The Goose stands outside Tony’s Barber’s shop
on Third Avenue staring as the ragged caravan bumps to the curb alongside 479
Carroll Street.
“The fuck is this?”
Alongside him, Mikey Romanelli tugs at the
beautifully tailored cuff of his suit jacket and looks up. Half-a-dozen dusky
women and raggedy children pile out of two sedans onto the sidewalk, the cars a
patchwork of rust and unfinished bodywork. The lead car, a bronze ‘65 Cadillac
in slightly better condition, sits idling at the curb.
“Spics?” says The Goose, short, squat and as
easily ruffled as his avian namesake. “What are they doing in this
neighborhood?”
“They ain’t Puerto Ricans,” says Mikey,
staring over his bifocals. “They’re Gypsies.”
“Mariuolli.” the Goose grunts, rubbing his thumb and forefinger
together. “Them people rob your fucking eyes out. What are they up to now?”
He turns back to the scribbled sheets of
paper his numbers runners have hidden in the graffiti-covered U.S. Postal
Service mailbox in front of the barber shop. Nobody, not even the mailman, is
allowed to use the mailbox, and for spite, the more reckless of my friends
throw lighted matchbooks down the chute.
Two women in flowing skirts, necks strung
with costume jewels and gold coins, stroll across Third Avenue, oblivious to
the baleful stare of Fat Rosie, the neighborhood gossip, the bark of a bleached-haired
school crossing guard known to all as “Butchie the Fag,” and the air horns of a
tractor-trailer rumbling along the avenue. They walk into Luzeen’s grocery store,
ignoring the Italians.
“Look it that shit!” The Goose grumbles. “They leave
the little kids standing on the corner. They a gonna get runned over!”
“What are yous animals!” shouts Louie
Diamonds, one of the wannabe tough guys who circle The Goose like minnows.
Romanelli frowns. “Guaglione (wise
guy)! Mind your business. They ain’t bothering nobody. They gonna get a
sandwich or something.”
The driver’s door of the bronze Caddy opens
with a groan. The driver, a wiry 30-year-old in orange bellbottoms, flowered
shirt and Beatles’ haircut, skips out, opens the back door, and stands back. An
old man, bearded and wearing rumpled dress slacks and a wife-beater tee-shirt,
steps uncertainly onto the sidewalk. Like the Italians, he wears multiple rings
and a thick gold chain and crucifix around his neck.
“Look at this fuckin’ guy,” The Goose mumbles.
“King Shit.”
The old gypsy looks around, his gaze taking
in the impeccably dressed Romanelli and the half-dozen guys sporting
powder blue leisure suits, canary yellow shirt-jacs, black see-through silk
shirts, glaring at his ragged entourage. He nods to Romanelli and is joined by
a plump bejeweled woman. They stroll regally past the tin garbage cans, through
the battered front door of four- story yellow brick apartment building. Half-a-dozen
dozen gypsies follow them into the vacant ground floor apartment.
The kids are left
on the sidewalk, uncertain as kittens.
“They ain’t gettin’ no sandwiches,” one of
the Italians says.
In better days, the apartment had been Dr.
Mangano’s office, sitting catty-corner from the neighborhood’s one other
professional, attorney Vincent P. Rayola, both dead or fled to
Bensonhurst. Two front windows facing Third Ave. have been bricked over
with unpainted cinder-blocks, giving the appearance of a prize fighter whose
eyes have been battered shut.
The women exit the grocery chewing Luzeen’s
greasy15-cent calzones. Third Avenue is wide. They don’t cross until every bite
is consumed, then walk into the apartment building.
“Wait a minute," hisses The Goose. His
short arms shoot into the air, an ominous plea for justice. For the Goose, life
is high drama and he’s always at center stage. "You think they gonna live
here? Are yous kidding me?”
Three beefy thugs around him grunt in
approval.
I’m standing on the opposite sidewalk
watching the opera unfold, drenched in sweat, working on my first car, a
piece-of-shit 1963 black Triumph TR-4. An overlay of fear stirs in
my gut as I listen to the chorus around the mailbox:
“They filthy.”
“They got germs.”
"They get three wives.”
“Be careful they put a fuckin’ curse on you.”
“Fuggedabout it!”
And so, it begins. A tribe of gypsies arrived
in Gowanus, a place so tribal a stranger cannot cross the canal without being
accosted, where a black man daring to stare from a car stopped at the red light
on Carroll Street would be dragged out and beaten, where authority resides in the
dark recesses of the Capri Club—50 feet from The Goose’s mailbox office—masked by
the sonorous tones of Dean Martin—“Everybody Loves Somebody Sometime”—blaring
nonstop on the jukebox.
Law, politics, government, church are distant and unreal. Our pastor, Father Mario, hangs out with gangsters in Monte’s Venetian Room. Brother Masseo molests altar boys in the church basement while old ladies pray the rosary. Cops from the 76th Precinct collect brown paper bags of money “for the Captain,” and provide free car service to a mad assassin named “Apples” Macintosh.
Yet there are magic circles in this topsy-turvy world. No one would harm “Brownie the Mailman,” who scribbles “Return to Sender” on unwanted mail, or the processed-haired brothers, Freddy and Marty, ace mechanics who run the gas station on Third Street, or the half-dozen black men who work at the John P. Carlson paint factory overlooking the canal. This protection extends to any young woman who passes through the neighborhood, to the longhaired guitarist who lives in the tenement across from Monte’s, an outsized assortment of cripples and mental defectives, each with the crazy tag pazzo (“Ou-botts”) attached to their names, even to “Drunken Mahoney,” who lives in a tiny stanzina and curses God in a lilting brogue outraging Gloria, my sexy, church-going mom.
Gypsies are outsiders, eternal outsiders. Outside the law, and now within the reach of reckless men.
The Goose sends Sonny the Indian to visits the Fatatos, slumlords who own the gypsy’s tenement. Squat, with a face like Easter Island, Sonny gives the quivering brothers three days to clear them out. Sonny a Mohawk mobster, is not without precedent. Across the Gowanus, Joe Gallo employs Louie the Syrian and a midget wise guy named Armando.
“Don’t make me come back.”
The Gypsies won’t budge. The Fatatos run away.
Like Vietnam, a war of attrition is underway: curses and threats, eggs spattered against windows, then bottles, a busted windshield, punches thrown in the stairwell, a gun pressed to the temple of the old gypsy’s son. Like 'Nam, there isn’t much to threaten. A few sticks of furniture and cardboard boxes, ratty cars and unkempt children. No discernible family units, no rhythms or routines, save for the comings and goings of the young men who drive around Brooklyn doing bodywork out of the backs of their cars oblivious to tickets or the dire implications of parking in the wrong guy’s spot. No grocery shopping or cooking or crossing the street to Johnny the Butcher’s, no parading up and down the block, no dyed red hair piled up like bundles of snakes; only costume jewelry, stale sandwiches, chips and orange sodas, wrappers thrown in the gutter. Feral and unkempt, the kids beg or steal packs of Twinkies and Devil Dogs from John’s Candy store.
After a few weeks, Fat Rosie and Baby Chick, both bruisers, corner two gypsy girls.
“Why yous let the kids roam the streets?”
“What if they get hit by a car?”
“How come they ain’t in school...And they’re filthy!”
“What’s wrong with yous?”
Silence.
“Are yous stupid?:
Silence.
"What, yous don't talk English!”The women dart for the hallway door.“Go get your fucking husbands ya `who-as'!” Rosie bellows."I’ll give them the rest!”
The old man appears in the glass. I've been watching him. He’s treated with great deference: morning coffee is delivered into his hands, which he sips leaning against his Cadillac, but something else is going on... Sweating and haggard, he’s served lunch in the idling car, air-conditioner running. Afternoons, the young gypsies hand him wads of crumpled bills which he counts with trembling hands and shoves in his pocket, his eyes always on The Goose or his crew outside the Capri Club, as if pondering a diplomatic entreaty.
For days, I’ve been trying to unbolt the head from the Triumph’s 4-cylinder engine, a backbreaking, knuckle-busting job for a freshman English major working in the street with cheap tools. I look up, startled. The old Gypsy is standing across from me peering into the engine compartment.
“You don’t have the socket?”
“It broke...I’ve just got one bolt left.”
“Half-an-inch?” he ask squinting.
“Yeah...?”
Hacking phlegm onto the cobblestone street, he walks over to the Cadillac, reaches behind the seat and returns with a socket set. He hands it to me. I notice his shaking hands.“Thanks.” I glance across Third Avenue, hoping The Goose doesn’t see this.
“Fuck them!” I mumble reaching for the tool I need.“
"No, you should show them respect."
"What? These guys?"
"You’re going to need a puller,” the gypsy says changing the subject.
“A what?”
“To break the gasket from the block. Kappi will show you.”
He walks away.
Saturday morning, Kappi, a guy about my age shows up with the tool. He edges me out of the way, jabbering nonstop in weirdly accented English—actually proper English—about cars and girls and the good pot he can sell me for cheap. Half-an-hour later the head is on the sidewalk ready to be dropped off at the machine shop.
“Make sure they grind the valve seats,” says wiping grease from what look like dress pants.
“Thanks man.”
"Thank my father.”
"Your father?"
“Thagar.”
Thagar? What is this Beowulf?” I mumble.
“Uh?”
“Never mind. (How right I am.)
“In Romany, Thagar is “King.”
An odd friendship begins. Another week and the Triumph is back on the road. On fall afternoons, Kappi and I eat salami sandwiches and drink Manhattan Special sodas on the factory stoop across from my house. A couple of times, top down, we drive to Nathan’s in Coney Island for hot dogs and try to pick up the wild Irish sisters—Daedre and Phaedra—sniffers of airplane glue, who hang out on Fourth Avenue and 12th Street, and climb happily into the two-seater car. He’s a preposterous liar, but an infectious. entertaining one:
Law, politics, government, church are distant and unreal. Our pastor, Father Mario, hangs out with gangsters in Monte’s Venetian Room. Brother Masseo molests altar boys in the church basement while old ladies pray the rosary. Cops from the 76th Precinct collect brown paper bags of money “for the Captain,” and provide free car service to a mad assassin named “Apples” Macintosh.
Yet there are magic circles in this topsy-turvy world. No one would harm “Brownie the Mailman,” who scribbles “Return to Sender” on unwanted mail, or the processed-haired brothers, Freddy and Marty, ace mechanics who run the gas station on Third Street, or the half-dozen black men who work at the John P. Carlson paint factory overlooking the canal. This protection extends to any young woman who passes through the neighborhood, to the longhaired guitarist who lives in the tenement across from Monte’s, an outsized assortment of cripples and mental defectives, each with the crazy tag pazzo (“Ou-botts”) attached to their names, even to “Drunken Mahoney,” who lives in a tiny stanzina and curses God in a lilting brogue outraging Gloria, my sexy, church-going mom.
Gypsies are outsiders, eternal outsiders. Outside the law, and now within the reach of reckless men.
The Goose sends Sonny the Indian to visits the Fatatos, slumlords who own the gypsy’s tenement. Squat, with a face like Easter Island, Sonny gives the quivering brothers three days to clear them out. Sonny a Mohawk mobster, is not without precedent. Across the Gowanus, Joe Gallo employs Louie the Syrian and a midget wise guy named Armando.
“Don’t make me come back.”
The Gypsies won’t budge. The Fatatos run away.
Like Vietnam, a war of attrition is underway: curses and threats, eggs spattered against windows, then bottles, a busted windshield, punches thrown in the stairwell, a gun pressed to the temple of the old gypsy’s son. Like 'Nam, there isn’t much to threaten. A few sticks of furniture and cardboard boxes, ratty cars and unkempt children. No discernible family units, no rhythms or routines, save for the comings and goings of the young men who drive around Brooklyn doing bodywork out of the backs of their cars oblivious to tickets or the dire implications of parking in the wrong guy’s spot. No grocery shopping or cooking or crossing the street to Johnny the Butcher’s, no parading up and down the block, no dyed red hair piled up like bundles of snakes; only costume jewelry, stale sandwiches, chips and orange sodas, wrappers thrown in the gutter. Feral and unkempt, the kids beg or steal packs of Twinkies and Devil Dogs from John’s Candy store.
After a few weeks, Fat Rosie and Baby Chick, both bruisers, corner two gypsy girls.
“Why yous let the kids roam the streets?”
“What if they get hit by a car?”
“How come they ain’t in school...And they’re filthy!”
“What’s wrong with yous?”
Silence.
“Are yous stupid?:
Silence.
"What, yous don't talk English!”The women dart for the hallway door.“Go get your fucking husbands ya `who-as'!” Rosie bellows."I’ll give them the rest!”
The old man appears in the glass. I've been watching him. He’s treated with great deference: morning coffee is delivered into his hands, which he sips leaning against his Cadillac, but something else is going on... Sweating and haggard, he’s served lunch in the idling car, air-conditioner running. Afternoons, the young gypsies hand him wads of crumpled bills which he counts with trembling hands and shoves in his pocket, his eyes always on The Goose or his crew outside the Capri Club, as if pondering a diplomatic entreaty.
For days, I’ve been trying to unbolt the head from the Triumph’s 4-cylinder engine, a backbreaking, knuckle-busting job for a freshman English major working in the street with cheap tools. I look up, startled. The old Gypsy is standing across from me peering into the engine compartment.
“You don’t have the socket?”
“It broke...I’ve just got one bolt left.”
“Half-an-inch?” he ask squinting.
“Yeah...?”
Hacking phlegm onto the cobblestone street, he walks over to the Cadillac, reaches behind the seat and returns with a socket set. He hands it to me. I notice his shaking hands.“Thanks.” I glance across Third Avenue, hoping The Goose doesn’t see this.
“Fuck them!” I mumble reaching for the tool I need.“
"No, you should show them respect."
"What? These guys?"
"You’re going to need a puller,” the gypsy says changing the subject.
“A what?”
“To break the gasket from the block. Kappi will show you.”
He walks away.
Saturday morning, Kappi, a guy about my age shows up with the tool. He edges me out of the way, jabbering nonstop in weirdly accented English—actually proper English—about cars and girls and the good pot he can sell me for cheap. Half-an-hour later the head is on the sidewalk ready to be dropped off at the machine shop.
“Make sure they grind the valve seats,” says wiping grease from what look like dress pants.
“Thanks man.”
"Thank my father.”
"Your father?"
“Thagar.”
Thagar? What is this Beowulf?” I mumble.
“Uh?”
“Never mind. (How right I am.)
“In Romany, Thagar is “King.”
An odd friendship begins. Another week and the Triumph is back on the road. On fall afternoons, Kappi and I eat salami sandwiches and drink Manhattan Special sodas on the factory stoop across from my house. A couple of times, top down, we drive to Nathan’s in Coney Island for hot dogs and try to pick up the wild Irish sisters—Daedre and Phaedra—sniffers of airplane glue, who hang out on Fourth Avenue and 12th Street, and climb happily into the two-seater car. He’s a preposterous liar, but an infectious. entertaining one:
“So we’re
fixing this fender in Valley Stream...Sunday and we run out of Bondo. Auto
parts stores are closed, but we find a German deli and get two pounds of
liverwurst. Shit stinks. We slap it on real smooth and then re-spray the
fender. Lucky it’s getting dark! When the owner shows up, it looks real good,
but his dog comes over and starts licking the wheel! `Oh man!” I’m trying to
kick him away. We’d already got paid so we jump in the car and run away.”
“The
fuck out of here!” I shout. Every
one of his stories has to do with scamming or conning somebody, including me, but
when you’re a lonely kid who knows nothing of the world and a guy who might as
well be from outer space arrives on your doorstep and tells you stories of kings
and schemes, and lives you can only imagine, you feel privileged. Nonetheless,
where is he headed? I sense the clock is
ticking.
“Why are you guys still around that stupid apartment?” I ask.
He looks at me, disappointed. “It’s not so bad.”
I glance toward the knot of Italians horsing around outside the Capri Club. “They don’t want you here....Nobody does.
“Is that how you feel?” he asks.
“It’s not up to me,” I say. “You look the wrong way...maybe one of them is drunk or pissed off at his girlfriend...something terrible could happen. They don’t care about the law. Nothing!”
It's not up me either,” he says. “Thaygar decides.”
“He wants to live here? I can’t wait to get away...
“Stubborn. This... happened before.”
Winter is football season. The Goose and his boys are indoors, loan-sharking, taking reckless bets from insolvent gamblers, threatening them when they welch on the astronomical interest (and yet ask for more credit) too busy making money to pay attention to a band of gypsies.
One Saturday in November, nine-year-old Jo-Jo Manzo, one of those ethereally beautiful Italian boys who recall Botticelli angels, tugs on my sleeve. He points across Carroll Street street to a pink Spalding ball under a parked car, what we stickball players call a “Spaldini"
“Mister....”“Yeah, Jo-Jo?”
“Cross me the street.”Carroll is narrow but dangerous, parked cars lined up on each side, trucks rumbling up from the docks. I’ve been run over myself.
“Does your mother allow you...?”
If a grown-up …”
“You sure?”
“Cross me the fucking street!!”
I turn my back for a moment, and two minutes later Jo-Jo is rolling on the sidewalk screaming, trying to scratch the eyes out of a gypsy boy clutching the pink ball with both hands.
“I’ll kill you!” Jo-Jo screams. “That’s mines!”
“Fuck!”
A line of cars rushing to make the Third Avenue traffic light, trapps me on the curb. The neighborhood sociopath “Sally Fots,” rushes across Third Avenue, pulls the two kids apart. He smashes the skinny gypsy boy full in the face. The kid crumples, the ball rolls away. In a flash. a gypsy girl bounces off a car fender rushes at Sally, her long nails raking his face, and then another girl is on him, punching and scratching, and another, raking his face with a churchkey...the months of humiliation and shame and rage pouring out...the years...the lifetimes
Kappi and the other gypsy men rush over trying to pull them off Sally. Too late. Across Third Avenue, the Capri Club emptying out.
“Why are you guys still around that stupid apartment?” I ask.
He looks at me, disappointed. “It’s not so bad.”
I glance toward the knot of Italians horsing around outside the Capri Club. “They don’t want you here....Nobody does.
“Is that how you feel?” he asks.
“It’s not up to me,” I say. “You look the wrong way...maybe one of them is drunk or pissed off at his girlfriend...something terrible could happen. They don’t care about the law. Nothing!”
It's not up me either,” he says. “Thaygar decides.”
“He wants to live here? I can’t wait to get away...
“Stubborn. This... happened before.”
Winter is football season. The Goose and his boys are indoors, loan-sharking, taking reckless bets from insolvent gamblers, threatening them when they welch on the astronomical interest (and yet ask for more credit) too busy making money to pay attention to a band of gypsies.
One Saturday in November, nine-year-old Jo-Jo Manzo, one of those ethereally beautiful Italian boys who recall Botticelli angels, tugs on my sleeve. He points across Carroll Street street to a pink Spalding ball under a parked car, what we stickball players call a “Spaldini"
“Mister....”“Yeah, Jo-Jo?”
“Cross me the street.”Carroll is narrow but dangerous, parked cars lined up on each side, trucks rumbling up from the docks. I’ve been run over myself.
“Does your mother allow you...?”
If a grown-up …”
“You sure?”
“Cross me the fucking street!!”
I turn my back for a moment, and two minutes later Jo-Jo is rolling on the sidewalk screaming, trying to scratch the eyes out of a gypsy boy clutching the pink ball with both hands.
“I’ll kill you!” Jo-Jo screams. “That’s mines!”
“Fuck!”
A line of cars rushing to make the Third Avenue traffic light, trapps me on the curb. The neighborhood sociopath “Sally Fots,” rushes across Third Avenue, pulls the two kids apart. He smashes the skinny gypsy boy full in the face. The kid crumples, the ball rolls away. In a flash. a gypsy girl bounces off a car fender rushes at Sally, her long nails raking his face, and then another girl is on him, punching and scratching, and another, raking his face with a churchkey...the months of humiliation and shame and rage pouring out...the years...the lifetimes
Kappi and the other gypsy men rush over trying to pull them off Sally. Too late. Across Third Avenue, the Capri Club emptying out.
