Gettin' Happy

There is a gradient of accent as one moves from New York outward through the suburbs. It’s a gradient that reflects an economic and educational gradient, as the more well-off search for their little havens further away from the sordid pulse of the city. The rich sneer and street snap of the New Yorker becomes attenuated until finally all trace of regional accent is lost in the robotic and dulcet tones of TV Land.

            I grew up where the ebb and flow of the gradient mixed accents, like an estuarine blend of salt and fresh water, though the concentration of amorphic TV language had become predominant.

            We were in Romo’s Deli & Chop Shop one day, looking to steal something. It didn’t matter a lot what we would steal. The important thing was to get away with it.

            I was fingering a little packet of bubblegum and baseball cards, wondering if I really wanted Claude Osteen in my collection. He was on that great pitching staff of the LA Dodgers, but he wasn’t the best of them.

            I had the best collection of baseball cards in the neighbourhood. In fact, when I bequeathed it to my friend Adam Hines’ little brother Vin, he became a made man.

            “Hey, whatcha doin’?”

            Fritz was at my elbow, smelling like onions from a White Diamond ratburger.

            “You really wanna steal bubblegum?”

            “I’m thinking about the baseball cards.”

            “You and your fricking baseball cards. What’s with that shit?”

            “I like baseball.”

            “Yeah, but you like the Dodgers! Where’s your patriotism? You should like the Yankees!”

            I looked at him as if he was a mosquito singing Verdi. Apparently he wasn’t aware of the full force of Koufax.

            “Look, there’s some bottles of sherry over in the back corner.”

            I looked and sure enough, there were four or five brown bottles of cooking sherry with tan labels sitting on a dusty shelf, next to the wooden matches.

            “You want to drink that shit?” I asked.

            “Yeah, we take it back down to the park and get a little happy.”

            If only my parents could see me now, I thought.

            “Alright, I’ll go ask Romo about these baseball cards and you can stick a bottle under your armpit. Just walk out. I’ll meet you at the train station.” I said.

            The trouble was, as Fritz was sidling out through the front door the bottle of sherry slipped out of his armpit and would have broken onto the sidewalk if he hadn’t executed an acrobatic rescue.

            “Hey!” shouted Romo. “What da fuck ya doin’?” He ran toward the door.

            Fritz was off like a cheetah.

            “I don’t know that guy.” I said to Romo.

            “Fuck you, muddafucka!”

           

            Later on, down at the park, we got a little happy.