Thomas Wolfe said that in “Only the Dead Know Brooklyn.”
I’d never been out of lreland but I was getting to know Brooklyn. I had a pretty good notion of it. In my bedroom there is a street map, place names heavily underlined in red. I’ve pored over it a hundred times, and with absolute joy. Using my finger, I’d take a few steps to the corner of Fulton and Flatbush, check the border between Downtown and Fort Greene, I’d glance at Brooklyn’s tallest building, the Williamsburg Savings Bank, smile at the idea of taking it down, but I’d be a citizen then, running a small pastry shop, specializing in babka, the polish cake. I learnt that from Seinfeld. Then maybe stroll on Nassau Street to McCarren Park, heading for the south end to the Russian Church of the Transfiguration, light a candle for the poor fucks whose money I stole.
As well as the books on Brooklyn, I managed to collect over a long period the movies. Got ’em all I think.
Whistling in Brooklyn.
It Happened in Brooklyn
The Lords of Flatbush
Sophie’s Choice
Moscow on the Hudson
Waited ages for the top two to come on TV, I mean those were made in 1944 and 1942.
Saturday Night Fever?… Bay Ridge, am I right or am I right? Last Exit to Brooklyn, book and movie, yeah, got ’em. Red Hook, a fairly barren place is… lemme see, give me a second here… Ah, that’s easy, On the Waterfront.
Writers too, I’ve done my work.
Boerum Hill? Washington Irving and James Fenimore Cooper lived there. I’m on a roll here, ask me another. Who’s buried in Greenwood Cemetery? Too easy, Mae West and Horace Greeley.
When I was in the joint, other guys did weights, did dope, did each other. Me, I read and reread, became a fixture in the library. I didn’t get any grief from the other cons. Sean had my back, better than a Rottweiler. What happened was, he’d got in a beef with the guy running the cigarette gig, the most lucrative deal in the place. I heard the guy was carrying a shiv, fixing to gut Sean in the yard. I tipped off Sean only as this guy had come at me in my early days. He was trailer trash, a real bottom-feeder — if it wasn’t for the cigs, he’d have been bottom of the food chain. Mainly I didn’t like him, he was a nasty fuck, always whining, bitching, and moaning, bellyaching over some crap or other. I hate shivs, they’re the weapon of the sneak who hasn’t the cojones to front it. Sean hadn’t said a whole lot when I told him. He nodded, said, “Okay.”
Effusive, yeah?
The shiv guy took a dive from the third tier, broke his back, and the cigarette cartel passed to Sean’s crew. From then on, he walked point for me.
Back in the eighties, a song, “Fade to Gray,” blasted from every radio — it launched the movement, “New Romantics,” and guys got to wear eyeliner and shit. You knew they always wanted to, but now they could call it art.
Gobshites.
But I liked the song, seemed to sum up my life, those days, everything down the crapper, a life of drab existence as gray as the granite on the bleak, blasted landscape of Connamara. That’s when I met Maria.
Lemme tell you straight up, I’m no oil painting. My mother told me, “Get a personality ’cos you’re fairly ugly.”
I think she figured the “fairly” softened the blow.
It didn’t.
Nor was I what you’d call a people’s person. I didn’t have a whole lot of them social skills.
I was at a dance in Seapoint, the massive ballroom perched on the corner of the promenade, the Atlantic hurling at it with intent. Now, it’s a bingo hall. That night, a showband, eight guys in red blazers, bad hairpieces, with three bugles, drums, trombone, and a whole lot of neck, were massacring “Satisfaction.” They obviously hated the Stones. Those days, there was a sadistic practice known as “ladies’ choice.”
Jesus.
Pure hell. The guys used it to nip outside and get fortified with shots of Jameson. I was about to join them when I heard, “Would you like to dance?”
A pretty face, gorgeous smile, and I looked behind me to see whom she meant. This girl gave a lovely laugh, said, “I mean you.”
Hands down, that is the best second of my life. I haven’t had a whole line of them, but it’s the pinnacle, the moment when God relented, decided, “Cut the sucker a little slack.”
’Course, like all divine gifts, he only meant to fuck with me later. That’s okay, I’ve lived that moment a thousand times. And yeah, you guessed it, she was American… from Brooklyn. I loved her accent, her spirit; hell, I loved her Miracle two, she didn’t bolt after the dance, stayed for the next one, “Fade to Gray.” A slow number, I got to hold her, I was dizzy.
Walked her back to her hotel. I stood with her, trying to prolong the feeling, and she said, “You’re kinda cute.”
Put it on my headstone, it’s all that counts. She kissed me briefly on the mouth and agreed to meet me at 7 the next evening.
She didn’t show.
At 10:30, I went into the hotel, heard she checked out that morning. The clerk, a guy I went to school with, told me her surname, Toscini, that she was traveling with her mother. I palmed him a few notes and he let me see the register — the only address was Fulton Street, Brooklyn, New York.
I wrote letter after letter, all came back with, “Return to sender, address unknown.” Like that dire song.
I began to learn about Brooklyn. I’d find her. Her not showing or leaving a note, it was some awful misunderstanding. Her mother had suddenly decided they were leaving and Maria had no way to contact me. Yeah, had to be that. I made it so. Got to where I could see her pleading, crying with her mother, and being literally dragged away. Yes, like that, I know.
Mornings, like a vet, I’d come screaming, sweating outa sleep, going, “Maria, hon, I’m on my way!”
Shit like that, get you killed in prison. They’re not real understanding about screamers, though there’s plenty of it.
No more than any other guilt-ridden Catholic Irish guy, I’m not superstitious. But I tell you, the omens, they’re… like… there. You just gotta be open to them.
Listen to this: A while ago, there was a horse running at the Curragh. I’m not a gambler but read the sports pages, read them first to show I’m not gay. At 15/1, there was one, Coney Island Red. How could I not? Put a bundle on him, on the nose.
He lost.
See the omen? Maria wouldn’t want me gambling, lest I blow the kid’s college fund. Over the years, if I was asked about girlfriends, I’d say my girl was nursing in America, and came to believe it. She was caring and ideal for that. ’Course, when the kids arrive, she’ll have to give up her career — I wouldn’t want my wife working, it’s the man’s place to do the graft — know they’ll appreciate those old values in Brooklyn.
Sean came to see me about the new plan. He was wearing one of those long coats favored by shoplifters or rock stars. The collar turned up to give him some edge. I made coffee and he said, “Nice place you got here.” I sat opposite him and he launched: “We’re going to do the main post office.”
I didn’t like the sound of that, said, “Don’t like the sound of that.”
He gave the grin, no relation to warmth or humor, said, “It’s not about what you like or don’t like, money is needed and a lot of it. This Thursday, there is going to be a massive sum there, something to do with the payment of pensions and the bonus due for Social Benefit. It’s rare for them to handle such a large amount so we have to act now.”