March 10, 2007--Saturday Story: Found On Staten Island--Part Three

In Part Two, Lloyd Zazlo was offered a new job, which he desperately needed, as Assistant Dean of Community Education by the very unpresidential president of Staten Island Community College—Dr. B as he was referred to by his assistants. He was told that he would have neither an office nor a parking space since his assignment was to be out among the people of the island. Further, he was to be Dr. B’s eyes and ears, reporting back to him at monthly sessions at the bar of a local Rathskeller, what was being said in the largely Italian-American community about the college and its unpopular “Jewboy” president. Aware of the obvious contradictions in Dr. Birenberg’s vision for a “socially-engaged” college in a community that didn’t want a college in its midst in the first place, Zazlo accepted the offer but declined to put on, as his new boss literally requested, leg irons, which he kept prominently on his desk top, so as, Dr. B claimed, to have the right orientation before being sent to work with the great-grandchildren of Staten Island slaves--and the descendents of their former owners.


But prior to that, Zazlo was assigned to take leadership of the college’s upcoming Italian Cultural Festival. Or what some on the island were calling the Backlash Festival. So in Part Three . . .

“Sal, tell the kid to sit down over there.” Sal, I later learned was the Vice President of the Staten Island Italian Club and a printer by trade. He was the size of a jockey but carried himself with the authority of his office. He pointed toward the same chair that the Club’s President, Albert Maniscalco, was pointing at. I realized at once from that that the Club was an unusually hierarchical organization where everything was done through a descending chain of surrogates.

The President, every member of the Club who addressed him called him Al, sat in an enormous chair at the other side of a table from where I was directed to sit, a heavily carved table which filled the considerable room at the back of the Rosebank Sport and Social Club, a room I got to by passing through a series of increasingly grand rooms from the one right off the street, Rosebank Avenue, which was stuffed full of battered folding card tables and mismatched chairs. They were not just by type card tables but also tables at which tired men sat, smoking cigars and playing cards. I think primarily Pinochle.

This spilled into the second antechamber which contained a full bar and bartender and a more-or-less careful arrangement of leather chairs and sofas—all clearly from the same source and even, for the situation, opulent. Though riddled as I was by trepidations and even some fear, I could not stop myself from wondering from where they might have come. Come, I thought, considering the situation, not purchased. And in this room, occupying most of the chairs and sofas were beefy men, many in shiny suits, all of which made me feel, I confess, as if I had entered into the world of a living cliché. Or a B movie.

And then there was the conference room where President Maniscalco presided. After I was seated in the place designated I noticed that not only was I the only one assigned to my side of the table, the one opposite where the President sat, but also that the other two sides—to my left and right—were also unoccupied though there were chairs neatly in place. All Club members sat clustered on both sides of President Maniscalco, half to his left, half to his right, leaning toward him to catch every utterance so that they appeared in the aggregate to form a human pyramid, not unlike the way the twelve Apostles are frequently represented by Da Vinci and others to be seated at the Last Supper. Here, though, there were only ten.

On the other hand, with me sitting alone on one side and all of them confronting me from the other, I could as easily have been considered to be the subject of an interrogation as a witness to holiness. This was confirmed when the president slammed his considerable gavel onto the surface of the table, which set it aquiver, and thereby signalling that it was time for the Club to commence with the formal portion of its business.

“We can forget the minutes, OK Louie, because we have a lot of things to discuss with . . . What’s your name kid?”

“It’s Zazlo, Lloyd Zazlo,” I chirped.

“Whatever. But Louie here will get the right spelling later. For the record. We do everything by the book here.” I thought I could see some smiling through the smoky haze.

“So that president Birenbottom assigned you to the festival I hear.” I nodded but chose not to correct him. “Well, we got a problem. A big one.” I knew already that I should have insisted that Birenberg assign someone else to this—minimally a faculty member of Italian descent who lived on the island. “Look, we know what he’s up to. We know he doesn’t want to be here on the island. And to be honest with you, we don’t want him here either. He thinks he’s a big shot who somehow wound up in Podunk. He thinks he belongs in Harvard or someplace like that that suits him.” He made a limp-wristed gesture which caused the other Club members to cough with laughter. “But after he got fired from that other college, wherever the hell he came from, this was the best job he could find. But he thinks he’s serving in Purgatory. Among all of us, what does he call us Sal, Yohoos.

“But he’s smart. He knows who runs this island. Right Tommy? And he knows that to get out of here alive, and here you understand I’m speaking in a metaphor, he needs to have a success. And that’s where we come in.” Everyone was nodding. “It took him a while, but he figured out to have his success that he has to make peace with the Italians here. And that means us. Right boys?” There was a rumbling of assent. “And since we want to do right with the students, many of who are Italians, we need to play some ball with him. So when he came to us about the festival and asked us to bless it, as if it would be a big deal to us, that’s a laugh, we figured that maybe if he has his little success, it might make it sooner rather than later when he could get lucky and find another job, like at one of them Ivy League places,” he made the gesture with his wrist again and there was more chuckling, “and we could bring someone else here to run the college. Maybe even someone from the island who would understand us better. If you know what I mean.”

It seemed, since he paused to allow Sal to refill his glass and while doing that peered across at me, that he might be expecting me to say something. Thus I took a chance and said, “Though this is still my first week here I think I do understand what you’re saying. This is a community college after all and thus should be in and of the community.” I couldn’t believe I was so shamelessly using Birenberg’s ideas and words, perhaps out a combination of exhilaration and nervousness, but I pressed on, “So it does seem to me, I think, even though I’m obviously not Italian, that here on Staten Island an Italian cultural festival might turn out to be a good idea. As I understand it, Birenberg has arranged for . . . .”

President Maniscalco cleared his throat to signal I had said enough, perhaps too much, and said with a wave of his meaty hand, “Cultural, cultural. Every time we meet with him that’s all he ever talks about. As if we’re a bunch of greaseballs whose only idea of culture is macaroni and Dean Martin. He thinks he is the only one who can bring real Italian culture here. I ask you, and you can tell me frankly, what the fuck does furniture from Bloomingberg’s, that was probably deigned by finocchios, faggots, have to do with Italian culture?” I didn’t respond because I didn’t think he wanted me to and, frankly, I agreed with him. “He says he wants to bring in Bucky Pizzorelli here to play some jazz, thinking that just because his last name ends in a vowel that that makes his jazz Italian. Tony here knows all about music and says this guy Pizzorelli is OK, right Tony, but jazz is American, not Italian. Am I wrong? It’s really for Biren what’s-his-name to show us how cool he is. To rub our faces in it. Well, if he wants Italian cultural music here he should bring in a tenor to sing some Verdi or Puccini. That’s real Italian culture. But, no, he knows best. He thinks he knows what’s best for us.” He muttered, “That little finocchio.”

This time he paused to allow Louie to relight his cigar and so, to get us back to the plans for the festival, I took the opportunity to say, “You mentioned, President Maniscalco, that you have a problem, a big one, with the festival.” He blew smoke in my direction and nodded, “From what you’ve said I think I understand; and since it’s still three weeks away there may be some different things that the college can do, that we can do. For example, I think I could get approval to bring in an opera singer as you mentioned. I think Dr. Birenberg would agree to that. I think I could convince him.”

“We appreciate what you are saying,” President Maniscalco leaned forward and leaned heavily on the table. “We really do. Maybe he wasn’t so stupid assigning you to work with us. What do you think Ralph?” No waiting for even a grunt, he continued, “I’ll level with you since you seem like an OK fella.” I took a deep breath. “I know you’re not Italian,” there was what I thought sounded like snickering, “You’re a Jew too, right?” There was silence and I opted not even to nod. “Which is all right. Italians and Jews get along fine. Not all, but the right kind. So you need to know, I need to tell you that there is no such thing as an Italian festival, cultural or otherwise, without a raffle.”

“A what?” I blurted out.

“Where you sell tickets and raffle off something. Like a Basket of Joy, you know, a basket with six bottles of vino in it, or say a couple of tickets to the opera or a Broadway show. You get the wine for free and you sell a couple thousand bucks worth of tickets and you give the money to the church or whatever.”

“But,” I stammered, “I don’t think raffles are legal.” Realizing what I said, I quickly added, “Are they?” That caused so much laughter that I thought Sal might pass out from lack of oxygen. Still I said, “And since the college is a cosponsor, with the Club of course, I’m not sure I could get Birenberg to agree to that. But I do feel confident about the tenor.”

“Not even if all the money we raised, and it could be a lot, would go to the college? I wonder what your Birenberg would say to that.”

I thought about that fro a moment and said, “Well, I could mention that to him, at our lunch, and see what he might say. Thought I appreciate your point about the raffle, I don’t want to promise anything I can’t guarantee.” After running through my mind just how I might best do that, since I wanted to be able to address some of the concerns of the Club as well as “deliver” for President Birenberg, I wondered out loud, “You said ‘a lot,’ a lot of money I mean. Just how much might I be able to tell the president could be raised? Just an estimate, for the college I mean. After expenses of course.”

President Maniscalco huddled for a moment with what appeared to be his executive committee. Among themselves they spoke in Italian. “Tony, who’s good with the numbers, says fifteen, maybe twenty.”

Stunned, I said, “Fifteen hundred? That much? I think Dr. Birenberg would . . . .”

President Maniscalco roared with laughter and said gasping for breath, “Thousand! Fifteen thousand at least. Hey, where do you think you are? This is Staten Island after all! Here we deal only in thousands. I knew that Birenbaum was a small time operator, but what about you? What kind of Jew are you anyway?”

With that, which sounded friendly, I joined their laughter and asked, “That much even after expenses?”

“Tell him Louie. Tell him Sal how there won’t be any expenses. We’ll get everything donated. Right? Sal here’s a printer and he’ll print you up the raffle tickets at no charge. And Louie here, he has a very successful Fiat dealership down on Hyland Boulevard, and he’ll give you the car.”

“The what?”

“The car you’ll be raffling off.”

“And he’ll give it to me?”

“Yeah. One of them Ginney sports cars. Right Louie? A little red one he tells me. You’ll go down to his place at the end of next week, after your lunch with Bloomberg, and he’ll give it to you. You’ll then drive it to the campus and put it up onto the platform Tony here will build for you over the weekend. He’s a contractor you know. Right in the middle of the Quad, that’s what you call it, right? And when everyone sees what just a dollar ticket can get them, Sal here won’t be able to print up enough raffle books. We’ll of course take a few hundred books on our own and sell them in the community. I am convinced that the boys here will be able to dispose of quite a few. Right fellas?” I could see everyone smiling and nodding at that. “That will make sure that he local people turn out. Especially if you have some sausages and some opera arias for them. Some of them might even try out one of those Italian sofas. Which should make your Bloom happy.” I lead the ironic chuckling. “Yeah, that and the fifteen grand!”

With images of me driving around in that shiny Fiat, maybe with the top down, and being able to put fifteen grand or more in Birenberg’s hands, to do with it anything he saw fit, I joined my fellow Club members in raucous laughter.

“Sal,” Al Maniscalco said, “give the kid a drink. What’ll you have? We have everything here.”

I believed him.

* * *

“I read his book, at least most of it, and think it’s bullshit. Pure bullshit.” I was seated across from Sonny Russell, executive director of the Jersey Street Community Center. Sonny spat this at me even before I had a chance to introduce myself.

“Well, that’s why he hired me and that’s why I’m here. I wanted to talk with you about finding ways to maybe put some of his ideas into action. You know, how the college and your center might work together.” From the meeting the night before I had come away feeling intrepid and self-confident and thus found it easy to respond, even to Sonny who charged the barren room with an air of confrontation and implied threat.

He spun around on his swivel chair so that his back was almost turned to me. “I’ll tell you what I know, White Boy,” he said, not in the slightest twisting his head toward me, “that college of yours doesn’t give two shits about any of the folk who live here in this neighborhood. They never did from day one and they don’t now. Even with your so-called ‘liberal’ president who thinks he wrote the book about how a college is morally obligated to be in and of the city.” It seemed everyone I had met during my first few days on the island was in one way or another, knowingly or not, quoting from Birenberg’s book. “What a joke.”

He shook his head from side to side, “So tell me, I assume you’re a smart boy, what have you seen to convince you that he has put any of his ideas into action?” I didn’t respond, thinking it best to let him have his say, “And how ironic,” he snorted, “because that’s what he keeps saying to us. He lectures us that it’s all about turning ideas into action. What does he call it? ‘Thought to action.’ That’s it, but as I said, pure bullshit.”

He sat rocking in his chair, humming to himself; and so I said, “I’ve only been here a week and I can’t say what Birenberg’s done during his first year or so as president; but I came from a situation at Queens College where we did do some good things, and I hope I learned something from that experience that I can put to good use here. That is if I can find willing partners in the community.”

“Yeah, I read about Queens. I think maybe I even saw you on TV. That was you right?”

“Well, there were a lot of folks involved. But it could have been.”

“What that was about, wasn’t it, was sneaking a few brothers and sisters into that honky institution? See if you could clean ‘em up and then cool ‘em out. I’m not about that. I don’t want to help you bring any of my folk up to that hill of yours to get whitewashed. We’re doin’ fine, thank you, right down here on the streets.”

He rotated his chair another quarter turn so that his full back was now to me and, tipping his chair as far as it would go and looking up at the peeling ceiling, he resumed his humming as if to indicate that my time was up and I should take the opportunity to slip out without another word and head back up to the hill to where I belonged.

But I said, “Since it’s lookin’ as if this will be our one and only meeting, let me level with you.” He kept humming but leaned his head a bit in my direction. “I heard that you used to be the head of the Panther Party on Staten Island and, if that’s true, I would expect to find this place,” I made a sweeping gesture as if to take in the entire center even though he couldn’t see me do it, “frankly I am surprised by what a shit box it is.” I paused to see what he might do, but he just kept rocking. “The ceiling’s coming down on your head, all the furniture is falling apart, and from what I could see of the facilities when I came in the only thing that appears to be worth anything is the gym, and that could use a paint job. There aren’t even any nets on the basketball rims. What kind of message is that delivering to your so-called ‘people’?” He imperceptivity moved his chair so that he was now half facing me; and although I could see he was seething, I nonetheless continued, “I thought the Panthers were about pride and providing high-quality services to the people. Not just about rhetoric. But I got to tell you that all the not-so-subtle messages this place is sending to the people who work here, worse, to the folks you are here to serve is that you and they aren’t worth shit.” I had blurted out much more than I intended, and, perhaps from concern about what my impulsiveness might bring, my heart was thumping so hard that I thought it might crack my ribs.

“Let me tell you Lloyd-boy,” Sonny had spun around violently and was now glaring at me, “from your little peckerwood experience out there in Queens you think you know what’s goin’ on down here and that gives you the right to criticize me and the center. This may look like a sleepy island to you, with all them mansions up in the hills and those ticky-tacky Italian mother-daughter houses sprawling all over the place, with just this little pocket of Black folks huddled here in this neighborhood, from this you think that all you need to do is some quick fancy dancing to bring enlightenment to us underprivileged. And you think just because you helped a few ‘disadvantaged’ niggers get into college that you’re participating in the revolution. Well maybe, just maybe you should be thinking about not just saving a handful of souls, which I admit could be a good thing for them as individuals. But maybe instead you should be thinking about what you can do, what that college of yours can do to make things better here on the ground for the whole community, right here in our version of the ghetto. Isn’t that what your title says you’re supposed to be doin’? Ain’t you the dean or somethin’ for ‘community education?’”

He sat there for a moment just looking at me. I held his gaze but remained otherwise unresponsive. “That’s part of our problem here—we are such a minority, and here I mean numerically, that no one needs to pay us any attention. Even if I can get something organized at best I can turn out only maybe 50 folk to stand out in the cold jumping up and down demanding that the hospital serve the community. Maybe, maybe, the Advance will write something about it and then put it on page twelve, below the shopping news.”

He paused again, but this time his eyes drifted away. “And Birenberg, your boss, he knows this too. He’s one smart cracker. If we can’t rouse more than a few dozen to get heath services for babies what kind of force can I exert on the college to get them to be responsive, to join us in our demands for better services?”

“Well,” I tried to say, “maybe that’s the whole point of this. Why he hired me in the first place and sent me to meet with you. Hopefully to work together.”

“Don’t be so naïve, you’re a big boy now, you’ve been out in the world. He doesn’t want to work with us, he wants to co-opt us. He wants to sponsor a few little programs—maybe a weekend program at the college for single mothers about this or that that--so he can come to the first day to get his picture taken and maybe they’ll put it in the paper. I know his kind. He’s just touching down here to rip us off until something better turns up for him.”

This was pretty much what Al Maniscalco had claimed the night before. And then, thinking about that meeting, I had an idea, which I decided to put on the table tentatively, “I don’t know if you’ve heard about the festival at the college in a few weeks.”

“Yeah,” he smiled wryly, “the one for the Eye-talians.”

“Yes, that one. But since I’m not sure if I can pull this off, I’m not promising anything; but it seems possible that we may raise some money from it. Some real money. And that maybe I can get Birenberg to use some of it, since it will be unrestricted . . .”

“You’re talking cash I assume?”

“Well, let’s leave it at ‘unrestricted.’ But what do you think about the idea of my trying to get my hands on some of it to, say, to fix up the gym and maybe get the place painted? To change some of the messages this place gives out? That could be a good deal at both ends, win-win—the college could do something real in the community and you would get something you need? This could be a gesture of good will, of good intentions; and, who knows, might to lead to deeper kinds of collaboration.”

“Like how much might we be talking about? I assume we’re talking about some sort of raffle. Those Ginneys love those raffles.”

“I can’t say for sure. First I have to run the raffle idea by Dr. B, then, if he goes along with it, see if he’ll agree to turn over some of the profits, I mean funds that we raise, to you.”

“But what are we talking here? It needs to be worth my while.”

“Well from what the guys from the Club told me last night, it could be in the low five-figures.”

Rising from his chair for the first time, Sonny reached across his battered desk to shake my hand, and grinning said, “Lloyd, this could be the beginning of a beautiful relationship.”

“Where have I heard that before?”

Sonny laughed and said, “Hey, you’re pretty tall. Ever shoot any hoops?”

“A few.”

“Hey, then, maybe the next time you’re over we can play some One-On-One.”

I winked at him and said, “I’ll be sure to wear my sneakers.”

To be continued . . .