bruce says sorry...

Last night at the restaurant Manny came in. Manny is one of the locals, born, raised and returned, after a brief stint of a marriage, to the two bedroom walk-up his family have held onto for generations. Rent controlled. He was at the bar when a journalism student came in to research a story about Mulberry Street. 'A digital voice recorder with brand new batteries.' The student was asked by Manny why he came to write about Mulberry Street. Shrugging, the student replied, 'someone suggested it.' Manny is in his mid-forties and he's lived through the changing face of Mulberry Street over the decades. He remembers the time when downtown (where we live) was unoccupied at night. 'We'd play baseball on Layfayette and Spring. There were no cars.' Manny also remembers when the neighbourhood was run by the gangsters and wiseguys. He remarked about how everyone was looked after. There was no trouble. A great number of people have left the neighbourhood, 'to the burbs or to jail. Gotti is dead, things have changed,' says Manny. Upstairs though there still lives a man who 'can be counted on,' in Manny's words. He did time. Considerable time. He is perhaps the last remnant of the bygone Mulberry era. He is seventy four years old and will 'get you gone' says Manny, in the blink of an eye. Manny took the student by the arm and led him downstairs to the bakers oven, 'where people got cooked,' and to the beer garden where 'more gambling went on here than in Vegas.' Soon after Manny and the student returned a couple entered the bar and sat down and sure enough became part of goings-on. The guy started scribbling on a bar coaster, the cartoonish image struck me as familiar. The gal got into a heated conversation via phone, with her bank regarding a cancelled credit card. And Manny started talking about his brother Steven. Steven went to Baghdad, came back home after a few years a changed man. Ended up blowing his brains out in a Florida carpark. Manny's son idolised his Uncle Steven and wants to be a Marine like him. Manny is worried. 'I want my boy to save lives, not take them,' says Manny. 'I tell him to be a pediatrician.'
The gal downed her glass of wine and continued to berate the distant voice of a stranger and the guy turned to me asking, 'What's your name?' After telling him the guy signed the coaster 'Gary Baseman' and said, 'hold onto it.' He finished his drink and left to meet his gal outside. They wandered into the night. An Albanian by the name of Kursh turned up at the bar and distracted Manny enough to allow the student to pay his bill and leave. I'm not sure the student heard any of the stories Manny told. We closed up shop, echoes of the night trailing away. This morning I woke and went across the street to the deli for a sesame bagel, toasted, with ham, salad and honey mustard. 'You get Swiss with that,' said Jose from behind the counter. He was right. I usually do. 'Thanks, yeah that's right,' I replied. Waiting for the bagel I stood back and watched the passing pedestrian traffic. A lunchtime swarm hovering over the buffet. There was noise but none that I particularly focused on, aside from Jose's co-worker behind the counter pleading to his customers to find Aliesha. 'She's five foot six, asian, skinny. I'll give five hundred to whoever finds her. She works around here. I think she even works on the block across the street. Five hundred notes just to find her. I mean it. You don't think I'm serious but I am. You find her, you tell her, Bruce says sorry.'