9:41 (11 page)

Rod had finished dressing by this time, and was leaving.
This old crackpot doesn't know what he's talking about
, thought Rod. “Well thank you, doctor, your conversation was stimulating, but I'm afraid I think differently”.

“That's your privilege, of course. Just think over what I said though. You'll find it makes an awful lot of sense”, added the doctor.

And how well Rod knew this, … for underneath his calm composure he was thinking of the doctor's words. He got into his car and chirped away from the curb, and lost himself in the city traffic. His mind was working furiously over the principle that the doctor had just expounded. And as he thought of it, his foot imperceptibly eased off the throttle. Presently his car slowed to a stop at the curb. Rod sat there numbed …
no secret of youth … no secret of youth? I haven't found the secret of youth?
Rod was bent forward over the steering wheel, his head cradled in his hands. Presently, he started the car, and it slowly eased away from the curb, cautiously into traffic. His reflection in the windshield was still young and vigorous, and yet there was a slight bit of a droop to the shoulders, just a slight one.

“I'm getting old, … old, … can't keep that crazy pace up any more … have to watch out for myself. I'm really not so young any more …”

WORTH OF A BEING

The ball bounced hollowly from the wall, lifting slowly into the air, then arched downward. Jose skipped backwards, placing himself directly under the ball; he reached his cupped hands upward, and as he stumbled over the curb stone behind him, caught the sphere.

“Yes sir, nice catch, Jose. Let's show them who's boss now”, cried Miguel, who was playing the infield on Jose's team. The two teams changed positions, and Carlos, who was also on Jose's team, stepped toward the wall for his turn to be up.

The boys were playing Home Ru, a game played by bouncing a rubber ball against a wall or the steps of a stoop, attempting to get it past their opponents. Each bounce the ball takes on the ground after clearing a measured line away from the wall counts as a base hit, four bounces a home run.

Carlos took a running skip to get more momentum as he approached the wall to throw the ball. He cocked his arm …

“Hold it up”, shouted a voice from the street which served as the infield, “car coming”.

Carlos followed through with his motions, but did not release the ball. He stopped and watched the car slowly pass through the spread-out players, the driver cursing.

“C'mon you little spic bastards, get the frig out of the street”.

“Okay, let's go”, shouted the players in the infield, disregarding the remark, as the car passed them, disregarding it mainly because they did not understand or speak English very well.

“Whonk”, the ball hit the wall, then climbed toward the top of the overspreading canyons of disintegrating mortar with its multitude of grimy window-eyes in which appeared babies, unclothed save for a frayed pair of pants, or men, or women, old and young, with nothing to do except watch a ball reach up toward them and drop slowly down to a pair of waiting hands.

“That's it. Game's over”, exulted a voice from the team in the field, as the players, both joyful and sullen, made their way to the stoop on which they always passed the time of day. Each of the boys found a seat, and they sat there and talked about the game, about the girls, or the movies, or anything. People passing on the street, who felt a compelled indignation at the sight of “these” people, would glance toward them and pass on, affecting an air of annoyed consciousness. Little children, dirty and ill dressed, were sitting in the street playing a game with the metal caps from soda bottles that they sneaked out of the top catch-box on the soda cooler in the candy store. The object of the game was to propel the bottle top with a push of a thumb into little chalk drawn boxes on the street, each of which represented a certain amount of points.

Around the corner came Amelio Gonzalez, one of the gang, with a little canvas satchel bag in his hand. He had just come from the gym on Gordon Street where, four or five days a week, he trained to be a boxer. Everyone looked in his direction as he walked over to the stoop smiling. He put his bag down, and joined the conversations. Amelio was proud of his bag, or at least what was in it, his boxing equipment, such as it was a pair of ordinary gym sneakers, a cheap pair of cotton trunks that were white with black stripes on the sides, just like the pros—they made Amelio feel part of the pug game—and some tape that he sneaked out of the gym for the hands. His association with the ring made him a celebrity in his own block, made him feel important, because everyone looked up to the boxer as a man of strength, a man of bravery, an outstanding being.

This idolatry for the pug was no chance occurrence, but could be traced with unerring accuracy throughout the history of fighting. The people involved in the game now, as well as ever before, are those people who are subjected most often to manual, physical labor, those people to whom strength is money, is life, is the means of their existence. To these people the possession of strength is a blessing, and the possession of strength to the degree that is necessary for professional boxing is looked upon with awe. The fighter is revered because he can hit with power, can beat down an opponent in fistic, physical, combat. This man is tough, can protect himself well in the toughness of the society that he has been born into, is respected by the neighbors that he lives with, because they understand well what strength is. Youngsters in these groups grow with the desire and conviction, ingrained, that to be a fighter, to show the world one has strength, will, through the only means at their disposal, prove the worth of their being.

There is also involved in this desire to be a fighter the prospect that with success, through the only means at their disposal, will come relief from this life of drudgery to which so many friends and family find themselves strapped. Physical life is the only reality open to these people and they understand it, and use it, and sometimes die by it. The sharp decline can be noted in aspirants for physical violence in direct proportion to a group that has being more accepted into the realm of economic betterment and the enjoyment of a leisure life. When physical reality and harshness of life has become a memory, so, very often, does the desire to prove one's worth by beating someone else's brains out.

One of the younger fellows picked up Amelio's bag and opened it. He took the boxing trunks out and held them up for all to behold. Lo, the symbol of freedom. The kid slipped the trunks over his pants and began to shadow box, making the forced exhaling sound through his nose that is associated with boxers as they punch. Amelio looked on benevolently, as the master looks down upon his apprentice, tousling the hair of the youngster. All the guys started to cheer, and Amelio, sparred very lightly with the kid.

“Put the trunks on, Amelio. Come on, let's see how they look on you”, came the cries from the stoop. Amelio consented and slipped the trunks over his pants and took off his shirt, taking the boxing stance he had seen so many times in newspaper pictures. Everyone cheered, and one of the guys on the stoop got up and in a loud voice, announced, “and in this corner, weighing 145 pounds, wearing white trunks with black stripes, the middleweight champion of the world, Amelio Gonzalez—”

“Yeaaa”, a great cheer rang up from the steps, and Amelio danced about at the bottom of the stoop with the boxers bounce, on his toes, from one foot to the other, waving one hand over his head.

It was about six-thirty when Amelio left the stoop and made his way across the street to the stoop in front of his own building. He passed two men who were sitting there talking, opened the door and went in. The usual deep pungent smell that always assailed a stranger's nose, with its acrid oiliness, was undetected by Amelio as he climbed the stairs two by two. This smell was part of his life, he breathed it, ate it, and never knew it existed. He reached the fourth that he sneaked out of the gym landing, walked down the narrow, unlit, peeling plaster, corridor toward the rear of the building.

There were two doors there. He turned the knob of the one on the left and went in. His Mother stood by the kitchen range cooking.

“Mama”, he said as he kissed her, then he went into his room to put his bag away. His father was lying in bed, in the middle room, sleeping under a sheet. He had worked all night as a porter in one of the buildings uptown and was getting his weekly day of rest. The front room, which really faced the back of the house, served as Amelio's bedroom, as well as for his two little brothers and a sister. He slid the bag under the bed, and went back to the little kitchen. His Mother was standing there in her faded light green dress, which fell against her sagging bosom and protruding stomach tightly, making great swells in the outline of her body. He sat at the table and began to read the newspaper.

“What time are we going to eat?” he asked. “I'm pretty hungry from all that workout at the gym. Besides I'm going to meet the guys to go to the movies at seven-thirty”.

“Your father won't be up before nine”, said she. “He worked all night, and he needs one day of rest, but you can eat now, and go out if you want. Maria, Gabriel, come in to have your dinner now”.

The two little kids came in and sat down next to Amelio; their mother began to dish out the food. When dinner was over, Amelio washed up, combed his hair, and went out. He ran down the stairs and met the guys in front of the usual stoop. He was the last one to arrive and they all started for the movies. The movie house was about four blocks away. It was a movie house that showed only Spanish pictures because there were so many Spanish-speaking people in the neighborhood. It had once been one of the better theaters in town, but the neighborhood had become less than it was. A big shiny Cadillac car passed the guys and their heads all turned quickly to catch a look at it. Each in his own little secret thoughts said to himself that one day he would have a car like that, and drive around town showing everybody his exhaust.

Yes sir, one of these days soon
, thought Amelio,
a yellow convertible
. They reached the movie house and went in.

When the show was over, all the guys made their way home and again sat down on the stoop. They always hung around together, these guys, about twelve of them. They might be considered a gang by people, but really they were only a group of friends, who palled around together. Actually, it was a friendship both voluntary and valuable; valuable since abuse and derision are less hurled to twelve than to one, but nevertheless voluntary because the guys were all close friends.

Presently a patrol car came cruising up the block, and stopped in front of the stoop. Two cops got out, night sticks in hand, and walked over to the gang. One of the cops said, “Okay, let's break it up, let's get going. C'mon move—these little bastards don't even speak English” he commented to his partner. “Boy, if we could only understand what they're gibbering about—probably cursing the hell out of us”.

The gang got up and slowly moved toward their houses. “See you tomorrow guys”, said Amelio.

It was early the next morning when Amelio arose, shook the sleep out of his eyes, dressed, and started for work. In the kitchen he fixed a small breakfast of bread and jelly for himself, and started for the shop. He worked a few blocks away on the platform of a trucking company. He was treated well there, but there was always an attitude of non-confidence generated by his fellow workers, especially the foreman.

“C'mon Ami”, he would say, “let's get that carton over here. No, no, what the hell is the matter with you? Can't you do it the way I told you to, like this—now c'mon—that's better. This kid, you gotta watch him every minute, otherwise he makes a mistake. They haven't got too much brains, these spics”. This was the way it went all day, but Amelio was resigned and kept trying to be accepted as a competent worker, an equal, but it was hard. On his lunch break he met Jose, who worked around the corner. They went into the luncheonette, and sat down at the counter. The counterman was waiting on someone else at the other end of the counter.

“Well, how's your work coming?”, asked Amelio.

“Ok, but I'm so tired always. I'm going to school for television repair at night. That's why I work so hard over here, so I can make enough money to pay for the course. It's hard though, when I get only thirty dollars a week, and I have a sister and brother to support. School is so expensive, and—hey, don't we get any service in this place”, he said loudly, not knowing how else to say what he meant.

“Don't get all excited bud”, said the counterman, who was walking toward them. “We've got a lot of people to serve in here beside you, you know. Just keep your shirt on. Whad-a-ya-wan?”

“Give me a baloney sandwich on rye”, said Amelio.

“I'll have the same”, said Jose.

The counter man walked back to his sandwich board and began talking to one of the customers close by. “Damn spics, all of them are on relief, and they come in here an think they can order you around like you're their servant or somethin'. I wish the hell they'd all go back to their little island and leave us all alone. Here you go, two baloney. That's seventy cents each”.

The guys ate their sandwiches, and went out. They stood outside on the sidewalk and smoked a cigarette apiece, and then went back to work.

“See you tonight, Amelio”, said Jose.

“Okay, kid, see you later”, replied Amelio as he made his way back toward the trucking company platform.

Later that night, when he arrived home for supper, no one was in the apartment. His mother hadn't arrived home from her job yet, she was a seamstress in the Bronx, and his father had already left for his job. Amelio sat down to a light meal he prepared for himself, and went on his way to the gym. As he walked he wished that someday this drudgery could stop for his family, that they could relax and not work so hard. They were always so busy they had no time to be together. His step quickened and his chest swelled. “There's one way to do it”, he thought as he reached the steps that led up to the gym. He bounded up two by two, went in and saw Petey standing watching the other fighters. Petey was his trainer, his manager, and his friend.