President of the United States of America

Oh! It was a most special night for the entire Greek American Community in early December of 2012. One of theirs had finally made it to the top of the ladder. After Dukakis and Tsongas – the third time was the charm for an American of Greek descent. This time it was for a favored son of the great State of New York.

The First Greek-American President of the USA

Anybody who was anybody in the Hellenic American world had packed the grand ballroom of New York City’s Waldorf Astoria. Red, white and blue bunting was the backdrop for this noisy and festive occasion. Each table was adorned with American and Greek flags. They contrasted sharply with the cassocks of the clergy, black tie outfits of the men, and muted yet very chic evening gowns of the ladies.

At the head table was the First Lady to be – Anastasia Papp with her four boys and one daughter and the First Mother to be – Eleftheria Papachristopoulos. Eleftheria was wearing her signature Majorca pearls complimenting a royal purple gown. The Archbishop of America was at the next table with all the Metropolitans of the nation in attendance. The officers of the AHEPA, Order of Saint Andrew, National Board of Philoptochos, (the Friends of the Poor Society), various political and fraternal organizations, dignitaries from Greece, and of course the top Greek American contributors from the Independent Party formed the inner circle.

All these high powered personalities were promised a preview of president – elect John Papp’s inaugural address. There was this tremendous electric buzz of excitement and anticipation in the air, and more smiles here than at a crocodile convention; more pounding of the back than could be expected for the winning team at the upcoming Super Bowl in January of 2013. Throughout the hall the repetitive shouts of “we did it, we finally did it,” was the mantra of the night. To be sure, those who had done the least were strutting around the ballroom most.

Every eye was riveted to the podium as Papp’s national campaign manager Robert Sweeney stood center stage as the band struck up the folk song that had become the campaign anthem – This Land is Your Land. Stretching his arms out wide and displaying the universal V for victory with two fingers of each hand, Sweeney quieted the gathering.

“Dear friends and supporters, this great day has finally arrived. A son of immigrant parents has proven that the American dream is attainable to one and all.” Mr. Sweeney smiled proudly as he continued; “President – elect John Papp doesn’t want or need a long introduction. He is determined to thank each and every one of you personally after a few brief remarks. So, without further ado I give you – your President and mine!”

A standing ovation greeted John Papp as he took over the podium with a firm handshake to Bob Sweeney. Norman Rockwell couldn’t have painted a more idealized portrait of a President. His sharply defined face and hair graying at the temples along with his piercing blue eyes were intimidating and announced that here was a man accustomed to getting his way. John Papp surveyed the room until he was satisfied that all eyes were focused on him. He coughed several times to clear his throat before speaking.

“It has been a long and often difficult road to the White House, my dear friends. Who could have possibly thought that an American of Greek descent, born in the working class section of Flatbush, Brooklyn and raised along with two brothers by a young widowed mother could not only ascribe but achieve the highest elected office in the land?” There was the unbelievable silence of a large gathering of people with Greek blood in them being completely quiet as John Papp bowed his head as if in prayer before continuing. “It was my dearest mother, who ever since I could remember as a little boy telling me that I would grow up to become the President of the United States of America someday. Countless times throughout my four terms as Congressman and two terms as the Governor of New York, I have implored mom to explain how she knew with bedrock faith that this politician would eventually work in the Oval Office. Her reply never wavered – “at right the time I will reveal to you just how a mother knows her son’s destiny.”

“Well mom, you love the church, you love the Philoptochos. You love all the organizations that help Greek Americans.” In a voice mixed with pride and exasperation he finished. “I invited them all here tonight so that I could thank you for all you have done for me and so you could finally tell me just how you always knew I would become President of the United States of America.”

Anastasia looked at her mother - in - law and said, “Mama, you have got to go up there; he’s not asking for me. I can accept that the umbilical cord can be cut, but never severed; so go. I’m just as eager as he is to find out the answer to the question.”

“Anastasia, is my hair okay?”

“Mama, there’s not a gray hair out of place.”

Eleftheria Papachristopoulos rose with great difficulty, leaning on her silver handled cane. She silently thought, “Ha, yes all my hair is gray and if truth be known it wasn’t my son William the doctor or Thomas the computer magnate that had anything to do with it. It was Johnnie, all by himself that has given me trouble ever since he was a toddler.”

As she slowly made her way to the stage she mused about Johnnie’s latest antic. During the last months of the campaign, he started to relate to the crowds that because his family was so poor that as a kid William would buy a penny candy and suck on it for a while; then it was Thomas’s turn, and Johnnie would be the one to finish it. Pshaw! That was baloney; sure Johnnie had to wear hand me downs from his brothers but he always was neat and clean and there was always good food on the table. Johnnie had explained to her that the electorate expected a politician to embellish on their record or life experience. That didn’t sit well with Eleftheria, neither did his shortening of the family name so as not to sound too ethnic. “What was wrong with Papachristopoulos anyway?” She grumbled to herself. She didn’t notice the approving glances of the audience and the resounding ovation they gave her as she ever so slowly made her way to her son. She reflected more on Johnnie’s actions that made him so different from his brothers even at an early age.

Mr. Costas, the Sunday school teacher approached her after Church one day and said that he would try to speak loud and directly for Johnnie’s benefit because of his hearing problem. That had puzzled her until she found the transistor radio with the earplug in his room. He had poor Mr. Costas fooled into thinking he was wearing a hearing aid; actually Johnnie was listening to rock n’ roll music during Sunday school lessons.

Another time, Johnnie asked her to alter a pair of new pants. Johnnie was standing on the kitchen table as she worked on the woolen slacks. William happened by and remarked that he had a pair of pants just like them. Johnnie then asked her to hurry the task. Five minutes after he left for a date, William ran out of the bedroom with murder in his heart. They were the pants that he had paid for from his after school job at the drugstore.

When Johnnie was seventeen, Mr. Russo, the greengrocer threatened him with bodily harm because he suspected Johnnie of having relations with his daughter Anna Maria. Eleftheria felt it was true because Mr. Russo said that his daughter claimed that Johnnie would tell her that he burned for her like an Easter Candle, and that sounded just like him.

The only way out of that mess was for her to enlist Johnnie into the Army. He served during the height of the Vietnam War. She came to know the worry of the many times that she hadn’t heard from him for weeks on end and fearing the worst. Eventually, he did come home with a chest full of medals, and a permanent limp.

The passing of years have not changed her youngest son. Last month at her eighty-fifth birthday celebration Johnnie presented her with a gift box from Tiffany’s (NYSE: TIF). Johnnie with his usual fanfare elicited oohs and ahs from all the family members in attendance before placing it in her hands. Eleftheria wasn’t totally surprised to open the elegantly wrapped gift to discover not jewelry but three Milky Way candy bars. Everyone enjoyed a good laugh.

Eleftheria refused help for the steps to the stage. When she finally embraced her son, it was the classic picture of mother and child. The soon to be 45th President of America laid one hand on his mother’s shoulder, and with the other signaled the gathering to silence. When the proverbial pin dropping could be heard, he earnestly spoke.

“Mother, please finally reveal how you always knew I would one day become President of the United States!”

Eleftheria Papachristopoulos, with the sweetest haloed countenance extended her two hands and as if presenting and weighing the most precious of gifts replied clearly for all to hear. “It was the heft of your soiled diapers.” Turning to the audience but still smiling endearingly, she announced, “I now give you back the President – but always my child – my Johnnie.”

President – elect John Papp managed the frozen smile of a politician as he received a vigorous tug to his earlobe. He watched in silent awe as his mother left the stage triumphantly. Eleftheria practically skipped down the stairs as the cheering now mixed with laughter resumed even louder than before.

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Heaven's Tears

"Happy name day, my son," my mother had wished me. She had called me at work on December 6th in 1990. She had gone to church on Saint Nicholas' name day. "There look like tears on the Icon of the blessed Holy Mother," she softly added.

I should have put more importance into what she had just said, but didn’t. We only talked for a little while longer. We would see each other at the annual church dance this coming Saturday. My mother was the President of the Philoptochos Society (Friends of the Poor) and I was on the Board of Trustees of the Saints Constantine and Helen Cathedral in Brooklyn Heights. I had been living in Manhattan since 1982, after moving out of my parent’s house in Brooklyn a year after my father had passed away. I had joined the Board of Trustees to keep a promise that I had made to my old Sunday school teacher, Mr. Zymaris. It was his widow, Catherine who had nominated me. I certainly enjoyed attending the majestic Byzantine church where I had received the baptismal sacrament. The board meetings were another matter. They would start late and end late. At times, I would find myself riding the subway at one o’clock in the morning during a weekday. My fellow board members were for the most part a lovable lot. They were also a typical bunch of unorganized Greek men. This next Saturday night I would have been far happier to be walking to a museum or art exhibit than traveling by train to a dance that I’m sure would have music that was too loud as the main feature. That’s why I pay an exorbitant rent for a studio apartment in Manhattan; to take advantage of the infinite cultural opportunities available on this small island. My reluctance to going was overcome by the fact that I would be seeing my mother. I was also one of the co-chairmen for the dance journal and I wanted to see how the publication was received. The community was honoring Nicholas Vassilakos a venerable son of one of the 1913 church founders.

The affair was to be held at the Hollywood Terrace Catering Hall in the Bensonhurst section of Brooklyn. It wasn’t that I was consciously aware of trying to get there late, but I did. I even took the wrong train and ended up having to walk a number of extra blocks. I reflected on the one time that I had thought I saw tears on the countenance of the Virgin Mary. Costas Sklitsis, a perennial board member had asked me to help a young girl of about twelve years old to light a large candle in front of the Holy Mother at the iconostasis. She was about to turn back after lighting the candle that I had placed in the candle stand. For some reason I uttered one word and that was “pray!” She made the sign of the cross after making her supplication. I followed her example and then I found myself transfixed by what I thought were a stream of tears. For what felt like an eternity I examined the beautiful Icon to see if the light was playing a trick on my eyes. It didn’t seem that way but I kept what I saw to myself in hopes that others would see it too. My mother’s conversation had revived the memory.

As I continued my walk, I remembered going by a main thoroughfare, and being unsettled upon noticing that all the stores had metal shutters completely blocking any chance of window viewing. Only a few homes had any light decorations for the upcoming Christmas Holiday.

It was after nine-thirty when I finally entered the floor-to-ceiling glass lobby of the Hollywood Terrace. Gus Trataros, a vice-president on the board, came out of a door and told me that my mother was looking for me. The seating chart had me assigned to table number 12. I entered the darkened dance hall. At first, I was disorientated because of the din. Somehow I managed to find my sister, Toni. She told me that my seat had been given away. I had a sip of a scotch sour given to me by the moonlighting bartender who by strange coincidence happened to have worked with my younger brother Peter at Macy’s Flatbush in the electronics department years before (NYSE: M). I muttered that, “I didn’t need this,” about losing my place.

Then it happened!

There was a commotion on the dance floor behind me and to the right. The music stopped. “Nick, it’s your mother!” I heard the voice of Betty Xanthos say clearly. Betty had also been a President of the Philoptochos Society at one time; she and my mother were best friends for many years.

There was my mother lying on the dance floor not breathing at all. Teddy Nicholoudis, one of the few young members of the church board, immediately started to give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I heard somebody yell that an ambulance was called. I got on my knees and took over from Teddy, trying to breathe life into my mother. We even tore away her blouse and other things, in hopes that, that would help. I was acting by instinct only. At one point I stood up and I could see across the hall to the dais. His Grace Bishop Philotheos appeared as if he was bearing the weight of the world as he offered the most compassionate silent prayer humanly possible. When the ambulance finally came and they were preparing mom for the hospital, I turned to Peter Rogakos. I clutched his arm and I said, “We’re Greeks, we will get through this.” Peter had lost his mother at a very young age and in only a few years his younger brother, George, would die in a construction accident. I also remember that Elias Seremetis handed me a strong drink to brace for the ordeal to come.

Toni and I followed the ambulance to Maimonides Hospital. They admitted our mother in the emergency ward. She hadn’t regained consciousness. We answered the many questions from the attending doctor, letting him know that mom suffered from high blood pressure and that she was taking medication for it. I started calling my brothers and other sister to let them know what had happened. It was a long night. The diagnosis was an aneurysm.

I had been down this road before, with my father. He had a stroke while I was still living in Brooklyn. The day before I had gone fishing and the only thing I caught was a cold. I stayed home from work that day and was awakened by my mother’s cries. “Wake up Stavros, please wake up!” My father was taken to Kings County Hospital. When he came home he was confined to the hospital bed that we had put into the first floor living room. He never really recovered. He lived barely long enough to see his first grandson, Nicholas, who is also my Godson. I thank God to this day that my parents had seven children because you need that many shoulders and even more to help in times of crisis. You fall into a routine of taking turns at their bedside. When my father had his relapse he ended up in Caledonian Hospital. The afternoon of my father’s last day, I was in his room when the nurses chased me out because the monitors that he was hooked up to indicated that something was terribly wrong. He passed away in a matter of minutes. I waited outside the hospital for my mother and prevented her from going up. “Mom, now, he’s with the others, remember him as he was.”

We had many visitors to the room that she shared with two other patients; there was a petite Irish Lady in her nineties that was recovering nicely from a broken hip, and an elderly Orthodox Jewish man that had been on life support for a long time. His devoted daughter constantly attended to him. Two visitors stand out in my memory. Eva Tsikis, she could have been the younger sister that my mother never had. She was also short and feisty just like mom. Eva told me that her daughter, Maria was in a coma for many days and that she had prayed to the Holy Mother for help. Her daughter made a miraculous recovery. One night while I was in the room with Mom a woman wearing a badge entitled, Catholic Charity Visitor, approached mom’s bed. At first I had tried to shoo her away by saying that, “we are not of your faith,” but then I took a second look at her and her nametag.

“Mary Ann McCabe, is that you?”

"Is that Bertha?"

The McCabe’s were our next-door neighbors on East 23rd Street. Mary Ann’s husband Frank was a fireman. Every time I went to Brooklyn to see my mother, I would look at the tree that he had planted in front of his home. It always brought a smile to see that it was gradually growing taller. They had moved out of the neighborhood about ten years ago but somehow kept in touch with everyone. Now, all the neighbors that had left East 23rd Street found out about Mom. We had visits from the Bambara’s, Spencer’s, and Rubinate’s. The Galletes, a family from Haiti that shared a common driveway on the other side of ours was very supportive. It gave me a warm feeling to remember that Dad when he retired took their son Fritz on his first fishing trip out of Sheepshead Bay just like he did for all his seven children. Mom had treated their Daughter Paula to McDonald’s one time (NYSE: MCD). She enjoyed relating that Paula was thoughtful about her choices so as not to have mom spend too much money.

Because of my mother, my brothers had returned to the large house on East 23rd Street. There was Michael from Grand Rapids, Peter from Pennsylvania, and Jimmy from nearby Queens. At that point, only John and Toni were still living at home. My younger sister Elena also had her own apartment in Hoboken, New Jersey.

The next Saturday afternoon before going to the hospital, I first called home for an update on mom’s condition. Jimmy answered the phone and told me to get to the hospital as fast as I could. I didn’t ask for any details because in my heart I didn’t expect my mother to recover. I simply felt that she was going through the same ordeal that her husband had suffered. When I arrived at Maimonides, Peter standing outside my mother’s room met me. “Nick, sit down,” he said while pulling over a worn wooden backed wheelchair used by patients who are somewhat ambulatory, for trips to X-rays or just sitting in the hallway.

“John has also suffered an aneurysm; it happened this morning. They have him in the emergency room now.” Before Peter could finish these words, I had fallen back into the chair, in disbelief. I listened silently as my sisters explained what had happened.

“John was down in the basement bathroom, and was shaving when we heard him cry, ‘Oh no!’ He had collapsed wedging the door shut. Luckily, Jimmy and Michael were home. They almost had to break down the door to get him out. God bless those two Emergency Medical Service women. They at first wanted to transport John to Kings County Hospital because it was the closest. We begged them to bring him here because of mom, and those angels did.”

Saturday night at a city hospital is usually the worst time and place to view humanity. Many of the injuries are the result of people doing things they shouldn’t or wouldn’t normally be doing. A teenage gang member was brought in draped over the shoulder of one of his companions. Within half an hour he was kicking the walls and doors after recovering from an obvious drug overdose. I was grateful when he ran out of the hospital.

When I finally got in to see John in the emergency room bay they had him on a stretcher in the hallway. He was conscious and talking, but his replies were not making any sense. The aneurysm had affected his speech, but his vital signs were stable. I stayed with him until they had finally had a semi private room for him. Father Calivas had been our priest throughout our boyhood at Saints Constantine and Helen. He had given John and his best friend Chris Sofronis each a silver cross for their service as altar boys. Before I went over to Vietnam in 1969, John had given me his cross for protection. I placed it back into his hands before they wheeled him away to his room.

So, while the rest of the world was preparing for Christmas, we were holding a vigil for our mother on the second floor and visiting our brother John on the fourth floor at Maimonides. We were shown every kindness. Many of the Philoptochos ladies came to the hospital. Fay Anton, a long time member, arranged for Bishop Alexios to hold a service with the family members at the church. This pious hierarch led us in a prayer for God’s will.

One Sunday I went to church to light some candles before going to visit mom and John. It was comforting to breathe in the fragrance of incense and wonderful to witness the faith of two millenniums being practiced by the children and grandchildren of immigrants. My quiet reflection reached a new level of peacefulness when I noticed that standing next to Eva Tsikis was her daughter Maria. This was the young girl that I had accompanied to the Icon of the Holy Mother at the iconostasis. Then I knew that all would happen according to God’s plan not that of man.

John had a successful operation to clip the aneurysm. My mother’s condition hadn’t changed. On December the 22nd, the Irish Lady’s son was there to take him home. He gave me the saddest smile of compassion as we parted. As usual, I stood over my mother’s bed for a while to pray and to whisper to her, that I loved her before going home.

The air was crisp, and the sky was clear that early winter night as I waited on the deserted elevated subway station for the long train ride back home. Below me, I could see Hasidic men in their old world dress talking to each other. I didn’t get back to the apartment until late. I had just finished eating some supper when I started to shiver. Across the blank wall I was facing, a shadow moved. It had no form. But, If, I had to give it a description, I would have to say it made me think of a bird alighting on to a tree.

My sister Elena called within five minutes and announced in a tired voice, “mommy has passed away.”

John was progressing, though I have to admit that for the first few days after his operation he had the scars of Frankenstein across his head. We decided that it would be unfair for him not to be told about his mother. We broke the sad news to him as gently as we could. He accepted it quietly.

At that time, Jimmy had the only grandchildren of our parents. That Christmas was shared only by giving gifts to little Nicholas and Christina. We felt that mom would have wanted it that way.

Mom was waked after Christmas. The weather changed; it became windy with a coating of snow covering city streets. Demetra (Sheila) Kioskerides, the church secretary and a convert to the Orthodox Faith, offered a sweet gesture to my mother’s memory. On mom’s lavender colored blouse she had pinned a small golden medallion; World’s #1 Mom. At her funeral, Father Kile was assisted by two other Archimandrites. I am sure that his Grace Bishop Philotheos arranged for this extra expression of respect.

Despite the slippery roads and falling snow, her companions from the Philoptochos Society were very much in evidence. Quite a few ladies also risked the journey to Cypress Hills Cemetery. I remember Eleni Sofronis, Chris’s wife and Stella Nicholoudis, Teddy’s sister were kind enough to pay their respects. At the gravesite, umbrellas were needed to ward off boughs of snow, wind-shaken off the pine tree by her final resting place with her husband, Stavros. It was as if Mother Nature and mom were working together to shorten our time of grieving at the cemetery.

That New Year’s Eve, I went back to my mother’s house on East 23rd Street. John was still in the hospital. 354 East 23rd Street was the Promised Land to my parents. It was their first real home after we moved in 1967 from the railroad flat apartment that we had on Midwood Street. It had eleven rooms, stained glass windows, parquet floors, and a garden in the front and back.

I had read in the New York Times that there was supposed to be a Blue Moon this night (NYSE: NYT). It is named for the second full moon that occurs in the same calendar month. The paper also had explained that the expression, “Once in a Blue Moon,” has come to mean only on rare occasions.

As the midnight hour approached I was sitting at my mother’s favorite place; a sturdy chair with arms, at the end of the dining room table. I had a window view of the back garden. It was a crystal clear night. The full moon was very visible through the barren branches of the old chestnut tree. The stars were like tears in the heavens. I could hear the beginnings of celebrations in the distance. I was about to turn away in despair, but I also noticed something else in that night sky—it was the sky itself.

It was a particular blue, a cobalt blue just like the color of the bottle of perfume that I remember that my mother kept all by itself in the center on the top of her bureau when we lived at Midwood street. My father worked two and sometimes three restaurant jobs to put food on the table for his children. We were going through 12 quarts of milk a day then. On rare occasions, when he didn’t have to work on a Saturday night dad might take mom to a movie on Flatbush Avenue. She would splash herself with this perfume, and its fragrance would remain in the air for a while after they had left together. For the longest time I had thought that An Evening in Paris, must have been very expensive. Toni set me straight one day. “It’s the cheapest stuff at the 5 and 10.” Somehow, someway that thought brought me out of my melancholy mood.

I started to sum up my mother’s life and the intense experiences of recent days. My mom had a father who became fond of drink and an uneducated mother. They took her out of high school. “You’ll get married and will have children; you work in the restaurant until you do.” She was beaten for letting a pot of soup burn because she had become so engrossed in a Zane Grey western novel. She married Stavros when they had less than twenty-five dollars between them. They had seven children in quick succession. She had the courage to throw dirty dishwater on a group of toughs shooting craps beneath our kitchen window on Midwood Street. She had the tenderness to place my feet that were frozen from playing football in the snow to her belly until they were warm again. She loved to dance. Yes, mom was short and even chunky, especially in her later years, but she was so unbelievably graceful when dancing the Greek dances.

My mother was certainly a person in her own right. I remember her zaniness of doing bicycles on her back in her cotton pajamas to the instruction of Jack Lalane on the television. I remember the time I pretended that I didn’t know her. That is when she carried the lit Resurrection Candle in a lantern on the subway after Easter services. She had a “secret vice,” of tucking away Milky Way candy bars in the freezer as a special treat when she needed a pick-up. I can still see the glow in her eyes when she would often relate; “During the Great Depression some big Irishmen from the Democratic Party made sure that all the poor families in the neighborhood had a Thanksgiving Dinner with all the trimmings.” Mom liked to instill her principals; “people judge you by the company you keep,” I think was her favorite.

When I returned from the army in 1970, I started to go to Brooklyn College at night. I first took some liberal arts classes and told mom that I thought that there were some courses that she might enjoy. However, she needed a high school diploma to attend college. She took and passed the G.E.D. exam for high school on her first attempt. The family joke became; that when I was small she would take me to school and now that I was big, I was taking her. She started to be nicknamed “the professor,” by her husband. She kept at it though and when she was in her sixth decade; I went to her cap and gown graduation. I know in my heart that one of her proudest accomplishments was to be elected president of the Philoptochos. Now, she could help others, especially children.

I went outside to the back garden. I looked up at the cobalt blue night sky to the full moon and the stars. Something else about mom came to mind. Countless times as a little boy, as I am sure little children do, I asked her; “mom who do you love the best?” No matter how tired or preoccupied she might be, her answer never wavered.

“I love all my children equally.”

One last time I gazed up at the eternal heavens, before going back inside. God has given us many wondrous gifts, none as precious as the bond between a mother and her children.

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The Reunion

“Jeeze! I must have hit my head ten thousand times today,” Mike said to George Athanasios who was sitting directly across the table. Mike emphasized the point by taking out a bright-orange toy hammer from an army surplus duffle bag and began striking himself repeatedly. The soft-cushioned plastic gave off a surprisingly loud metallic sound.

Many of the customers at the Spartan Coffee Shop on Ninth Avenue turned towards the source of this unexpected noise. They quickly returned their gazes back to their own booths, for Mike was built like a tank. Only five nuns, sitting nearby, were not intimidated. They were wearing the full traditional black habit that you see rarely nowadays. A couple of the sisters gave Mike disapproving glances while the eldest added a tongue clucking. He retaliated by blowing a shrill note on the whistle at the end of the hammer.

George looked at the nuns with an “I give up,” expression on his face. A moment before, he had overheard them discussing the production of The Trojan Women, at the St. Veronica’s Church Theatre. They were debating whether or not if it was suitable fare for senior citizen groups. The youngest of them who was fortyish yet quite cherubic, spoke up and stated that it was important to be reminded about unpleasant matters from time to time.

Mike was about to give them another blast when George took the hammer away and put it back with the other unsold ones. He however couldn’t suppress a grin at Mike’s antics. Also, even though he and Mike had met by accident that afternoon—after 20 years, George could still remember how fearful he used to be of this bully from the old neighborhood.

“Aw, c’mon, I just wanna get back at the old crows for warning the girls in the eighth grade not to wear patent leather shoes.” Mike’s juvenile devilish laugh hadn’t changed a bit. “They also told them not to accept my invites to inspect the classroom closets. Can you imagine that?”

“But Mike, that was so long ago.”

“Georgie—Porgie, I remember things like it was yesterday. Like the time Father O’Malley caught me over the fence at Our Lady Queen of Martyrs, I was swiping chestnuts.” Mike pursed his lips and shook his head. “I couldn’t sit down for a week. My Old Aunt Rosie used to say that you could hear his requiem Masses all the way to the bleachers.”

Stavros, the owner, came over. George was his accountant. Stavros had the two top buttons of his shirt open. He exposed a skinny, hairless chest and a blue Mati on a gold chain. The jeweled “Eye,” which according to superstition has the ability to ward off the “Evil Eye,” that while innocently possessed nonetheless herald’s great misfortune.

“What you boys want? We got fresh apples pie.”

“I’m as American as apple pie,” Mike bellowed, as he thumped his chest with his big fists.

“I’m as American as spinach pie,” chuckled George, “but I’ll go for the apple and a coffee.”

Mike nodded as he mimicked Stavros and ordered: “Apples pie, apples pie, coffee, coffee.”

Looking heavenward, the thin man muttered something in Greek before walking away.

George examined the tattoos on Mike’s pale, muscular arms: Sweet Sue, over a heart with an arrow through it on his left, and on his right, inscribed under a skull and crossbones, Born to Die. In Brooklyn, in the early sixties, everybody’s mother warned that tattoos were a sure sign of criminality. Mike wasn’t a thug—he was tough Irish and a few years older than George.

Mike drove a souped up ’55 Thunderbird convertible and he didn’t want anybody’s kid brother hanging around. He would push George away with a “Get lost Cuz,” (Cuz is a Brooklyn version of cousin) especially, at the times when he and Jimmy Athanasios were patrolling for “broads.” Their favorite hunting ground was Murray the K’s Swinging Soiree Rock and Roll Shows at the Paramount. They warmed up for these adventures with hallway echo singing of Earth Angel and in the Still of the Night.

George wasn’t bitter about being left out. He remembered the time that Mike came like “John Wayne” to rescue him from four members of the “Vice Counts” who had ambushed him. Mike’s weightlifter muscles taught those punks that Lincoln Road was not to be invaded. George suffered a bloody nose and the knowledge that he was destined to be an innocent victim. He was too stubborn to run, but not able to fight back effectively.

Athena, the chunky waitress who wore pink uniforms that were too tight and too short, came over to their booth. “How are you guys doing?” She asked, as she leaned over the table to put the deserts and coffees down. “George, maybe you can talk to Stavros. He told me today he wants to spend a fortune to renovate this place to make it new and fancy. In this neighborhood it’s just not worth it.”

“Babe! You sure don’t need any renovating, “Mike interrupted as he took her bust and hip measurements through narrowed eyes.

Athena winked back at the compliment. “George, I want to have a job in January when I come back after visiting my father in Phoenix,” she pleaded.

“I’ll speak to him.” George relished Athena’s usual spunky spirit and her way with the customers. He gazed up at the vases and decorative plates from Greece that depicted ancient shield bearing warriors with plumed helmets and spears at the ready. They were displayed above the shelving behind the counter. They certainly didn’t fit in with the peaceful sheen from the imitation Tiffany glass lamps with their motif of daisies and red poppies. Overhauling the restaurant wouldn’t cure Stavros’s poor taste in décor, George thought as he returned his attention to Mike.

Earlier that sun filled afternoon, he had spied Mike selling the hammers in front of the sculpture of Atlas bearing the earth in the form of a giant sundial, on his shoulders. This ebony-bronze mythological representation dominates Fifth Avenue at the Rockefeller Center complex where the United States Passport Office is housed. Mike’s faded army fatigue jacket and the duffle bag were at his feet as he worked this unseasonably warm mid November day. There was no doubt even after a score of years of lost contact that George knew that this was Mike McGillicuddy.

“Get your husband management tool here!” Mike yelled, stretching out the “here,” like the mates do when they hawk flukes or flounders after the boats dock at Brooklyn’s Sheephead Bay. “Only a dollar, hit them till they holler.” To the men, he was also poetic. “Improve your luck, for a buck,” or, “this is better than a sonnet, when you hit her Easter bonnet.” Tourists were snapping pictures of this giant tapping his square, crew-cut head with the bright-colored hammers.

“Big guy, don’t you remember me?” George shouted, as he nearly jumped on Mike.

“Hey, cuz, I can’t believe it; it’s great to see you. I didn’t think you were alive!” He bellowed, while rumpling George’s wavy wheat hair as if he were a boy. “Hang out we got a lot of catching up to do.” Mike packed up his gear as he offered; “Let’s go for a Budweiser break. I’ve played out this spot anyway.”

George who was not one to be caught dead in a bar, said, “I know a coffee shop on the west side where we can stay as long as we want.” As they walked, George thought about the last time he had seen Mike. Mike had dropped out of school and was pumping gas at the Flaying A Station on Bedford Avenue. He had gotten his girl friend, Sue, pregnant. He was trying to do the right thing. He married her and was going to Erasmus Hall High School at night to prepare for the government’s high school equivalency exam. Mike needed to pass that test in order to be eligible for a job hauling garbage for the Sanitation Department.

“Mike, did you ever get that diploma?”

“Nah, are you kidding, why do you think I’m out on the streets hustling every hour of the day. I’ve got six kids. They like to eat regular. I can’t get sick or let anything happen to me.”

They had paused across the street from where the huge Christmas tree is lighted before TV cameras every December. A bus with the logo Exotic Land Tours stopped to discharge a group of Ivy Leaguer types. George did a double take. George observed that all these collegians were wearing burgundy varsity jackets with cream colored leather sleeves. They were speaking an Asian language.

Out came Mike’s hammers, and into his pocket went Uncle Sam’s Greenbacks. “Be right with you, buddy. The guards chase me from here, so I got to move fast.”

While George was waiting, he studied intently one of the hallmarks of Rockefeller Center, an engraving above a passageway. In the gray Indiana Limestone—embedded in gold leaf was “Isaiah II, IV,” besides two swords which flowed into a plowshare instead of the usual sharp points at the end.

“Georgie, I want to see if they set up the ice skating rink.” George followed Mike, as he crossed the street to where the flags of the entire world’s nations were flowing together. The rope pulleys clicked like telegraph keys against the metal poles in the steady breeze. Mike leaned on the brass railing as he looked down at the deserted white tables used in the summer. Their closed mauve colored umbrellas were piled in a corner. In front of the waterfall was the gilded golden statue of Prometheus that is depicted on souvenir postcards.

“I guess it’s not time for ice skating yet,” Mike said wistfully. “Georgie, I sometimes have my wife and all my gang meet me here, if I have a good day and sell out.” Mike smiled sadly. “We sure have a ball. When you strap on a pair of skates, you’re as good as anyone. If even the Queen of England was there, I’d tell her ‘to eat a scone, and leave us alone.”

George laughed again at Mike’s rhymes. He remembered that Mike had claimed to be the first ever to say, “Up your nose with a rubber hose.” He knew that was so long ago, but the past seemed so clear. George took a deep breath, as if by doing so he could capture this day for all time. He turned to watch the milling crowd that was enjoying an unnaturally warm autumn day. Girls in green-plaid school uniforms tossed pennies into the Channel Garden Pond as they made silent wishes. Broad-leafed palms partially hid handholding couples sitting on the benches

Still gazing down, Mike continued. “They have a great sound system here. One Saturday night, they played Bobby Darin from beginning to end: ‘Splish, Splash,’ ‘Mack the Knife,’ and ‘Back Home in Indiana.’” He turned to George. “I never understood ‘If I Were a Carpenter,’ until I heard it that night. Now, ‘Somewhere beyond the Sea,’ is Sue’s and my sentimental favorite.” Mike dreamily looked straight up. “We were in seventh heaven that night.”

George was wondering what had had become of the legendary singer, when Mike delivered what they used to call “a love tap,” on the arm. It almost knocked him horizontal. He got the message—daydreaming was over it was back to the real world.

Walking West, Mike stopped one more time to go into his routine outside the Broadway Theatre as the matinee of Miss Saigon, broke. This time, Mike was also touting the hammers as an insect annihilation instrument.

“Can you make a living doing this?” George asked with concern.

“Sure, the IRS doesn’t know I exist. It’s all ‘In God we trust, all others pay cash.’ Besides, Sue has me diversified. Anytime there’s a parade, she makes sure I get the right buttons to sell. Last week, I did pretty well with yo-yos and spinning tops that light up. One Christmas, I dressed up as Santa, the thing was, I had an E. T. mask on.” Mike swaggered. “My No. 1 son, junior, snapped shots for five bucks a pop with anybody that wanted to pose with me.”

* * *

“Mike, time flies. My baby sister, Eleni, is married and now she is expecting her first. I’m to be the Godfather,” George proudly stated. “There’s a problem though, she can’t make up her mind which grandparent to name the baby after. It’s a big deal,” he explained. “To the Greeks, it’s their way of immortalizing someone.” George could see through the warmth fogged up windows that day was changing to night outside. Orders for supper were being given to the kitchen. Stavros had the top off one of the urns to brew more coffee. He was silly about his coffee maker. He made sure that Hector, the dishwasher, everyday “spit and polished,” the chrome until it shone.

“Mike, please excuse me, I have to make a phone call.” In the foyer between the glass doors, the payphone was available. George dialed Roosevelt Hospital which was four short blocks away on the Upper West Side.
“Doctor Romano, please.”

“Tell him, it’s George Athanasios!”

“Vincent, you won’t believe it, but I bumped into someone from Lincoln Road.” George let that sink in before continuing. “I’ll give you a hint—think of Albert Einstein.”

“No, not Chucky Rogers, he only thought that he knew everything, especially about baseball,” laughed George.

“It’s Big Mike, the Great McGillicuddy himself! Guess what he does?”

“No not Quantitative Analysis? But that’s close, hot shot!’ George laughed sarcastically.

“Can you come over for a minute? Yes, I know that you’re busy. Good I’ll see you.”

George returned to the table with a sly grin on his face.

“Georgie—Porgie, you ‘sonofa gun,’ did you score?”

George didn’t reply, but kept sipping his coffee. He didn’t even acknowledge this other comrade from his youth, when the doctor hurried over.

Mike greeted the tall prematurely graying man in a white jacket, with a stethoscope around his neck with a perfect imitation of the cartoon character Bugs Bunny. “Eh, what’s up, Doc?”

For the second time that day it was: “Don’t you remember me?”

“Doc, I’m in the prime, I’ve never been a sick a day.” Mike retorted squarely.

“It’s me, ‘Fat Vinnie,’ my old man had the shoe repair shop on Flatbush Avenue. We lived in the back. You used to tease me.” The doctor then proceeded to recite:

“Fat and skinny had a race, all around the pillowcase.

Fat fell down, and broke his crown.

And skinny won the race.”

Mike’s jaw dropped. “I don’t believe it. You listened to that dopey Beatles’ music. You used to eat out half the Mister Softee ice-cream truck when it came a ding-a-linging around at night. Man, you must have put some uranium in your cranium.” Mike shook his head slowly. “Now, you’re a big shot doctor. What’s the world coming to?”

“I’ve put behind being a high-priced Park Avenue pill pusher. I’ve also left a wife, who only had two words for me. They were ‘buy me…’” Doctor Romano sat down wearily. “There are more important things to deal with in this world.”

Vincent is part of a task force treating AIDS patients at Roosevelt Hospital,” George interrupted.

“It’s a shame to see so many young lives wasted. I hope someday that we’ll see the light at the end of the tunnel.”

Mike putting a large hand on Vincent’s shoulder gently rocked him. “Have a cup of coffee. We’ll bull about the old days. One thing I learned is, it don’t pay to sing the ‘Volga Boatman.’ You gotta think on the good times that rolled by.”

Vincent nodded slowly as he got up. “I’d love to stay, but I must get back. Maybe we can get together at a better time.”

“Let’s have a reunion, for the block, for Lincoln Road!” George shouted, getting the words out as fast as he had just thought them.

Vincent’s eyes brightened. “That’s a great thought. Now, that will be something to look forward to.” After shaking hands and hugging Mike, he turned to George. “Let me know the when and the where. I’ll be there, even if I have to switch duty schedules.”

Mike and George both watched Vincent walk away, like he used to do on the rare times he made home plate.

The two remaining friends made plans. They would search for long ago comrades, and a special place to hold the reunion. Stretching, Mike stood up and said quietly. “It is time to go home, Georgie, buddy. Do you know where I can catch the subway to the Staten Island ferry?”

“Yes, I’ll walk out with you and show you the way.” They gave their thanks to Stavros as they left.

Outside, the night air had become chilly. Mike and George zippered their jackets as they stood under a leafless tree from which hung the soiled remnants of stringed crimson and orange pennants from a forgotten event. They treaded up sloping Ninth Avenue to 57th Street. They were about to turn right towards the train station when George stopped. He grasped Mike’s arm.

“Look! Look up there, isn’t that something!”

Over the Hudson River, was the glowing globe of the Full Moon and close to it, so that it seemed to be touching was a large star that was much brighter than the others. “Mike, that’s the superior conjunction between Venus and the Moon. I read about it in the Times. It happens only every 20 years or so. I had no idea it would be this dazzling.”

“Oh, wow! I can’t wait to show Suzie. This kind of thing puts her in the mood.” The big guy said with a wink. “Maybe we’ll have our own conjunction.”

“Mike, you’re stuck in puberty forever.” George laughed, without taking his eyes off the wonder above.

“Is that bad?”

“No, just the way it is, I guess,” replied George softly.

A helicopter with flashing searchlights suddenly appeared crossing the sky. The clattering aircraft broke the spell. The Moon and Venus, and all the shining stars dissolved behind a dark cloud layer that cast a strange shadow on the wide avenue even at night.

George flipped a subway token to Mike, after bear-hugging his friend, he gave the directions. “Take the Downtown Train and get off at Whitehall Street. I’ll see you at the reunion. All the guys from Lincoln Road will be together, I promise. Straight home, take care.”

“Hey, Georgie, what can happen to a chump like me?” You get home safe, buddy.” Mike formed a V with two fingers before turning away into the inky darkness.

* * *

Dear reader,
This story takes place in 1988, twenty years after the height of the Vietnam War. It is a vision of three of my boyhood companions had they survived this war. May their souls rest in peace and their memory be eternal.

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An Ode to Jimmy the Greek

As is my custom, after I read the Trisagion (Memorial Pray) at my parent’s grave, I then go to the older Greek section of Cypress Hills Cemetery to first pray over the final resting place of my childhood companion, Nick Gardelis. He was killed in action in Vietnam, in 1970. We were over there at the same time, but in different Army units. Nick had written me a short letter, stoically predicting his own death. My mother waited until I was home to confirm, that he did indeed make the supreme sacrifice, and that her mother, my grandmother, Yiayia Eleni had also passed away. My last visit is to the gravesite of my grandparents. On this windy, late October day it was the name day of Saint Demetrios (James or Jim in English). My grandfather’s tombstone is engraved James Alexander, but in the Brooklyn neighborhood of my childhood he was known solely as Jimmy the Greek.

He died in January of ’55, when I was barely six-years-old. However, my remembrance of him is so vivid that he could have departed yesterday. He didn’t live to see his beloved Brooklyn Dodgers finally win a World Series from the mighty New York Yankees, in the autumn of his passing. There was not a more passionate fan of the “Brooklyn Bums,” as they were affectionately called, than my papoo. One time, he was able to hold on to some money long enough to outfit his three oldest grandchildren in Dodger uniforms. We would accompany him to one of the various bars that he frequented and be introduced as his “gang.” He would have a “quick one,” before taking us to Prospect Park.

Yes, Jimmy the Greek loved his “Kosciusko.” That’s what he called the bottle of booze that he tried to hide from his wife in the small railroad flat where we all lived. Whenever Yiayia Eleni could find the bottle, she would empty out some of it and then fill it back with vinegar or salt. When papoo, in the middle of the night sneaked a nip of the adulterated alcohol, he would spit it out as well as spitting out a string of Greek curses that he learnt as a young seaman in Greece.

Another time, yiayia, who didn’t like to waste electricity, had fallen asleep in the only bathroom we had. Papoo coming home late that night went into the darken bathroom to have a nightcap. From this new and yet undiscovered hiding place in the bottom of the clothes hamper, he retrieved his “prized nectar.” At the sound of the bottle being uncorked, yiayia awoke and screamed. Papoo dropped the bottle, which broke on the tile floor. He cursed a blue streak, waking even the neighbors upstairs, declaring that the devil must have put her there. I never felt the threat of papoo hitting yiayia; she was built like a Sherman Tank.

In many ways those days were innocent times. Most of the houses and apartments on our block could be opened with the same type of skeleton key that everyone possessed. Neighbors that we knew were honest and sometimes even a little naïve. There was Mary; she would come over to tell fortunes with playing cards. Her fur coat carried the heavy smell of mothballs. What puzzled me then as a little boy was that for all the times that she read the cards, she always foresaw a good destiny. Whenever she seemed on the verge of seeing a bad occurrence – she would curl her tongue and quickly reshuffle the cards and make it turn out okay. She would endlessly talk about her grown children in the same house with her; Karl, Walter, Henrietta, and even her canary, Pretty Boy. My older brother John would entertain her by mimicking the bird’s whistle.

One summer day, papoo was walking by Mary’s house while she was sitting on the front porch. Mary asked “what’s wrong Jimmy?” Hearing him moan out quite loud and seeing that he had his hand to his cheek. Papoo complained that he had a bad toothache. In those days a home remedy for tooth pain was a shot of whisky swallowed after first letting the strong drink first numb the infected area. So, kind-hearted Mary invited papoo into her home for the cure. A few days later, Mary bumped into my mother at the A & P. She asked about papoo and his toothache, saying that it must have been very severe because he had drank half the bottle of Four Roses. Mom laughed when she told us later over supper that she somehow managed to keep a straight face as she thanked Mary for helping her father. She explained that she didn’t have the heart to tell Mary that papoo hadn’t had a tooth in his mouth for the last ten years.

There were so many of us living in that small apartment that my mother was constantly rearranging furniture, in an attempt to accommodate the growing children, her parents and dad. One night she decided to switch the furniture in the living room with that of the girl’s bedroom. The problem was that the doorways were narrow and the kitchen was in the middle of the apartment. When my father and brother John tried to lift a couch pass the kitchen it got wedged overhead by the refrigerator with the legs extending sideways. I recall running back and forth underneath the couch. No matter what my father and John tried to do, they just couldn’t get it free. Papoo went to Al’s candy store on the corner, to get help. At the store, they certainly didn’t believe papoo, that a “couch was stuck on the ceiling.” They just thought that he had too much to drink. However, two of his friends offered to walk him home. It then became four men trying to get the couch unstuck. After a futile half hours work, they finally listened to my mother’s suggestions and were able to turn it free in an instant.

Yes, Jimmy the Greek had a weakness for drink, and he certainly wasn’t an Ivy Leaguer, but his fifty-six years of life was anything but tea and crumpets. He was an orphan from the Laconian village of Kresmasti. People on the island of Hydra who let him keep his family name of Alexandrakos adopted him. He frequently sailed back and forth to Africa before finally coming to America. He had a hot dog stand outside Kings County Hospital. That spot cost him two dollars a day for the cop on the beat – whether or not he made that much money that day. When his horse became lame and was put away, he pulled the cart himself, sometimes to the accompaniment of taunts from passing automobile drivers, until he could afford another horse.

Papoo had Peter Lorre’s large watery eyes, the roughest unshaven face and the softest feelings for his grandchildren. His Sunday morning pancakes were so heavy that we called them pound cakes, but they were heavenly delicious. When he cooked fish, he ate the head, calling it brain food. Every so often, when he had a few dollars, large tins of feta cheese in their own milk, gotten off ships from Greece would appear in the refrigerator. Papoo would also stock the family up with Kalamata Olives and good olive oil. He enjoyed the simple pleasure of listening to the Prodromides Radio Show for the music and news from the old country. One special Christmas, he gave me my first bicycle.

I don’t hear them call anyone Nick the Greek, or Jimmy the Greek, much anymore. I guess that’s progress of a sort and maybe ethnic tags belong in the past. But, it is also my legacy and I don’t shrink from it. I remember those days when we had less, but we also had so much more.

So, Jimmy the Greek, on your name day I pray for your soul. I whisper that the 1998 Yankees won the World Series in four straight games this year, but heart for heart they couldn’t match the ’55 Brooklyn Bums. My papoo, I can only hope that you and yiayia now buried together for eternity, are finally getting along.

As I head down the gentile hill to the car, I see a flock of geese flying overhead, in formation, across the darkening sky. Squirrels are scampering up and down trees. The leaves are changing to bright fall colors. I don’t feel the chill in the air, only the sweet warmth of remembrance.

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Steps

“Paul, I’ve started this reply a dozen times, and a dozen ways: Your letter, needless to say, came as a complete surprise and I should add a shock. The mailman delivered it to my mother. She still lives in the old house and you addressed it with my maiden name. After 30 years, to hear from you! Time has done its job. I had to search my Grand Haven High School yearbook for a picture of you. I should tell you two things. The first is that I married shortly after you left me. As you seem to be dwelling only in the past, you might remember Frank Bennett. He worked at Hank’s gas station. He was kind enough to become my husband. The second thing I should tell you is; that I was carrying your child. Rebecca knows the truth – small towns keep no secrets. Frank has helped me raise her into a fine woman. She is married now. If you want to reconcile, do it with her. Rebecca is strong and caring. She is going to be in New York the weekend of August 25th at that Crafts Fair at Fordham University. That should make it easier for you to come down from Boston. She and her husband Bill will have a booth named Michigan Wood Crafts. It is all up to you. I will say nothing to her. I am truly sorry that you are dying. May the Lord be merciful.

Sincerely, Mrs. Frank Bennett”

Wall Street Greek's Fine Arts Contributor and New York Stories Columnist Nicholas Zaharakos offers his latest effort; it is "Steps." It chronicles the final steps of a man's life. It is a story about the missteps of foolish youth that has eternal consequences.

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Steps

In the two weeks since receiving her reply, Paul Kallas has worn deep creases in the letter by countless readings. He has taken to clutching the folded plain lined paper as if it were a crucifix. He was holding it tightly as he watched his daughter at the campus on the periphery of the pounding heartbeat of the city. Paul, sitting on stone steps that formed an unfinished pyramid at the top could see Rebecca’s canvas-tented booth some ten yards away.

He was staying at the Empire Hotel overlooking the fair grounds. From his room, he could see the Hudson River and beyond toward where Michigan lay. Paul pondered about having been away from the place of his youth for half again as much as Odysseus was from his beloved Ithaca and his faithful Penelope. After yesterday’s storm, it was a summer day that a city dweller could hold in cupped hands like the most exquisite crystal. The sun was a jovial balloon, the clouds a moving festival of bride’s tulle stretching across the sky. The winds from the west were like cool fingers gently stirring one’s soul with the tinge of spring in the past and the fall to follow.

Yesterday, the rain and wind were so severe that his flight was delayed for three hours. The stewardess mistook the reason for Paul’s anxiety and kept telling him that everything would be all right as she passed up and down the aisle. The downpour didn’t let up when the plane finally landed in New York. The cab ride to the hotel was like being in a submarine, with the windows closed to keep out the water. The windshield wipers became twin metronomes that soon had Paul drowsy.

* * *

“When Hermia was dismissed from the presence of the Duke, she went to her lover Lysander and told him the peril she was in and that she must either give him up and marry Demetrius, or lose her life in four days.”

* * *

Unpacking in the hotel, Paul cursed the weather that had robbed him of a precious day. From his high floor, he could see deep puddles bubbling with raindrops where the displays would have been. The medications he was taking left him with little strength. He had room service bring him a sandwich and tea. After a warm bath, it was all he could do to get under the sheets. The rain had come with cold weather from the Midwest. The curtains flowed with the breeze like a pale wedding dress.

Paul was roused from his slumber – the storm had resumed with tempest fury, accompanied by hammered flashes of lightning. With difficulty, he got up to lower window, and then decided against it. Taking a blanket from the closet, Paul went back to bed. He drifted into an unnatural sleep, kept close to consciousness by the celestial turbulence.

* * *

Paul was pleased – things were going as planned. He could see that by the happy expression on Mary’s face, not that she ever seemed to be sad. Paul had wanted the past few days to be special, to thank Mary before he told her the good news. He wasn’t going to Michigan State in the fall. Tonight, after the Friday concert on the pier, he would let her know.

“To be, or not to be!” Paul recited in an exaggerated voice. Mary feeding him a large strawberry stopped him from going on. They were sharing a blanket on the beach at Lake Michigan. Between them, lay the basket of baked bread, fruit and chesses that they had gathered from Armitrano’s roadside market. Hidden on the bottom was the large bottle of red wine that Paul was saving for when they would watch the sun set over the Great Lakes.

Paul would meet Mary when she got off from her part-time job at the piano factory where her father also worked. Mr. Cosmos didn’t approve of Paul. “Any boy who doesn’t hold a summer job – well, something is fishy, and that’s all I can say.” That’s what he overheard through the screen door last week, after he drove Mary home late. Paul mused about what her father would have said if he knew that Paul had tried to cajole her into staying with him the entire night. The day charter boats were returning to port, as he turned to Mary.

“Too bad the drama club didn’t choose one of Shakespeare’s great tragedies for us to star in instead of that marshmallow, A Midsummer’s Night Dream,” Paul sighed. “I would have made a noble Caesar, don’t you think so?”

“Oh no, wouldn’t thy have taken two acts instead of one for thy death scene at the Senate? Alas, who would be able to keep back the audience from also offering their rendering services,” teased Mary. She popped another strawberry into his mouth. The sun was a dissolving orange as they continued jousting.

“Ah, look to your hands, Lady Macbeth, covered with blood,” cried Paul, as he took her berry stained fingers to his cheek. “Here’s the smell of the blood still; all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.”

“You stole my lines, you scoundrel you,” answered Mary in mock horror. “Paul these are the sweetest strawberries that I’ve ever had. I hope you paid for them this time.”

“Come, have what Bacchus offers.” Paul wicked laughed as he held the cane-covered bottler with one hand and with the other brought Mary to him.

* * *

Paul floated back to wakefulness as the storm was abating into the distance. The sky was still filled with electricity as night yielded to dawn. He had thought that Grand Haven was too small for him, as would be school at East Lansing. Paul remembered Mary’s pleading tears when he told her he was leaving and not looking back. “You’re foolish to think that because you were my leading lady here, that you can anchor my future,” he recalled preaching. “You have to be sophisticated and know when to let go. I have an invitation to study at the Actor’s Theatre in New York. This is exactly what I have been working toward.”

Paul was sure that he would “make it big,” in no time. The “Theatre,” he found out was in a rundown warehouse near the docks. In the nine years that he had tried to break in, the only time he made it to Off-Broadway was when he played in an outdoor summer production of Shakespeare next door to a municipal bus depot. A pile of discarded tires was the backdrop. Paul recollected with ironic bitterness that he portrayed Brutus in Julius Caesar. Escape from that failure came in the form of Suzanne, a waitress, also an aspiring “star.” They eventually married and took over her father’s plumbing business. That lasted for 13 years. She left him for a younger man. Now, Leukemia was to end his days as a bookstore manager in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

* * *

Paul waited for a way that he could approach his daughter. In the morning, he watched as Rebecca unpacked from the boxes that Bill had carted with a rope-pulled dolly. She worked with antlike intensity, using a screwdriver and hammer to set up the racks and pegs to display cutting boards and utensils. After hanging the shingle: “Michigan Wood Crafts, Bill and Rebecca Sandusky,” they shared coffee from a thermos as they sat in a handcrafted loveseat made of ash and walnut. They were nestled between a stand with ceramic lamps and one with handmade kites and windsocks that swung like knight banners.

Throughout the day, Paul could just imagine what they were saying to each other. Because Bill and Rebecca’s actions were so animated, Paul didn’t feel he was missing much of their interactions. He was pleased with Bill, a tall bearded man. Bill seemed to be the kind of guy who could fix anything if it were broken. The constant breeze had dried all traces of yesterday’s storm. The fair was crowded from the start with strolling couples and families enjoying the country and western dancing at the far end of the campus and the natural food concessions across from the booths. Bill and Rebecca worked in a continual flow of packaging and writing up sales. Paul fancied seeing Mary in his daughter. The energy-sapping sun beating down on the steps had Paul napping.

* * *

“I will meet you, said Lysander, in the wood a few miles without the city, in that delightful wood where we have so often walked with Helena in the pleasant month of May.”

* * *

Paul awoke to a baby girl dancing barefooted on the plateau of the steps singing softly into the wind accompanied by the hand clapping of her parents. When she was done, her father carried the child to a stroller. Paul felt a sweet ache in his heart as they proudly wheeled their daughter away. Paul decided then that he was going to just slip away very soon.

The sun had become a searing disc low in the sky. The fair was closing. The dismantling of the tents and poles that had supported them had begun. The grounds became a beehive of squeaking hand-trucks and dollies rolling unsold wares to waiting vans for the long journey home. Neighboring crafts people were saying their good-byes as if they had spent the entire summer together at a campsite. Rebecca, now wearing a red plaid flannel shirt against the chilliness hurriedly took down their stand. She was working at a frantic pace as if in a race against time. Bill looking puzzled tried in vain to slow her down a few times. The sky was aflame with crimson and purple-clouded hues.

The last thing to be carted away was the loveseat. When Bill returned for that, Rebecca playfully pushed him into it. She then ran over to the refreshment concession returning with two large plastic containers overflowing with cut fruit. She gave one to Bill and kissed him after saying something quietly. Rebecca then walked over to Paul, who was now quite alone on the steps.

“Gee Mister, the food stand was closing up and they gave us more than me and my husband can handle. Please enjoy!” She smiled sweetly as she handed Paul the cup. “It’s going to be a beautiful sunset,” she laughed with chestnut eyes dancing. Paul stood and managed to nod back as he accepted her offering.

Rebecca rejoined Bill. They turned the loveseat toward the west and held each other in an unbreakable embrace. Paul silently shed bitter tears of endless remorse.

The End

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Please see our disclosures at the Wall Street Greek website and author bio pages found there. This article and website in no way offers or represents financial or investment advice. Information is provided for entertainment purposes only.

The Kindness of Strangers

Wall Street Greek's Fine Arts Contributor and New York Stories Columnist Nicholas Zaharakos offers his latest effort; it is "The Kindness of Strangers." This work illustrates how the experiences of childhood influence our adult character and behavior. Above all, it is a story about the power of memory; the sweet as well as the bitter.

Article interests NYSE: DIS, NYSE: DWA, NYSE: CNK, NYSE: RGC, NYSE: RLD, NYSE: LGF, Nasdaq: RENT, Nasdaq: CKEC, Nasdaq: LSTZA, NYSE: MHP, NYSE: PSO, NYSE: JW-A, NYSE: JW-B, Nasdaq: SCHL, Nasdaq: CRRC, NYSE: NED, Nasdaq: PEDH, NYSE: BKS, Nasdaq: AMZN, Nasdaq: BAMM, NYSE: BGP, OTC: LYFE.OB, Nasdaq: NOOF, OTC: PUBM.OB, OTC: IFLM.OB, Nasdaq: PTSX, Nasdaq: SAPX, OTC: AFFW.OB, NYSE: TWX, Nasdaq: NWSA, NYSE: NBG, NYSE: OTE, NYSE: CCH, NYSE: TK, NYSE: NM, NYSE: NNA, NYSE: NMM, NYSE: TNP, NYSE: OSG, NYSE: ISH, NYSE: EXM, NYSE: SB, NYSE: SEA, NYSE: GNK, NYSE: DSX, NYSE: DAC, NYSE: TNP, NYSE: SFL, Paris: VIV.PA.

The Kindness of Strangers

Alice Angela Applegate known as “Triple A,” by the other corporate officers was browsing through the half dozen resumes on her desk. As the Controller for Flagship Financial Planning, she intended to add another accountant to her staff in order to assist with special projects. Alice had just about made up her mind to select the young woman graduating this upcoming June from well-regarded Pace University with excellent grades when she got to the last resume.

“Emmanuel Pappas! Manny Pappas! This can’t be!” She took the single sheet of paper to the window as if reading the document by natural light would make more sense out of this odd coincidence. It wasn’t just the name, but also the “numbers,” so to speak, that were adding up, that this was the Manny Pappas of her childhood. The listing of ages for applying for any position in today’s world is definitely prohibited. However his home address was the Bay Ridge section of Brooklyn, where Manny and she had both grown up. By examining the dates of his graduation from Brooklyn College and employment it was easy to figure out that he was her age of forty-five.

Alice had a spacious rosewood paneled corner office on the tenth floor of the old Paramount Building in Times Square. On December 31, 1999, she would be eye level with “The Ball,” dropping to greet the third millennium with a catered office party. She was certainly looking forward to this “mother of all celebrations,” with her husband, two daughters, special friends, and clients. But right now her mind’s eye went back to her unhappy days at the C. Papadopoulos Parochial School.

She was a chubby and light-haired fifth grader named Vassiliki Chronis then. Vassiliki is the Greek equivalent for the American Betty or Alice. Her widowed mother struggled to pay the tuition at the only Greek Orthodox parochial school in Brooklyn at that time. Miss Maniatis had her favorite pupils and Vassiliki wasn’t one of them. Alice could even after all these years, now see herself so clearly as the child who was always left overlooked. She would have only the most minor of roles in the many pageants that the school was noted for. At the Christmas play she would be one of the non-speaking angels. At the dignitary audience filled Oxi Day commemoration she portrayed a silent stretcher-bearer carting offstage a fallen hero. Oxi! Is the Greek word for No! That was Greece’s response to the Italian government’s ultimatum for surrender during World War II. It heralded Greece’s valiancy, sacrifices, and contributions to the ultimate victory of the Allies.

The one time she wasn’t overlooked in the fifth grade brought a rueful flush to Alice’s face. During a Greek language exam, Vassiliki had asked Miss Maniatis if she could be excused to go to the bathroom. The thick-glassed spinster wouldn’t let Alice go despite having granted permission to Maria and Stella earlier.

“Vassiliki, you can control yourself for the remaining 15 minutes!”

Obviously, little Vassiliki couldn’t; Manny Pappas gave her the nickname of pissy pants. He also made it his solemn duty to call her that every chance he got until she graduated from the eighth grade.

“Well Manny Pappas your application for a better paying job is headed for the circular file,” Alice said firmly to herself. “I also see that you’re still using Lotus Spreadsheet, when anyone worth their salt would be utilizing Microsoft Excel by now.” Alice put the resumes to the side as she busied herself for the remainder of the day updating the CEO on the progress of the Y2K compliance committee that she headed.

* * *

If there was one unbreakable rule in the Applegate household it was this; breakfast and supper were sit-down events with all the family members attending. Daughters Ourania and Stephanie were encouraged to talk about anything that was on their minds. Because Jonathan worked out of the high-floored apartment and because he had a flair for cooking, he usually made dinner. This evening he had prepared boneless chicken thighs with crispy roasted potatoes.

“Jonathan, everything is delicious,” Alice smiled appreciatively.

“I used a Thai-Ginger marinade and precooked the potatoes in the microwave before putting them in the oven to brown. I also made extra for your lunch tomorrow.”

Ourania was a freshman and Stephanie was a sophomore at prestigious Stuyvesant High School. They took the subway together to the school located near the World Financial Center downtown. At this point, Ourania hoped to be a veterinarian, and Stephanie wanted to be a writer like her father. Sibling rivalry which had been in remission had again started to escalate.

“Whose turn is it to do the cleanup tonight?” Jonathan asked his daughters.

Stephanie pointed to Ourania.

“It’s not fair! Yesterday you only made a salad and ordered pizza. Stephanie hardly had to do anything, now you expect me to scrub pans and clean all the dishes!” Ourania protested.

Stephanie responded by sticking her tongue out at her sister.

“Girls, chill out!” Their mother commanded. “You both get the luck of the draw, whatever your father or I decide to fix for supper is our concern. We don’t ask too much, just that you both help out a little. Besides we eat out often enough.”

Ourania recognizing the finality of her mother’s voice sullenly resigned herself to the cleanup task. Stephanie barely concealed a smirk. Alice wanting the scale to be evenhanded with her daughters spoke up again.

“Stephanie, please make some decaffeinated coffee for your dad and I.”

Jonathan getting in sync with his wife added. “Please put the coffee in travel mugs, we’ll have it in the park when we take Cleo out for her run.”

That did the trick.

“I want to go out too, it won’t take me long to finish,” responded Ourania with newly found enthusiasm.

Not to be left out, “me too,” chimed in Stephanie.

With a knowing nod to each other, Jonathan and Alice moved into the living room with the aging golden retriever, half asleep, lying on the couch unaware of her role in the Applegate family drama. The sound of the belled-leather leash being taken out from the closet would alert her for her evening ritual in Riverside Park. Through the floor to ceiling windows Alice studied the orange sun setting across the Hudson River as she held hands with Jonathan. This was one of those times when she had the peaceful and yet powerful feeling that she somehow could see forever.

* * *

Alice closed the door of her office to enjoy yesterday’s leftovers. She made it a point to limit lunch with the other corporate division heads to once a week. She considered that sufficient enough to maintain proper lines of casual communication. Alice actually preferred to use this hour to be alone and quietly seek new and unique perspectives on work. It was Jonathan who suggested this meditative approach as a means of finding the best solution to any of life’s problems and issues.

It gave Alice a warm glow to think about last night. Her daughters had paired off. Ourania tossed a stick a little ahead of Cleo. Stephanie chatted with her father about how his historical novel was progressing. Alice was content to witness this tableau as she strolled slightly behind. The late May evening breeze was refreshing. They reached the community garden with a plethora of flowers blooming which was the turning back point. Ourania and Stephanie were given permission to hang out at the Barnes & Noble on Broadway and 82nd Street until ten o’clock. Jonathan and Alice leashed Cleo for the walk back to the apartment.

Alice held the last bit of potato up, reluctant to finish a Tupperware lunch that in her opinion the 21 Club couldn’t come close to. Besides it was potatoes that in a large way gave her, her first start in the world of business. C. Papadopoulos School let out at 3pm. Young Vassiliki waited in George’s Coffee Shop for her mother to pick her up to go home together. Panagiota Chronis worked as a seamstress until 5pm. Vassiliki would nurse a plate of French Fries and a Coke at the counter until then. She could sense that George was somewhat annoyed at a seat being occupied for so long with so little money to show for it. She tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible by keeping her head in a book. One day, George was adding a check out loud.

“Bowl of clam chowder $1.00, roast beef sandwich $2.50, cup of coffee 50 cents, and rice pudding 75 cents. That’s $3.75.”

“It comes to $4.75!” Vassiliki spoke up in a voice that didn’t quite sound like her own.

George at first gave her an angry look, and then he rechecked his figures. “You’re right little girl!” After he corrected the bill and rang up the right amount he came over to Vassiliki and chuckled. “Well, I almost gave somebody a bargain today.”

Again, Vassiliki piped up without thinking. “You did, if the string on the clam finally broke.”

George put one hairy hand to his chest and slapped the counter with the other as he roared with laughter. “Well, little school girl, if you’re so smart you can sit at that booth and enter my petty cash receipts into this book.” He placed a bound green book with numerous bills and receipts sticking out of it on the tabletop.

Vassiliki never had to pay for her French Fries and soda or anything else from that day on. She enjoyed adding numbers into the ledger and double-checking that they balanced to the total amount of all the bills. George’s accountant, Sam Rosen thanked her for being so neat and meticulous. When she turned fourteen, she started to work for him on Saturdays and after school during tax season. He encouraged her to go onto college and treated her like she was one of his own children. It was around them that she got a more sophisticated view of the world. It was Sam’s daughter Rebecca who introduced her to Jonathan on a blind date to the Metropolitan Museum.

Reminiscing about how far she had come in her life would always lead Alice back to her mother. It had been seven years since she had passed away. Vassiliki was the only child that Panagiota had conceived at 41-years-old, after many years of trying. Alice was grateful that her mother had lived long enough to see her so well established. Her mother took such joy and pride in a lifestyle that she never had a possibility of attaining for herself. Alice had to go through her mother’s things after she had died; in a neat bundle she found every Birthday, Christmas, and Mother’s Day card that she had ever given her. There was one more thing that Alice didn’t know about until then. On top, in her mother’s unmistakable neat script was a thank you letter that she had written to the Philoptochos Society (Friends of the Poor). It was thanking them for helping her to meet the tuition at the C. Papadopoulos School. It was returned to her with this unsigned note written on the bottom. “If someday you are able to show kindness to somebody else that would be wonderful and more than payment enough.”

* * *

Alice was confident that the interview had gone well. There were no misunderstandings that the staff accountant position was a challenge. There was a one-year probationary period. She also had made it clear that some extra hours were required, and that there were expectations of keeping up with technology and skills of the day. When it was over they stood up to shake hands,

“Thank you, Ms. Applegate for this opportunity.”

“Well, Mr. Pappas,” she replied without a hint of any prior recognition. “I believe in giving people a chance; that’s how I got here.”



SEE MORE OF NICK'S SHORT STORIES HERE

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Please see our disclosures at the Wall Street Greek website and author bio pages found there. This article and website in no way offers or represents financial or investment advice. Information is provided for entertainment purposes only.