building torn down to build it. Even as a kid, baseball struck me as a snooze fest, which is why they can sell overpriced beer. Dulls the pain.

“Go! Go! Go! Go! Go!”

Wonder how the crowd would do with a sentence. That’s me on the pitcher’s mound, leading the crowd.

“One and a two and three.”

“Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.” Like to see ’em try that.

“Peter picked peppers.”

“No, no, no. From the top.”

Crowd probably thought they were doing some good. Yell at the team at a critical moment to focus their attention. I’m not sure how the Yanks took it, guess they were used to that sort of thing.

I walked the few steps to the D train station for the ride into Manhattan. Figured I’d see some flicks in Times Square; time was before it became family-friendly. Them nude models? Don’t know what happened to them. Guess they all got dressed and left. The guys who exchanged bills for quarters knew a few; they were older men with kind faces, so tourists wouldn’t count their change.

 

Old men need to pass their skills on to the younger generation.  For some, it’s like having a son without having to delegate the work to their wives. Why me? No reason other than taking a chance on a kid who was at the movies when he should have been at school.

“Hey, sport,” one of ‘em called out after I brushed the popcorn from my lap, zipped up, wondered if hers were real, decided it didn’t matter; she was an entertainer and I was entertained. I had stepped out of my private viewing booth, with its luxurious, red velvet-cushioned seat, sticky, didn’t know why, and removed myself from it, not with the flair of Clark Kent becoming Superman, more like me looking forward to going home and getting the real thing.

Then I heard the voice continue.

“You, yes you kid, step into my office.”

I did. Curiosity is a powerful thing.

His jet-black mustache and matching color combover, on a bent-over frame, transformed him from looking a hundred years old to ninety-five. He interviewed me, name, address, and criminal record. I returned the last question, and the subject was dropped.

Then he stood up, moved to the front edge of his desk, I sat on the chair about a foot away. Felt like I was sitting on a rock, good for getting quick agreements, or people to leave. He loosened his tie, probably wore it to impress the ladies who wouldn’t give him a second look, a thought I kept to myself as I focused on the stain, trying to decide if it was ketchup or blood. Then he unwrapped a Havana, cut the edge, lit it, and puffed on it like it was a blocked straw. When smoke rose, he removed it from the clench of his dentures and spoke.

“Hey, kid. How would you like a job?”

 

So, if you’re ever in Times Square around 8th Avenue, look for the old-fashioned movie house with peep shows for peepers who don’t peep in public places. If you spot a stylish young man with a tool apron full of quarters, most likely that will be me.

Hand over your big bills. Fifties. Hundreds. Whatever you have.

Cup your hands.

Be cool.

Remember.

Only amateurs count their change.