Adrian Del Valle - Diego's Brooklyn (7 page)

“The minestrone, did you check it?” Louis asked.

“Oh…go see, lika gooda boy.”

“I heard you’re goin’ back to Italy to retire,” said Louie.

“Si, maybe inna few more of the years.”

“So, what about this place?”

“I izza gonna give it to Luigi, cheap. The whola the building. I don’t wanna theesa headache when me and the wife we go back to Italy.”

“That’s nice of you Ant’ny. He’ll do good. He’s a hard worker.”

“That he is. Thees building taka care of heem for the whola life. Hey, I gotta go inside. Enjoyza the pizza.”

“That’s what Mr. Herzog once told me.”

“What’s that, Diego?” Louie asked.

“That’s how a lot of people in the city make a living. They work and save enough to buy a three story building with a store like this when they’re still young. Like that fish market across the street, the owner in there could have been a fisherman, so maybe he doesn’t want to go out to sea anymore and instead wants to stay home with his family. So, he buys a building and opens up a fish store, see?”

“Yeah, or maybe he just likes fish,” said Larry.

“Right, or like the guy in that hardware store down the block, maybe he likes tools, so he opened up a…”

“So If I like candy, I could open a little candy store, right?” said Larry.

“That’s the idea. You wouldn’t have to take a subway to work, because you live upstairs. This is how a lot of people in the city make a living. Or a liquor store, a bar, or any kind of store, really. You work hard, live in one of the apartments, collect rent from somebody on the top floor, and the building takes care of you.”

“Yup, I’d rent out the top floor, too. I wouldn’t want to climb all those stairs, all the time,” said Larry.

“I’m opening up a pet shop,” Jose said, excitedly.

“Me too,” said Jimmy. “That was my idea, first.”

“Oh, yeah…well don’t put your smelly store next to mine.”

“Why not?”

“Because! I don’t want you stealing my customers.”

Diego shook his head. “That’s not how it works, Jimmy. To make money, you have to open your store down the street far enough away so that you can serve the customers in that neighborhood. Get it?”

“Oh! I get it,” said Larry. “That’s why we see the same kind of stores like a mile down the street.”

“Exactly,” said Diego. “Me and mom are opening up a cuchifrito restaurant.”

“A coochy coo, what?” Bill asked.

“Spanish food. We’ll sell it to all of the Puerto Ricans.”

“I’ll be the first to try it,” said Louie. “I like Rican food.”

“What about me? Arentcha comin’ to my store?” said Larry. “I give away free candy.”

“How are you going to make money, if you give away all of the profits,” said Diego.

“What profits? You don’t mean them God people, do you?”

“Hey, what about my pet store?” said Jose.

“Boys, boys, I’ll go to all o’ your stores and spend lots o’ money. Now how’s that sound,” said Louie.

“Say, you know what? It’s gettin’ late out here,” said Bill. “I think we best be leavin you, Louie. Oh, wait…before I forget, what all happened to Anthony’s son? You was sayin’?”

“He died in Korea and Ant’ny junior was his only kid.”

“That’s too bad.”

“It took a while, but he finally found a way to deal with it. So now he has a new son. He’s a happy man again.”

One of the houses where Bill and Diego worked trimming the back yard and sweeping the front of the building, belongs to a newly appointed assemblyman, James Richards. He lives in a brownstone in Park Slope, a twenty minute walk from Boerum Hill.

“You fellows did a nice job in the yard the last time you were here. When was that, Monday?”

“Yes sir,” Diego said.

“Well…after you’re done, I’d like for you both to take a look at my living room. I need to have it painted.”

“We can do that for you, Mista Richards,” said Bill. “It’d be our pleasure.”

The job took two days. When it was finished, Bill and Diego stepped back to admire their handiwork.

“Looks damn good, don’ it?” said Bill.

“Sure does.” Diego checked the clock. “It’s near five o’clock. Mister Richards is going to be here any second, now.”

No sooner did they start the cleanup, when in walked the assemblyman, and right on time. He was pleased with what he saw. On top of the twenty five dollars, he added another five and handed it to them.

“How about a soda, boys?”

“That is fine by me,” said Bill.

“Thanks, Mr. Richards,” said Diego.

“Say…I’ll be needing help to clean up the leaves in the fall and someone to shovel snow. Can I count on the both of you?”

“Sho ‘nough,” said Bill.

“You know what, fellas? I noticed something about the both of you that I really like…your manners and show of respect. Now, I know where a southern gentleman like yourself gets it from, Bill, but it’s both surprising and refreshing to see a young boy in the neighborhood speak so well for himself. What influenced you? I’m curious.”

“My father, sir. Poppy came from an upper middle class family in Puerto Rico. They had a lot of land wealth and a few businesses in San Juan.”

“So why didn’t he stay?”

“My father dropped out of college to join the army. He was very patriotic and wanted to do his part in winning the war. Roosevelt and General McArthur were his heroes. It was appreciation, I guess, a thank you of sorts for the success of his family, you might say.”

“So, was he an officer in World War two?”

“A sergeant. He got his leg blown off at Juno beach. The Normandy invasion, I think. He lost a kidney, and had some other internal wounds that I’m not too sure about.”

“So he’s a military type of disciplinarian?”

“To a point. Poppy was actually easy going and soft spoken. He liked to say he was a man of values and of proud Spanish heritage and fine upbringing. He also liked to say, ‘We come from a cultured background and I don’t want you to ever forget that, Hijo.’”

“You keep saying was. Isn’t he still around?”

“Oh, no, sir. Poppy died a couple of years ago. I guess those old war wounds finally caught up to him.”

“My goodness! So what happened to all of that family wealth?”

“It’s still there. His stepmother grabbed it years ago when my grandfather died. My father was still recuperating at Downstate Hospital after the war when a letter from her attorney arrived. She had the legal rights to everything and used the excuse that my father abandoned the family so she could keep it all for herself. Poppy often talked about taking her to court, but never seemed to find money or the energy to fight it.”

“What about his education? Wasn’t he able to get a good job?”

“He tried, but with so many soldiers coming back at the same time, he kept getting passed up because of his medical setbacks. He had only finished two years of college, so it wasn’t enough for the teaching job he wanted. He ended up a clerk in a hotel.”

“Where was that, where you live now?”

“No! Rochester…Upstate. That’s where we lived until three years ago.”

“I see, so…that’s why you don’t have a Brooklyn accent.”

“Poppy moved here to be close to Veterans’ Hospital, near the army base.”

“Right here in Brooklyn? Fort Hamilton, isn’t it?”

“That’s right, but he died anyway. I thought I’d never get over that. We were close.”

“You’re a stronger man than you think…and now you’re taking care of your mother.”

“I help out, and with the help of Mr. Jackson I bought my own school clothes.”

“I’m glad to hear that, and that we’ll be seeing more of one another.”

“I hope so, Mr. Richards. If you ever need us, we’re available, right Bill?”

Bill held the boy’s shoulder. “That’s right. We is partners?”

“We sure are. Are you ready to slip me five, Mr. J?”

The two slapped palms, put their hands back to back, and with the thumbs hooked together, used them like a hinge to flip their hands back around. They finished by sliding the palms across each other.

Chapter Four

P.S.6

Most days, Junior High School was a snap. Diego found Hector in his homeroom, again. They sat together in the back row of the ninth grade class.

“My name is Mr. Bumblestein. I’m your substitute teacher for today and I’m not putting up with any of your nonsense. And that means you back there, mister! You, with the red plaid shirt! What’s your name?”

“That’s Hector,” a freckle faced girl with red pig tails promptly volunteered.

“Hector, do you always come to class wearing your shirt outside your pants?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Don’t get snippy with me, smarty. Go out in the hall right now and tuck that shirt back in.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Bumblebean.”

The class laughed.

“Bumblestein! Bumblestein! Do it now smart aleck. And what are you laughing at?” He said, pointing at Diego.

Sorry Mr. Bumblebee
, Diego thought.

“Nothing, Mr. Bumblestein, sir.”

“So you think it’s funny? Sit back down!”

After ten minutes, the teacher opened the door to the hall and looked both ways for Hector. The student was gone.

“Fine! When he gets back, I’ll have a talk with him. The rest of you vegetables, write an essay on the school’s dress code. And I want at least three long paragraphs.”

“Can I write it in Spanish?” a boy by the window asked.

“No, lame brain. English! And no more talking!”

“I was only asking.”

“Don’t ask! Just do! Get busy…all of you!”

Hector returned and after a short briefing in the hall on the school’s dress code, he was allowed to return to his seat next to Diego where he was given instructions for the essay.

The room, quiet for about twenty long minutes, began to stir with the taps of carefully placed pens as one by one they were each left dormant above finished essays waiting to be picked up.

“You! Collect every one of these and bring them up to the front.”

The same girl who ratted out Hector, collected the paper work and handed them over.

Shuffling through them quickly, the teacher said, “None of these are any good. Do you know what I think of your fine grammar?”

Rip! Every last essay was torn to pieces and dropped into the waste basket.

“I’m going to write a few rules on the blackboard and I want everyone to copy it.”

Mr. Bumblestein turned his back to the class and started to write—and with quite an artistic penmanship:

We must always adhere to the rules set forth by the school.

We must never wear jeans, shorts, baseball caps…

Sitting in a row directly in front of Diego and Hector, Willy Goodwin leaned over and whispered to TJ, “Yeah…I still have them.”

Willy slunk low in his chair and stretched to retrieve three darts out of a plain, denim school bag.

“Let me do it,” TJ whispered.

“No, their mine, I’ll do it.”

“What are you two jabbering about back there? Be quiet and wait until I’m finished.”

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

Bumblestein’s head whipped around. “What the devil just happened? “Who threw those?”

Diego could not believe what he just saw. Willie Goodwin just threw three darts at the cork board and only a couple of feet away from the teacher. He immediately held his head in disbelief.

No one else in class, other than Hector, had seen who had actually thrown the darts. The only movement some of them had seen was Diego’s hands when he lowered them to his lap.

No one answered. The smirks and muffled giggling enraged the teacher, and his reddening face only encouraged them more. He banged on his desk.

“Okay, we’ll play that game. You! Yes, you! I want you to pass around these strips of paper to everyone in this class. Now, I’m sure at least some of you here know who did this. You don’t have to sign your name. All I want you to do is write down the party or parties involved. Go ahead, pass them around.”

The girl with pigtails put a slip of paper on each desk. When the class finished scribbling names, she collected the folded notes and brought them to the front.

“So…you think you’re all so smart? Well, we’ll see about that. Shall I read these to you? Never mind! The first one says…I do not know, I did not see nothing.”

Laughter.

“Whoever wrote that, there are never two no’s in a sentence and you have three. Here’s the next one. Elmer Fudd! Humph!”

More laughter.

“Shh! Aha! Here! Diego Rivera! Now where getting someplace. What else is in here? Let’s see.” Mr. Bumblestein mumbled the rest of the names to himself: “The Long Ranger, Daffy Duck, The President, Howdy Doody. Hah!” He loudly exclaimed. “Another Diego!”

“Oooo!” The class responded, in unison.

Diego closed his eyes and retreated into quiet thought.

So, now you think it was me, right Mr. Bumblebee? And who do you think you are coming into my classroom to harass me and my fellow students?

Now…you do know what I’m going to have to do to you, don’t you, Mr. Bumblebee? Yes, that’s right, I’m going to have to get that nasty old broom out of the closet and whack you with it until all of those righteous wings come off. But do you also know what I’m doing to you after that? That’s right Mr. Bumblebee. I’m going to crush you under my right shoe like the…bug…you…are. Got that, Bumbles? SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!