There is but an hour remaining of Easter Sunday, March 31, 2013. The day marking the greatest event in the Christian calendar, its greatness flowing from its seminal message and expression of the Faith's core belief: the vanquishing of sin and death through God's super extraordinary compassion and love, reminded me of some of the many aspects of and stories about the human condition. The particular one that attracted my attention during these recent days of Holy Week comes out of the seething cauldron of still uncooled hatreds of that relatively recent event in European history: the Spanish Civil War.
In the early weeks and months of this internecine strife, particularly brutal acts were perpetrated by both the Nationalist and Republican sides. An infamous photograph taken in August 1936 shows "Rojos" or Republican militiamen shooting their rifles at a very large statue of The Sacred Heart Of Jesus located near Madrid on El Cerro de los Angeles (The Hill of the Angels). In short order the statue was not only defaced but then destroyed by dynamite on August 7th because of its obvious religious symbolism. A more vile and blatant rejection of the love of Christ seemed difficult to find until mass executions, tortures, defilements and other atrocities against civilians supporting the Nationalist uprising, as well as religious, began to sweep many parts of Spain in this period. Crimes were perpetrated by the Insurgents also, to be sure. Known as White Terror, these killings were no less horrific and were wounds to the Sacred Heart like all acts of war and manmade destruction of human life.
What is the meaning of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, a reader may ask? In Christian traditions, the heart of Jesus Christ has been, since as early as the eleventh century the object of devotion and veneration. The physical representation of Christ's unconditional love for all of humanity, the Sacred Heart has been the focus of the prayers and adoration of countless organizations of religious as well as of laypersons the world over.
At about the same time of the incident on El Cerro de los Angeles (August 1936), the famed Andalusian poet, Federico Garcia Lorca, was murdered in Andalusia, his home province. Garcia had achieved fame and his pro-Republican views were clearly known. He was likely killed by …To Be Continued
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Rocky C. and Me
In the summer of 1987 I was eager for steadier, albeit part time employment, having worked intermittently for seven years as an independent contractor and lessee of "black car" service taxis: somewhat grueling work (especially night shifts) with no medical benefits and rather long hours with meager compensation and heavily dependent on gratuities. The job I was then applying for was not radically different, i.e. it was a driver's position in the same controlled chaos of New York city's pinball machine/crucible of traffic and drama somehow married to tedium. But the structure and atmospherics of this new job had the allure of a hopefully much less stressful world within the embrace of a very large institution (a commercial bank) with benefits, uniforms, sans customers/passengers and with modern amenities like clean restrooms, lockers and a bank account wherein one's paycheck would be automatically deposited on pay day. With remarkably little red tape or fanfare and following a medical examination arranged with a conveniently located doctor's office, I was hired on one of the waning dog days of August and scheduled to begin the first of my weekly two day, twelve hour shifts the following Thursday morning. My job description was that of a courier/driver responsible largely for the delivery of interoffice mail, parcels and other documents between the corporate headquarters in Manhattan's financial district (precisely, in the sub-basement home base of the bank's fleet of cab-over engine vans, station wagons and several limousines) and various branches in a large portion of western and central Queens. The single element of drama in the set of tasks assigned was related to the gathering and signing for certain negotiable documents usually stuffed in sturdy legal size yellow envelopes. It was not unusual for the value of one of these documents to exceed $1,000,000. We drivers were not bonded nor were we armed.
A pleasant young Puerto Rican-American lady was my trainer and she drove the route on my first day, explaining all the job's vagaries and those of each branch and head teller while advising how to maximize efficiency, etc. On the next day, Friday, I was on my own and acclimation to the job seemed easily within sight. Traveling home on the subway that evening I was content with matters but mused about the solitary nature of my chosen field of work, now even more so, without the social interaction of the cab driver/passenger relationship. Not unlike a bartender and a pub's patron, a fleeting but sometimes powerfully intimate exchange or confidence is often shared between such persons. Now I was on my own in a special new way and despite a two-way radio and a less gritty environment, there was a bit of a let down as I pondered my situation.
The next Thursday at 7 o'clock found me back at the bank's sub-basement and gathered with other drivers preparing our mail, documents and parcels. The drivers' area seemed especially crowded this morning as word came forth that more candidates were now being processed and about to be hired. They were an assorted bunch who came in many colors, sizes and demeanors, and while I focused on my tasks before heading out to begin my long route, I couldn't help but notice one older newcomer whose visage caused me to calculate quickly but silently: "Wow, they must really need drivers. This guy looks almost as old as my father." Before me stood a not very tall, raw boned man of somewhat gray, black and white hair with quite more than a few strands of golden locks in a fairly slicked back look, attractively combed, high cheekboned and with a handsomeness resembling a rather tired looking but bemused Danny Kaye. My powers of observation and habit of conclusion-jumping (the latter an activity I have unfailingly defended through the years as the "only excercise I get") were soon to be revealed as inadequate to the task of correctly sizing up the verve and driving qualifications of this particular stranger. I thought it best to mind my own business (an easy choice, given my shyness) while wondering if it was likely that I'd even ever see him again. Just at that moment, as I began to turn away, he noticed me and my uniform and spoke in a familiar cadence, much like that of many of my older male relatives, including my Dad: "Hey buddy, how far back do they want this 'work history' section to go?" The clipboard and pencil that he held in his tanned and sinewy hands seemed like objects he was eager to be done with. I had the feeling that he wanted to talk at length and that he felt that the use of those hands would be better served as aids to his expressive needs. I said that they wanted us to concentrate on the most recent jobs held and to not worry if there was not enough room for earlier employment listings and dates. He seemed satisfied with this response and I was about to leave to begin my shift when something compelled me to dispense with my usual circumspection and to blithely gaze at this guy's personal information on his application sheet. It was something about him that emboldened me and made me sense that he believed cooperation and/or solving a problem or completing a task was more important than defending one's privacy or any other manifestations of societal stuffiness. Simply, he didn't strike me as the kind of guy who would hug his clipboard like a spoiled kid who'd warn someone off with a "mind your own business." In short, I had a rare hunch that here was a friendly guy, secure about himself and the world around him..
Well, my nosiness was quickly satisfied and pleasantly so. Having taken a quick look at his writing on the application sheet under "STREET ADDRESS, TOWN, STATE, ZIP CODE" I saw in a flash that the last three indicated were identical to mine. "Hey, that's where I live! Hi, my name's Rus. I live about nine blocks from you." "How ya doing? I'm Rocky" he said, evenly and mildly while placing his pencil behind his ear and extending his hand, but with a slightly amused expression, as if he had a little joke that he might, just might, share with me. As soon as we completed our handshake the sight of the hands of my watch propelled me forward and to remark "Well, I gotta shove off now. Good luck with everything." "Okay kid, you too" he answered. I didn't see him until the following Thursday. That morning we ran into each other at the negotiable documents desk and he was dressed just like the rest of us in the bank's official driver's uniform of pale blue, short sleeved shirt with the financial institution's logo on a patch sewn above the breast pocket, dark blue pants and zippered jackets that were an even darker navy kind of blue. "So, I see you're ready to roll, Rocky. What's your route?" "Oh, I've got downtown Brooklyn, Cobble Hill and Park Slope and around the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel" he replied. "You get a chance to stop at home for a cup of coffee with that Queens route?" he asked. "Naw, I'm not that close to the house, and don't forget, they check your mileage pretty carefully" I warned. "Thanks for the tip. By the way, Mike Vespucci tells me I should finish up about 7:15 if traffic is not too crazy. When do you come back in?" he said. "Well, I'm only a week here, but last week that's about the same time I came in" I replied. "Well, we can take the Lexington Avenue IRT back home together then" he suggested. I nodded my agreement and that evening we began a nearly two year routine of a pleasant unwind from the long twelve hour shift of our jobs that erased the usual ennui and tension of solo trips on a New York subway that for so many straphangers, though perhaps inured to them, are still likely, largely stoically endured.
Within but a few weeks, I learned much from the loquacious Rocky. He had recently reached his 65th year and this job provided the just right supplement to his Social Security pension and an outlet for his gregarious ways. He told me of his many years on the road as a traveling salesman throughout New York state and I sensed that his people-person outlook and skills had surely been reinforced and honed by those times that he spoke of often and fondly. He delighted in the re-telling of one incident in which he was entertaining some midwestern clients at an Italian restaurant one evening far from home. Stumbling over the pronunciation of Rocky's surname, he politely corrected them and confirmed that he shared the same ancestry as that evening's cuisine. One dish he devilishly recommended to his W.A.S.P. dinner mates was "cappuzelle". Rocky sang its praises as he ordered it (perhaps convincing at least one of them to do so as well). When the waiter arrived, Rocky happily announced the name of the dish in English: "Gentlemen: calves' head!" He proceeded to "dig in" and enjoyed heartily both his dinner and the queasiness of these captive fellow diners.
Soon he had stories aplenty of his present position too and he seemed to never lack for a funny tale of some idiosyncratic teller, other bank employee, or one of an exciting incident (he once arrived at one of his route's branches seconds after a holdup and comforted the frightened personnel). Fact was, Rocky most definitely enjoyed his work and quite more so than most any of us at the bank's transportation department, as we drivers were referred to in the aggregate. At Christmas he always seemed to receive the largest number of presents (almost invariably these were brightly wrapped and ribboned bottles of cheer) from enthusiastic tellers and branch managers who had eagerly shook his hand or planted a kiss on one of his sharp cheekbones while placing a Santa hat on his head. Yes, "Rock" as we sometimes called him (to differentiate from a dour driver also named "Rocky" who never seemed to entirely "get" Rock's merry point of view), was quite serene with his new job and again, thoroughly enjoying himself. Then too, there was the famed Maxie Holman, a very popular, young, black Jamaican driver who always had a tale of woe about the inevitable result of fighting City Hall, read: the powers that were at this financial institution and that "signed" our checks every Friday morning. Maxie's laments became as iconic as much as they solidified his lovableness: "You know the deal, mon" would punctuate his final pronouncements in his lilting island accents, over some reality, usually a bureaucratic tangle, wage or vacation problem or some paperwork inconvenience that was beyond his power to undo or modify. We all smiled benevolently and in sympathy with Maxie's travails, especially because he did not darkly brood, but rather gently shared his frustrations in an Everyman kind of way. And Rocky was always among the most understanding of Mr. Holman's low threshold of pain for life's many injustices, big or small.
It wasn't, of course, as if Rocky had never tasted disappointment himself. On one especially long subway journey home, with track work and congestion slowing our passage across the East river and home to Queens, he recounted a youthful dream fairly close to the eve of World War II; yes, it was one that was his and it was dashed upon the rocks of bad timing and perhaps consigned to the category of "never meant to be" by an imagined less imaginative friend of his who would have been, no doubt, a fatalist, unlike Rocky. At the age of seventeen, Rocky was a healthy, athletic kid on the verge of manhood and blessed with the ability to swim well and competitively. That year (1939), the first one of The New York World's Fair at Flushing Meadows Park, the preparations for the exhibition included auditions and rehearsals for Billy Rose's Aquacade, the marine world entertainment's equivalent perhaps of Florenz Ziegfeld's famed Follies. Rocky aspired to be hired as a swimmer in Rose's extravaganza, but a family vacation to rural New Jersey and thusly a missed mailing of a positive but time sensitive response to his application spelled not so much failure, as an obviously missed opportunity. A mere three years later, World War II raging, another decision of perhaps far greater import was Rocky's to join one of the U.S. Army's Parachute units, one likely headed for combat operations. Stateside training in North Carolina included naturally, jumps. On his very first attempt, a rough landing resulted in an injury that disqualified him from the service altogether. Fate again, had intervened and whether a "shot" at glory for Rocky was thwarted or his life was saved by the accident, a part of him remained wistful about what might have been nearly a half century after the fact.
By and large though, Rocky never dwelled on "woulda, coulda, shouldas"; he was definitely satisfied with his "retirement" and each succeeding Friday evening in the first few months of our employment brought more of an atmosphere of celebration as we continued to enjoy each other's company and were speedily acclimated to the routine of our intense but abbreviated work "week." In short order, Rocky suggested that we begin our unwinding before even entering the subway. I suggested a slice of pizza to whet our appetites for the wonderful home cooking awaiting both of us. Rocky could see that I was not "on the same 'page'" with him. When I pondered his inscrutable look, it somehow came to me: "Oh, Rock, do you mean a little libation to toast the weekend?" A contented grin on his face confirmed his assent. The cooperative and prepossessing kid that had been me, was still very much a part of who I was as I was then slowly approaching the end of my thirties. When Rocky expressed a fondness for screwdrivers, I quickly offered to supply the hip flask of Russian firewater at a liquor store near my last bank branch if he would provide the orange juice. It was decided we would alternate this arrangement each week.
"Sure as shootin'" as some Hollywood cowpoke once said, the next work day Friday morning Rocky reminded me of our planned party. "Oh, sure, Rocky." "Call me on the two-way before you get in so we can coordinate things" he advised. "Okay", I replied. Funny, but the day went quickly and maybe the anticipation of a kind of reward, besides one's paycheck and the warmth of home at day's end, made for an eagerness and lifting of one's spirits, knowing not so much that we'd soon be literally hoisting some spirits, but that we'd be sharing our friendship in the time honored fashion of a "happy hour" of our own invention. It was a tad unconventional. But until we marked the last day of the job reminiscing in front of our lockers and after the bank had sold the transportation department to a subcontracting transportation company, we did not learn that it was illegal to drink on the bank's property. Fellow drivers were wise to our preparations, merely by connecting the dots as they heard us happily chattering on the two-way with conversations like the following: "Rocky, you got the O.J.?" "Yeah Rus, did you get the, er….'medicine'?" Luckily, management employees of the bank monitoring the airwaves were not nearly as alert to our mild mischief. Fact was, we never had anything remotely resembling a liquid "lunch" during working hours and after our relaxing "faux pas" after work in the locker room were revealed as juridically naughty, we really only lamented that the fun was over rather than smugly congratulating each other for having "gotten away with something."
About a year after I had begun working, I rented an apartment near the sea in Brooklyn. Except for those Friday evenings, I generally at that point did not travel on the train with Rocky, especially mornings and sometimes on a Thursday. This new situation brought into focus how much Mr. C. was like my parents and how much he loved tradition and family. Or arguably, he was quietly objecting to the interruption of our shared traveling routine. Either way, he would occasionally give me some good natured "jazz" about home cooking and all that rent money I could save by not trying to be "Mr. Independence". When I explained to him that I was starting to push forty and that continued living at home could be a detriment to my social life, Rocky was unimpressed. However, my return to college that fall, though as an unmatriculated part timer, did earn his admiration. Involving myself with Theatre courses, I even invited him to a class play in which I had a featured role. I could tell that this world of drama appealed to his artistic bent as a natural performer which he expressed so well in his years as a salesman and that were simply a part of who he was, like so many descendants of that dramatic race of ever fascinating beings from sunny Italy. It was the love of storytelling especially that energized him and when we once discussed the dark tale related to us by an old-timer at the bank, about a former driver who was, in fact, ambushed in one of the bank's vans, tied up, gagged and left in an empty lot under the Manhattan Bridge by highwaymen seeking those million dollar negotiable documents, it reminded him of a very extra, special story: one not about ill gotten enrichment but about love and an alleged comedic error. One could never be sure that ol' Rock was not pulling one's leg with any yarn he cared to spin, but the plausibility he created with his acting talents was always floating in the air like a mysterious cloud one could not easily dismiss as not pregnant with raindrops or maybe hidden sunbeams; anything was possible in the world that Rocky conjured up. Well, this particular story was unlike the humorless and chilling one of the perhaps deadly accurate calculations of the holdup men who knew about numerical values and their symbols of wealth and its power. No, it was about the day Rocky met his future bride and it was both self-deprecating and fun-poking at his lady love. Yes, big money and a bank were involved, like the unpleasant caper that reminded us of our jobs' perils, but instead of greed, myopia was the key ingredient in this tale.
In the world according to Rocky: "I met my wife when she was the new teller at the bank where I had my savings account. This gal was really cute, though she wore glasses like many gal tellers did. I was trying to save a few bucks with my fairly new job. I'd go nearly every other week to that branch to make a deposit and more often than not she'd be the one serving me. I don't know: she seemed to take a shine to me pretty quickly. I got the courage to ask her for a date, especially since she seemed to like me. Well, one thing led to another and before I could chase her much longer, she caught me. Soon after we got married she changed her glasses. She could see better now she told me, but she seemed to have a puzzled look on her face more often now. I finally figured it out: she married me because she couldn't locate exactly where that decimal point in my bank book was; she had it a bunch of zeroes to the right of where it really was. She had figured me for a rich guy. Glad she has a sense of humor."
Well, Rocky "had a million of them" like Jolson and others assured us of their supply of rib ticklers. But naturally, the clock ticked away on our time with the bank and the carefree moments of camaraderie between workday's end and arriving safely at home. After our brief two years on the job, the months rapidly turned into years and the years turned into decades. Rocky and I kept up with occasional phone chats. He occasionally helped me with my sartorial shortcomings and I inherited several shirts and such from him, but mostly what he shared was his take on life and the little curiosities of people, places, fishing and automobiles as well as his theories about people and their particularly intriguing (or annoying) foibles, both locally and on the world stage. For a number of years I made my not-so famous but tasty "calamari" dish for him during the Christmas season, one that he and the other drivers had first enjoyed at our farewell luncheon in one of the drivers' meeting rooms back in the early summer of '89.
Last week the lady with the wrong eyeglasses prescription, according to Rocky, called to tell me that he was truly safe at Home now. I try to remember the rationalist's viewpoint about life and death. Such a person's logic and intellect are pretty much unassailable: "one led a good, long life, his/her gifts will keep giving, and the end must come for all of us", etc., etc. But five years on (my Dad's passing), nearly a quarter century on (with my godfather's), nearly half a century after my grandfather's and with the passing of all of those, family or friends, who touched my life in wondrous ways, large or small, the regret cannot quite ever go away, because they of course, have also gone away, not to return to this earthly life. The cherished hope is that I will meet them all again. The promise of His: that this can be so, comforts and fills me with happy anticipation, not unlike the joyful eagerness for hearing another punchline or twist to and from another funny story by Rocky.
A pleasant young Puerto Rican-American lady was my trainer and she drove the route on my first day, explaining all the job's vagaries and those of each branch and head teller while advising how to maximize efficiency, etc. On the next day, Friday, I was on my own and acclimation to the job seemed easily within sight. Traveling home on the subway that evening I was content with matters but mused about the solitary nature of my chosen field of work, now even more so, without the social interaction of the cab driver/passenger relationship. Not unlike a bartender and a pub's patron, a fleeting but sometimes powerfully intimate exchange or confidence is often shared between such persons. Now I was on my own in a special new way and despite a two-way radio and a less gritty environment, there was a bit of a let down as I pondered my situation.
The next Thursday at 7 o'clock found me back at the bank's sub-basement and gathered with other drivers preparing our mail, documents and parcels. The drivers' area seemed especially crowded this morning as word came forth that more candidates were now being processed and about to be hired. They were an assorted bunch who came in many colors, sizes and demeanors, and while I focused on my tasks before heading out to begin my long route, I couldn't help but notice one older newcomer whose visage caused me to calculate quickly but silently: "Wow, they must really need drivers. This guy looks almost as old as my father." Before me stood a not very tall, raw boned man of somewhat gray, black and white hair with quite more than a few strands of golden locks in a fairly slicked back look, attractively combed, high cheekboned and with a handsomeness resembling a rather tired looking but bemused Danny Kaye. My powers of observation and habit of conclusion-jumping (the latter an activity I have unfailingly defended through the years as the "only excercise I get") were soon to be revealed as inadequate to the task of correctly sizing up the verve and driving qualifications of this particular stranger. I thought it best to mind my own business (an easy choice, given my shyness) while wondering if it was likely that I'd even ever see him again. Just at that moment, as I began to turn away, he noticed me and my uniform and spoke in a familiar cadence, much like that of many of my older male relatives, including my Dad: "Hey buddy, how far back do they want this 'work history' section to go?" The clipboard and pencil that he held in his tanned and sinewy hands seemed like objects he was eager to be done with. I had the feeling that he wanted to talk at length and that he felt that the use of those hands would be better served as aids to his expressive needs. I said that they wanted us to concentrate on the most recent jobs held and to not worry if there was not enough room for earlier employment listings and dates. He seemed satisfied with this response and I was about to leave to begin my shift when something compelled me to dispense with my usual circumspection and to blithely gaze at this guy's personal information on his application sheet. It was something about him that emboldened me and made me sense that he believed cooperation and/or solving a problem or completing a task was more important than defending one's privacy or any other manifestations of societal stuffiness. Simply, he didn't strike me as the kind of guy who would hug his clipboard like a spoiled kid who'd warn someone off with a "mind your own business." In short, I had a rare hunch that here was a friendly guy, secure about himself and the world around him..
Well, my nosiness was quickly satisfied and pleasantly so. Having taken a quick look at his writing on the application sheet under "STREET ADDRESS, TOWN, STATE, ZIP CODE" I saw in a flash that the last three indicated were identical to mine. "Hey, that's where I live! Hi, my name's Rus. I live about nine blocks from you." "How ya doing? I'm Rocky" he said, evenly and mildly while placing his pencil behind his ear and extending his hand, but with a slightly amused expression, as if he had a little joke that he might, just might, share with me. As soon as we completed our handshake the sight of the hands of my watch propelled me forward and to remark "Well, I gotta shove off now. Good luck with everything." "Okay kid, you too" he answered. I didn't see him until the following Thursday. That morning we ran into each other at the negotiable documents desk and he was dressed just like the rest of us in the bank's official driver's uniform of pale blue, short sleeved shirt with the financial institution's logo on a patch sewn above the breast pocket, dark blue pants and zippered jackets that were an even darker navy kind of blue. "So, I see you're ready to roll, Rocky. What's your route?" "Oh, I've got downtown Brooklyn, Cobble Hill and Park Slope and around the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel" he replied. "You get a chance to stop at home for a cup of coffee with that Queens route?" he asked. "Naw, I'm not that close to the house, and don't forget, they check your mileage pretty carefully" I warned. "Thanks for the tip. By the way, Mike Vespucci tells me I should finish up about 7:15 if traffic is not too crazy. When do you come back in?" he said. "Well, I'm only a week here, but last week that's about the same time I came in" I replied. "Well, we can take the Lexington Avenue IRT back home together then" he suggested. I nodded my agreement and that evening we began a nearly two year routine of a pleasant unwind from the long twelve hour shift of our jobs that erased the usual ennui and tension of solo trips on a New York subway that for so many straphangers, though perhaps inured to them, are still likely, largely stoically endured.
Within but a few weeks, I learned much from the loquacious Rocky. He had recently reached his 65th year and this job provided the just right supplement to his Social Security pension and an outlet for his gregarious ways. He told me of his many years on the road as a traveling salesman throughout New York state and I sensed that his people-person outlook and skills had surely been reinforced and honed by those times that he spoke of often and fondly. He delighted in the re-telling of one incident in which he was entertaining some midwestern clients at an Italian restaurant one evening far from home. Stumbling over the pronunciation of Rocky's surname, he politely corrected them and confirmed that he shared the same ancestry as that evening's cuisine. One dish he devilishly recommended to his W.A.S.P. dinner mates was "cappuzelle". Rocky sang its praises as he ordered it (perhaps convincing at least one of them to do so as well). When the waiter arrived, Rocky happily announced the name of the dish in English: "Gentlemen: calves' head!" He proceeded to "dig in" and enjoyed heartily both his dinner and the queasiness of these captive fellow diners.
Soon he had stories aplenty of his present position too and he seemed to never lack for a funny tale of some idiosyncratic teller, other bank employee, or one of an exciting incident (he once arrived at one of his route's branches seconds after a holdup and comforted the frightened personnel). Fact was, Rocky most definitely enjoyed his work and quite more so than most any of us at the bank's transportation department, as we drivers were referred to in the aggregate. At Christmas he always seemed to receive the largest number of presents (almost invariably these were brightly wrapped and ribboned bottles of cheer) from enthusiastic tellers and branch managers who had eagerly shook his hand or planted a kiss on one of his sharp cheekbones while placing a Santa hat on his head. Yes, "Rock" as we sometimes called him (to differentiate from a dour driver also named "Rocky" who never seemed to entirely "get" Rock's merry point of view), was quite serene with his new job and again, thoroughly enjoying himself. Then too, there was the famed Maxie Holman, a very popular, young, black Jamaican driver who always had a tale of woe about the inevitable result of fighting City Hall, read: the powers that were at this financial institution and that "signed" our checks every Friday morning. Maxie's laments became as iconic as much as they solidified his lovableness: "You know the deal, mon" would punctuate his final pronouncements in his lilting island accents, over some reality, usually a bureaucratic tangle, wage or vacation problem or some paperwork inconvenience that was beyond his power to undo or modify. We all smiled benevolently and in sympathy with Maxie's travails, especially because he did not darkly brood, but rather gently shared his frustrations in an Everyman kind of way. And Rocky was always among the most understanding of Mr. Holman's low threshold of pain for life's many injustices, big or small.
It wasn't, of course, as if Rocky had never tasted disappointment himself. On one especially long subway journey home, with track work and congestion slowing our passage across the East river and home to Queens, he recounted a youthful dream fairly close to the eve of World War II; yes, it was one that was his and it was dashed upon the rocks of bad timing and perhaps consigned to the category of "never meant to be" by an imagined less imaginative friend of his who would have been, no doubt, a fatalist, unlike Rocky. At the age of seventeen, Rocky was a healthy, athletic kid on the verge of manhood and blessed with the ability to swim well and competitively. That year (1939), the first one of The New York World's Fair at Flushing Meadows Park, the preparations for the exhibition included auditions and rehearsals for Billy Rose's Aquacade, the marine world entertainment's equivalent perhaps of Florenz Ziegfeld's famed Follies. Rocky aspired to be hired as a swimmer in Rose's extravaganza, but a family vacation to rural New Jersey and thusly a missed mailing of a positive but time sensitive response to his application spelled not so much failure, as an obviously missed opportunity. A mere three years later, World War II raging, another decision of perhaps far greater import was Rocky's to join one of the U.S. Army's Parachute units, one likely headed for combat operations. Stateside training in North Carolina included naturally, jumps. On his very first attempt, a rough landing resulted in an injury that disqualified him from the service altogether. Fate again, had intervened and whether a "shot" at glory for Rocky was thwarted or his life was saved by the accident, a part of him remained wistful about what might have been nearly a half century after the fact.
By and large though, Rocky never dwelled on "woulda, coulda, shouldas"; he was definitely satisfied with his "retirement" and each succeeding Friday evening in the first few months of our employment brought more of an atmosphere of celebration as we continued to enjoy each other's company and were speedily acclimated to the routine of our intense but abbreviated work "week." In short order, Rocky suggested that we begin our unwinding before even entering the subway. I suggested a slice of pizza to whet our appetites for the wonderful home cooking awaiting both of us. Rocky could see that I was not "on the same 'page'" with him. When I pondered his inscrutable look, it somehow came to me: "Oh, Rock, do you mean a little libation to toast the weekend?" A contented grin on his face confirmed his assent. The cooperative and prepossessing kid that had been me, was still very much a part of who I was as I was then slowly approaching the end of my thirties. When Rocky expressed a fondness for screwdrivers, I quickly offered to supply the hip flask of Russian firewater at a liquor store near my last bank branch if he would provide the orange juice. It was decided we would alternate this arrangement each week.
"Sure as shootin'" as some Hollywood cowpoke once said, the next work day Friday morning Rocky reminded me of our planned party. "Oh, sure, Rocky." "Call me on the two-way before you get in so we can coordinate things" he advised. "Okay", I replied. Funny, but the day went quickly and maybe the anticipation of a kind of reward, besides one's paycheck and the warmth of home at day's end, made for an eagerness and lifting of one's spirits, knowing not so much that we'd soon be literally hoisting some spirits, but that we'd be sharing our friendship in the time honored fashion of a "happy hour" of our own invention. It was a tad unconventional. But until we marked the last day of the job reminiscing in front of our lockers and after the bank had sold the transportation department to a subcontracting transportation company, we did not learn that it was illegal to drink on the bank's property. Fellow drivers were wise to our preparations, merely by connecting the dots as they heard us happily chattering on the two-way with conversations like the following: "Rocky, you got the O.J.?" "Yeah Rus, did you get the, er….'medicine'?" Luckily, management employees of the bank monitoring the airwaves were not nearly as alert to our mild mischief. Fact was, we never had anything remotely resembling a liquid "lunch" during working hours and after our relaxing "faux pas" after work in the locker room were revealed as juridically naughty, we really only lamented that the fun was over rather than smugly congratulating each other for having "gotten away with something."
About a year after I had begun working, I rented an apartment near the sea in Brooklyn. Except for those Friday evenings, I generally at that point did not travel on the train with Rocky, especially mornings and sometimes on a Thursday. This new situation brought into focus how much Mr. C. was like my parents and how much he loved tradition and family. Or arguably, he was quietly objecting to the interruption of our shared traveling routine. Either way, he would occasionally give me some good natured "jazz" about home cooking and all that rent money I could save by not trying to be "Mr. Independence". When I explained to him that I was starting to push forty and that continued living at home could be a detriment to my social life, Rocky was unimpressed. However, my return to college that fall, though as an unmatriculated part timer, did earn his admiration. Involving myself with Theatre courses, I even invited him to a class play in which I had a featured role. I could tell that this world of drama appealed to his artistic bent as a natural performer which he expressed so well in his years as a salesman and that were simply a part of who he was, like so many descendants of that dramatic race of ever fascinating beings from sunny Italy. It was the love of storytelling especially that energized him and when we once discussed the dark tale related to us by an old-timer at the bank, about a former driver who was, in fact, ambushed in one of the bank's vans, tied up, gagged and left in an empty lot under the Manhattan Bridge by highwaymen seeking those million dollar negotiable documents, it reminded him of a very extra, special story: one not about ill gotten enrichment but about love and an alleged comedic error. One could never be sure that ol' Rock was not pulling one's leg with any yarn he cared to spin, but the plausibility he created with his acting talents was always floating in the air like a mysterious cloud one could not easily dismiss as not pregnant with raindrops or maybe hidden sunbeams; anything was possible in the world that Rocky conjured up. Well, this particular story was unlike the humorless and chilling one of the perhaps deadly accurate calculations of the holdup men who knew about numerical values and their symbols of wealth and its power. No, it was about the day Rocky met his future bride and it was both self-deprecating and fun-poking at his lady love. Yes, big money and a bank were involved, like the unpleasant caper that reminded us of our jobs' perils, but instead of greed, myopia was the key ingredient in this tale.
In the world according to Rocky: "I met my wife when she was the new teller at the bank where I had my savings account. This gal was really cute, though she wore glasses like many gal tellers did. I was trying to save a few bucks with my fairly new job. I'd go nearly every other week to that branch to make a deposit and more often than not she'd be the one serving me. I don't know: she seemed to take a shine to me pretty quickly. I got the courage to ask her for a date, especially since she seemed to like me. Well, one thing led to another and before I could chase her much longer, she caught me. Soon after we got married she changed her glasses. She could see better now she told me, but she seemed to have a puzzled look on her face more often now. I finally figured it out: she married me because she couldn't locate exactly where that decimal point in my bank book was; she had it a bunch of zeroes to the right of where it really was. She had figured me for a rich guy. Glad she has a sense of humor."
Well, Rocky "had a million of them" like Jolson and others assured us of their supply of rib ticklers. But naturally, the clock ticked away on our time with the bank and the carefree moments of camaraderie between workday's end and arriving safely at home. After our brief two years on the job, the months rapidly turned into years and the years turned into decades. Rocky and I kept up with occasional phone chats. He occasionally helped me with my sartorial shortcomings and I inherited several shirts and such from him, but mostly what he shared was his take on life and the little curiosities of people, places, fishing and automobiles as well as his theories about people and their particularly intriguing (or annoying) foibles, both locally and on the world stage. For a number of years I made my not-so famous but tasty "calamari" dish for him during the Christmas season, one that he and the other drivers had first enjoyed at our farewell luncheon in one of the drivers' meeting rooms back in the early summer of '89.
Last week the lady with the wrong eyeglasses prescription, according to Rocky, called to tell me that he was truly safe at Home now. I try to remember the rationalist's viewpoint about life and death. Such a person's logic and intellect are pretty much unassailable: "one led a good, long life, his/her gifts will keep giving, and the end must come for all of us", etc., etc. But five years on (my Dad's passing), nearly a quarter century on (with my godfather's), nearly half a century after my grandfather's and with the passing of all of those, family or friends, who touched my life in wondrous ways, large or small, the regret cannot quite ever go away, because they of course, have also gone away, not to return to this earthly life. The cherished hope is that I will meet them all again. The promise of His: that this can be so, comforts and fills me with happy anticipation, not unlike the joyful eagerness for hearing another punchline or twist to and from another funny story by Rocky.
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