Interesting to note most of this story is based on truth. His brother that died in the war is actually him. He came close to being drafted, but argued that his religious beliefs, which he did not have as an atheist, made him a pacifist. As a kid he did not like his given name Ira and wished that he had been named a more common Steve. But in time he learned to appreciate his somewhat unique name
I can’t remember A “B” reflected in the window. B! Brooklyn, that’s where I grew up. It was so long ago, I can barely remember. Mom and dad were alive, and it was before my brother Steve died in the war. Somehow I survived, or did I? I can’t remember. Oh those were the sweet days. Dad and I went to see the Dodgers play a doubleheader on a hot Sunday in July. What was the name of the stadium? something with an “E” I think. Sitting in the stands, we were all sweating. I was eating a big, juicy hotdog, oozing with yellow-brown mustard and lots of salty, delicious sauerkraut. I can still smell and taste it. The batter swings, snap, and the crowd roars. Who won that game, dad? I can’t remember. We lived in Coney Island, right on the beach. One summer, I found a ring in the sand. It was gold and had a turquoise stone. Wonder where it is now? I could sure use some dough. Met a girl on the beach. She was so beautiful, but she broke my heart. No air conditioning back then, only the natural kind when the darkness fell and the wind kicked up across the moonlit water. Through the open window, I could hear the crashing waves, and in the distance, the ding, ding, ding of the bell buoys. It put me right to sleep. Wish I could still sleep that well. Seen too much, done too much. Now I can barely sleep at all. The games we played in the schoolyard; stickball, basketball, and handball. Do you remember skelly, the game played with bottle caps? In the summer, Steeplechase Park was great, but we were too poor to afford the fancy Coney rides. All I could do was watch in awe and envy of those who floated to the ground on the parachute jump or who whirled and twirled on the Cyclone coaster. Then there was Bob, the overweight and somewhat grungy carnival guy who had all those girls hanging around. What did they see in him? Each day, the old men and women would bring their flabby bodies to sit naked at the Turkish baths. Too embarrassing for a teenage boy to do, but wouldn‘t the soothing, warm water and hot steam baths feel wonderful now. The crazy woman who rode the bus every day, sat in the last row, opened the window, and talked to herself or anyone in earshot of the passing bus. Getting old and crazy is not fun. Now where was I? Where am I? Is any one listening? Hey buddy, can you spare a couple of bucks for an old man to get a cup of coffee and a newspaper? |
