March 17, 2007--Saturday Story: Found On Staten Island--Part Four

In Part Three, during his first week as an assistant dean at Staten Island Community College, in his new role as the college’s representative to the community, Zazlo participated in two very different kinds of meetings: the first in the evening with the Executive Committee of the Italian Club, the second the following afternoon with the Director of the Jersey Street Community Center in Staten island’s version of the ghetto. Both had one thing in common—all with whom he met with expressed considerable unhappiness with, actually despised Zazlo’s boss, the college’s president, who they believed held all of them in contempt and was only seeking to have a relationship with them in order to advance his own career. As one put it, to get the hell off the island as quickly as possible for a cushy position in the Ivy League. Lloyd nonetheless, who needed to do well in his new job if he was to advance his own career, stove to find ways for them to work together. By good fortune, under pressure from the Italian Club’s leaders, who insisted that to make the college’s upcoming Italian Festival a success it was essential to raffle off a Fiat sports car, Zazlo stumbled on a way to assure that the community the Club represented would participate; and, since he was assured that there would be no expenses for either the raffle books or the car itself, the raffle would also net the college up to $15,000--in cash. And with that profit already “banked” in his mind, Lloyd then struck a deal with the ex-leader of the island’s Black Panther Party, promising to “share” some of it with him to demonstrate that there was mutual interest in working in partnership with the college.

So in Part Four, which follows, Zazlo will need to convince Dr. Birenberg that they should agree to participate in sponsoring the raffle and sharing most of the profits with the Panthers . . .

“Andy,” President Birenberg said to the bartender at the Staten Island Rathskeller even before reaching out to shake my hand, “make sure you give my new dean a generous pour.” I was a little late for our meeting, having gotten lost again among the roads that twisted through the island’s highest hills; and clearly Birenberg had arrived early since it was obvious that he was already well into his third Cutty Sark.

Dr. B patted the stool next to his at the end of the long bar. It was clear from that that we would have lunch there and that there would likely be more drinking than eating. Noting that, I realized it would be wise to nurse my drink out of concern that if I bolted it another and then another would follow and I would quickly come to be more under Birenberg’s control than I already was. Knowing how Birenberg was sure to react to what I had to report—badly—and what I had promised I would try to get him to agree to—negatively--I needed to keep as many of my wits about me as possible. I would need all of them and then some.

Behind us, as well as surrounding the mahogany bar, there was an array of stuffed animal heads that featured a full family of seemingly salivating wild boars, one of Germany’s most common game animals, which seemed to me at a glance to be appropriate for a place on Staten Island that was attempting to present itself as authentically Teutonic.

“So what did you learn? Everyone thinks I’m a hypocrite who only cares about my next assignment. Right? Preferable one at Harvard.”

Caught off guard by this bold thrust, thinking I would have had to find a subtle and indirect way of my own to report some of this to him, I gulped down more of my bitter drink, even before I was fully settled on my stool, than I intended to consume during our entire lunch. My wits might no longer be as useful to me as I had anticipated since he had already, by leaping to this raw but accurate conclusion, propelled me into cognitive freefall where I would need something other than wits to keep me from crash landing. Attempting to drink along with him might actually be much more of what was required.

“Look, Lloyd, I’ve been on this godforsaken island for more than a year now and it shouldn’t surprise you, as it appears to have, that they would regard me this way. In fact,” he added with a wicked smile, “I would be disappointed if they didn’t. I would question if I wasn’t being responsible.”

“No, no Dr. B,” I said too quickly, not fully understanding him, “It’s not what you think. They really respect you and believe in what you’re trying to accomplish.” Within thirty seconds all my plans to find a way to report a version of the truth to him evaporated. He was eyeing me skeptically, with a wry look, not for a moment lowering his glass from his lips. “You probably would be surprised to learn that they even quote the book. Your book I mean. About the college being in and of the community.” He continued to look at me curiously as if I were a laboratory specimen squiggling in a Petri Dish.

“I can see that we have a lot of work to do.” He sighed and signaled to Andy to bring us two more Scotches. “I though from your experience in Queens that you would be further along. More seasoned and developed.”

I slumped on my stool and was happy that Andy placed leather-bound menus before us. Birenberg pushed his away and said he would have just a piece of grilled fish. Nothing on the side and no butter. I muttered that I would have the same, though I knew I would choke if I attempted to eat anything. Mine too would be a liquid lunch.

“Moroni and his cronies at the Italian Club told you I have contempt for them, thinking they are no better than Mafiosi who not only control politics on the island but are in bed with the developers who want to cut down the last of the trees and replace them with out-of-code houses for their landsman who want out of Brooklyn to get away from the Colored folks who are beginning to encroach on their territory.”

“Actually, they didn’t talk about that at all when I attended their meeting the other night. They . . . “

Birenberg simply ignored me and continued, “We’ll they’re right about that. About the way I regard them. They are a bunch of bigots. And I’m sure they told you that they want me off the island as soon as possible so they can cash in some political chips and name the next president. To make sure the college doesn’t open its doors too wide and doesn’t put any crazy ideas in their kids’ heads. Especially their daughters who they worry about the most—that they might stray too far. Maybe even wind up fucking some of the Black boys I’ve been bringing to the college. When that happens both you and I will have to get out of here, and fast.”

He emptied his glass all the while not taking his blazing eyes off me so he could savor and evaluate every aspect of my reaction to this last point. I thought, assisted by my own drink, that I managed to do a satisfactory job of holding onto his gaze.

“And then you met with Mister Russell, in that so-called community center of his.” I continued to look right back at Birenberg, trying not to offer any reactions to what he might be about to say. I suspected from the way he strung out “mister” that it would be less than flattering. “I directed you to him, did I not?” I didn’t move. “Well, what did you think?” He paused for more than emphasis and so I thought he actually wanted me to say something.

“He seemed all right to me.” I tried to leave it at that—noncommittal, but Birenberg clearly wanted to hear more. “I mean, Staten Island isn’t the easiest place to be black.”

Birenberg shot back at me, “Where the hell do you think it’s easy to be black, as you put it? You think that Harlem is any better?”

“Well I mean . . . I mean he said to me that here are so few of them here that they slip off the screen. You know, when they try to mobilize the Staten Island Advance doesn’t publish anything about them. They only time they do, Sonny claims, is when a black guy rapes someone or, you know, wins a track meet. The usual racist bullshit.”

“So he took you in with that line? I’m not surprised he tried that; but I am surprised, after your experience at Queens College, that you fell for it.”

“I don’t know if that’s fair. There are only a handful of Blacks here. I looked up the last Census data. Only about ten percent of Staten Islanders are Black or Hispanic. The lowest in the city. . . . “

“You think I don’t know that? What do you think I’ve been doing here? Scratching my ass? Haven’t you been paying attention to what I’ve written? And what I’ve already accomplished at the college? Surrounded by all these Yahoos.” He looked around the bar. Fortunately it wasn’t crowded because his voice, freed by drink, was by then booming.

“Did Sonny tell you anything about his background?”

“Well, that he had been in the Panthers. That he had been the president of the local chapter.”

“Not that crap,” Birenberg snorted. “I mean his real background? That he graduated from St. Johns, on a basketball scholarship, and then went to Brooklyn Law School, passed the Bar Exam, and after that took the ferry to Manhattan every day in a three-piece suit where he worked for a white-shoes firm?” I’m certain my eyes widened a bit at this unexpected news. “Yes, that’s your Sonny Russell for you.”

“So what’s he doing here,” I mumbled, “in that broken down community center?”

“I’m sure he didn’t tell you that either. Well, he didn’t get past his probationary period as a law associate, and they tossed him right back here from whence he came. And that’s where he landed. In that center. Full of bitterness, which I can understand, but no longer with any noteworthy ambition. He’s now known as the type of hustler who sits around spouting rhetoric in an attempt to scare white people into giving the center, really him, guilt money.”

“Well, I thought . . . .”

“Tell me again what you were up to in Queens? Obviously not very much. Certainly not enough to teach you anything of value.” He was sneering at me.

“But that’s all right,” his tone softened and he reached out to pat me clumsily on the back. “You can tell me. What did he hold you up for? He’s good at that. He even tried to do that to me. Me! A Jewboy from Nebraska! Can you imagine? What chutzpah.” At this, he allowed his body to swell with pride. “So what did he get you to promise?”

It felt to me that all was probably lost. That I had failed with the Italian Club; with perceiving what Sonny was really about; and, most important, I had failed to bring back anything for Birenberg, for my boss and patron. I had failed to deliver.

So with my head reeling from alcohol and what felt like Birenberg’s assault, I let it rip. Or at least my still-tepid version of letting something rip, “You’re right. They all think you’re full of shit and are only here to take advantage of them while showing them nothing but patronizing contempt. Take the festival for example—they think you’re doing it in a way to show them how your own awareness of Italian culture is superior to theirs. As they put it, to rub their noses in it.” Birenberg, perversely, seemed to enjoy that. “And Sonny, whatever his real background, says that the Black community believes you’re only interested in using them so you can show yourself off as some sort of liberal savior. To promote yourself. To get your picture in the paper surrounded by Black folk to make you look like you care. That in truth you’re such a small-time operator that you think it’s a big deal to be mentioned even in the Advance. And they all think that . . . .”

Birenberg cut me off, “What about you?”

“What about me what?”

“You. What do you think?”

“About the situation . . . or you?”

“Both. After what you observed and heard about me”

Again, he had thrown me off stride and so I said, stalling for time so I might regather my thoughts, “Before I try to answer, can I have another drink?” Birenberg signaled to Andy who trotted over and filled both of our glasses. I drank half of mine in one swallow before responding. In a whisper I said, “I think you’re both right.”

“Both? And about what?”

“They’re right that you are using them to promote and advance yourself. And they have their own agenda that reaches way back to before you showed up and which has to work for them well after you leave. Which I would say will be in less than two years.” I paused to see how Birenberg might be taking this. He continued to smile enigmatically back at me. “So they want to be sure that whatever they might agree to do with you will not unduly compromise them in the eyes of their constituencies. That they will derive some benefit by seeming to cooperate with you. In that way, they perceive they will be in a stronger position to influence the selection of your successor once you bail out for something better.” His smile narrowed and so I hastened to add, “Now, you need to understand, that’s what they’re saying. I’m merely quoting them. Actually, interpreting where I think they’re coming from.”

“All right, this is your view about them, about their agenda. Say more now about how you view me in all of this. That’s of course what interests me the most.” He turned his full grin back on.

I gulped some more of my Scotch and said, “Well like I told you, I think they’re right about how they view you. Which doesn’t mean that while you’re feathering your own nest,” I wondered where that image came from—must be from the whisky, “you won’t get some things done that are good for the island. They, both the Italian-Americans and the African-Americans are living isolated lives. The larger world around them, beyond the island, has changed and will do so at an accelerated pace.” Here I was my old lecturing-self, “They’re all in danger of getting left behind in their physical and cultural ghettos. You can maybe help them see that. Some of them perhaps. And in that way leave something good behind. As a legacy. But,” and here I knew I was about to take a considerable risk, “But, as I see it, you’re at least as big a hustler as your Mister Sonny Russell.”

I was done, closed my eyes, and held my breath. Expecting an explosion of outrage and again my walking papers, I thought once more about alternative careers.

But after what felt like many minutes, Birenberg finally said in an eruption of laughter that nearly knocked me off my stool, “That’s better. That’s my Lloyd. That’s the Zazlo I thought I was hiring. Maybe out in Queens you learned a little more than I gave you credit for.” He smiled radiantly at me as if he were proud of me. As if I was his son.

“And so, what do they want? I mean the Italians and Sonny.”

I plunged ahead and proceeded to tell him—about the opera stuff, the raffle, and all the money they said we would make, cash profit for him to use in any way he saw fit. But I also let him know that I told Sonny about the raffle and the money and that I promised Sonny that I would try to convince him, Birenberg, to share most of it with the center. Of course I now realized it would be shared with Sonny himself. That it also would be in cash and that Sonny and the center, such as it was, could do pretty much anything with it that they or he wished. And in return the Italian Club would agree to transact some business with Birenberg, including getting off his back during his remaining time here. And that Sonny would stop jumping up and down about how Birenberg was out to hustle the Black community and how he might even be willing to enter into some very public joint ventures with the college. Even with Birenberg himself.

I presented all of this in a breathless monologue and Birenberg said, still very much smiling, “Done,” and patted me on the ass as I stumbled toward the door and daylight.

* * *

Two days later, back in Rosebank, I met Sal Rizutto at his printing plant. I was there to pick up the raffle books. I found him, almost buried behind luridly-colored brochures which were stacked in precarious heaps on his tiny metal desk. His office, if it could be deemed that, was so dank and ill lit that I could barely find him squatting there amidst all the clutter.

“Yeah, I’m over here. Come in, come in.” He didn’t get up as I pushed aside an overflowing carton of Sunday newspaper supplements in order to get the door opened enough to allow me to squeeze through. “Sit down a minute. Take a load off. Make yourself comfortable.” I tried to on the broken folding chair that was pressed right up against the desk. “Can I get you something? I’ve got anything you want. All the best brands.”

“I’m OK. Thanks Mr. Rizutto. I just came from a cocktail party over at Borough Hall.”

“Glad to hear you’re getting around town and rubbin’ elbows with all them big shots. But if we’re gonna do business together, the first thing is to drop that ‘Mr. Rizutto’ stuff. That’s my father, ‘Mr. Rizutto.’ I’m Sal, from ‘Salvatore.’ My family’s from Italy you know.”

“I thought that might be the case Sal, since you’re vice president of the Italian Club.” And I added, trying to establish rapport, “Any relation to the old Yankee shortstop, Phil Rizutto, the Scooter?”

“Nah, we hate the Yankees here on the island. Though I understand his people came from the same town in Sicily as mine. But look,” he said, cutting off the banter, “we’ve got a lot of work to do. In a minute I’ll take you to the back where we do the printin’ and get some of the boys to load the raffle books in your car. You brought a car like I told you to?”

“Yes, I took one of the college’s station wagons. I hope it’s big enough. I parked it right out front.”

“No problem. I printed up 50,000 tickets. The Club is keeping 10,000 and the rest is for you. At a buck apiece, if we sell even half of them we should make out all right. There’ll be enough for all of us to be happy, if you know what I mean.” I nodded and smiled, now knowingly.

“But look, before we get started there’s something else I want to talk with you about. If that’s OK.”

“Sure, Sal. Anything.” I leaned forward to get closer to him, having no idea at all what might be on his mind. Perhaps he would share some off-the-record information about the inner workings of the Club. That could be very useful to me as I attempted to build a relationship between them and the college.

“It’s not about the Club or anything like that; it’s about my daughter. Angie. Maybe you know her. She’s a student at the college.”

Disappointed, I said, “Unfortunately, I don’t Sal. My job is to work out in the community. I don’t even have an office on campus. Birenberg wants me here with the Club, working on things like the festival.”

“Whatever,” he said dismissively, but continued, “Well you see she, Angie, my kid, she just turned nineteen last month—you’d love her if you knew her. I’m usin’ a figure of speech here.”

“I think I know what you mean Sal. She sounds great.”

“But I haven’t told you a thing about her yet.”

He sounded annoyed. I was only trying to sound interested, to bond with him. “I just meant that I’m sure she’s a terrific person. She’s your daughter after all. Right?” I flashed a smile at him, hoping it would smooth things.

“Well, my wife and me don’t like what’s happened to her up at the college. I mean we thought she’d get a two-year degree in business, or something like that. So she could get a job until she gets married. You know, to get her out of the house and maybe earn some money. Then she’d meet a guy. Some nice Italian guy from right here on the island. From a good family. Business people. Maybe professionals. We have a basement apartment in our house. It’s a clean place with an entrance of its own where Angie and her husband could live until they had a kid. Then they’d need a bigger place. We’d of course help them with the down payment. I’m doing pretty good here now and could do that. You know, maybe one of them new places down in Great Kills. Not far from the water. In a safe place. A good place to raise kids. There’s even some good Catholic schools there.”

“That sounds very good, very generous Sal. I’m sure Angie and her husband would be very grateful.”

“It may sound good to you, but to tell you the truth, that college of yours is filling her head with all sorts of fancy ideas.”

“I’m not sure what you mean Sal.”

“She tells me she doesn’t want to take the Office Assistant Program. She wants to study Liberal Arts.” He pronounced all three syllables of “liberal,” mockingly, as if each were a separate word. “How you make a living studying that bullshit is beyond me. You know—lit-er-at-ure, soc-i-ol-ogy, Russian his-tor-y. Russian of all things. Not to mention all the faggots she’s meetin’ in those classes. No offense, but she tells me they’re full of Jews from St. George and across the bridge in Brooklyn.”

“Well, I’m not too offended, but, you know, the liberal arts are good preparation for life—both to prepare one for many kinds of work and also to make you a well-rounded person.”

I couldn’t believe how pathetically pedantic I sounded, here with Sal Rizutto in his printing plant, but he didn’t seem to notice or mind “Angie is already well-rounded enough, if you ask me. She’s got a lot of gavones sniffing around our door. I don’t want her marrin’ one of those creeps either. But I don’t want to have arguments with her every night when we’re watching the 6 o’clock news. She tells me that the president is lyin’ about this and he doesn’t know shit about Russia (she doesn’t say ‘shit’ of course) and all they suffered in W.W. Two and whatnot. You guys at the college are turnin’ her against her family and into a Commie.”

I couldn’t restrain myself from smiling back at him. “I’m not makin’ this up. I wouldn’t be surprised if she burned her bra one day and started marchin’ around with those moulinyans over on Jersey Street. You know, screaming about peace and justice and bullshit like that.”

Realizing there was nothing I could say to convince Sal that what he was experiencing with Angie was not unusual, that most 19 year-olds those days were up to the same thing, and that I for one saw that to be hopeful, and wanting to get us focused on the festival, I asked, “Do you think maybe we could get the raffle books? I’d like to bring them back to the college before evening so I can put them away in a safe place. The last thing we want is for them to get into the wrong hands, if you know what I mean.”

“You’re right kid,” Sal said extracting himself from thoughts about his daughter and his chair, “This island is full of all kinds of hoodlums. In fact, the Club is plannin’ for what might happen the night of the festival. It’s gonna be open to anybody, right?” I nodded. “So we ourselves will take the responsibility that there’s no trouble from the Coloreds and other agitators who might want to disrupt things. Right?” I didn’t say anything. “Al, who’s our president you remember, he told me to tell you not to worry.” You can imagine that’s exactly what I was doing as the result of what Sal was telling me.

“He wants me, Al wants me to be sure to take care of you. Not just not chargin’ you anything for the raffle books. That’s my pleasure. My contribution. But at the festival too. He wants me to shadow you wherever you go. Never to let you outta my sight.” He had come around from behind his desk and in his cramped office was pressed quit close to me, the top of his head just reaching to my armpits he was that short, “So that in case anyone tries to pull any funny shit,” he opened his suit jacket to show me an enormous pistol stuffed in his belt; and he patted it, saying, “I’ll be ready for them.”

He turned his hand into a gun and blasted away at an imagined outside agitator, “Bam, bam, bam.” I lurched back out of the way of the recoil. “Like I said, I’m ready for them.”

Seeing my reaction, he slapped me on the back. “I’ll get Ralphie to load up your car. And one more thing. Do me a favor and keep an eye open for my Angie. Maybe you can talk some sense into her.”

He then led me to the door that opened into the print shop, “Let me know if you need more raffles. I can make you a million of ‘em if you want.”

To be continued . . .