May 5, 2007--Saturday Story: "Found On Staten Island"--Part Six

In Part Five, which feels like ages ago, Lloyd Zazlo trekked down Staten Island’s Hylan Boulevard to Louie Randazzo’s Fiat dealership to pick up the sports car that was to be raffled off at the upcoming Italian Culture Festival. It was a splendid day and the red convertible glistened in the sunlight. Lloyd was eager to be on his way with it and race back up to the campus. But before Louie reluctantly turned the ownership papers over to him, suggesting, with a wink, they weren’t really needed because someone in the “family” was likely to win the car, he told Lloyd about his family, especially about the painful death of his daughter and his son, who he hoped, perhaps surprising Lloyd, would one day go to Yale and study, of all things, philosophy. Zazlo said he would be happy to talk with Louie Junior about his college plans but, in truth, couldn’t wait to get his hands on that spiffy little ragtop.

And so, in Part Six, Lloyd is found . . .

The drive back up Hylan Boulevard was much more fun in the sleek Fiat with the top down and the wind cutting through my hair than the earlier jolting ride in the bus. It took but fifteen minutes to dart across the island; and, when I got to the college, true to his word, I found that Al Moroni had arranged for a platform, similar to the one at Randazzo’s, to be built right in the middle of the concrete campus to display the car—halfway between the administration building and the one that housed the student center. Gingerly, I drove it up the ramp, locked the papers in the glove compartment as I had been instructed, vaulted out without opening the door, and raced over to the visitors’ parking lot to retrieve my own battered car since I was eager to get over to Jersey Street to let Lonny Russell know I had convinced President Teitelbaum to split the raffle cash with him. Just so long as he was willing to enter into a few joint ventures in the community with the college. Quid pro quo style, as Dr. T would put it.

When I got to the Center, before I could even begin to share the good news, Lonny said, “Got your sneaks with you?”

Surprised, but since the last time I was there he had challenged me to a game of One-On-One, to prepare for that eventuality I had tossed a pair into the trunk of my car. So I said, “I’ll be right back.”

He was waiting for me when I returned, standing in the middle of the shabby basketball court, distractedly bouncing the ball on the hardwood floor as if the game we were about to play was the last thing on his mind. He flipped the ball over to me before I could get to within twenty yards of him but did so with enough force that as I snatched it out of the air it drove me half a step backwards. It took all I could do to keep the ball from slamming into my chest, but I tried to appear nonchalant as it stung my fingers so as not to reveal to him any sign of weakness or give him a psychological edge. I sensed what was about to happen on the court would be important to our working together, but I also recalled what President Teitelbaum had told me about Lonny’s having played Division I ball at St. Johns.

“You take the ball out first,” he said, “Eleven baskets wins.”

I dribbled the ball out onto the court and then beyond the foul circle which was required by the schoolyard rules of One-On-One before any shots would be allowed and after any points were scored. Facing the basket, I dribbled the ball deliberately forward to where he stood, well inside the foul line, close to the basket, showing little interest in moving up to guard me. As I approached him, to protect the ball, I turned so that my back was to him and the bucket. I expected him to close in on me, likely putting his hand on my back to guard me, to push on me in order to keep me from backing closer to the basket. But he didn’t. So since I did not sense his nearness nor feel any effort to guard me, I pivoted on my left foot, rising up on my toes, and launched a high-arcing hook shot toward the basket. Remarkably, it ricocheted off the backboard with a thud and rattled through the steel-mesh net.

He pulled down the rebound and began to dribble casually out toward the foul circle. “That’s one for you,” he said, “Not bad for a white boy.” I could hear him chuckling to himself. “Now let’s see what I can do.” And before he finished the sentence, from well beyond the circle, from perhaps twenty feet away, he snapped off a two-handed set shot which whistled trough the rim, barely flicking the net.

“That’s one apiece.” He was grinning, “Now it’s your turn again.” Since my first shot had worked so well, I thought why try anything different, especially if he wasn’t going to make much of an attempt at defense. If he was attempting to play with my head by not taking my basketball skills seriously, I would try to gain my own edge by taking advantage of his disregard for me—of course this meant that I needed to keep hitting buckets.

So when I reached the foul line I again turning around and, with my butt sticking out, backed deliberately toward the basket, being a little more protective this time of my dribble. I didn’t know for sure what he was up to and I didn’t want to be lulled into carelessness and as a result have him strip the ball from me. I moved closer, dribble by dribble, and this time felt his hand on my back. But it offered no resistance--it felt more like a caress than a hand-check--and so, making the most of the opportunity, I wheeled again, as before, and did my George Miken imitation again, this time hitting my shoot without the ball touching either the backboard or net. Swish! It was my turn to grin and I did, broadly, announcing with some pride, “That’s two for me and one for you. I think it’s your turn.”

I retrieved my own shot as is bounced off the wall behind the backboard and shot it over to him, as hard as I could, out to where he stood at the top of the foul circle. He was still grinning, but I saw that it had been transformed now into something sly or even ironic.

This time, like a cat, as soon as he touched the ball, he sprang into forward, gyrating motion, dribbling the ball back and forth from hand to hand; and as he approached me, before I could even raise a hand to check him, he bounced the ball between his legs, which allowed him to change direction, and slide by. Totally faked out I stood frozen to the court, feeling the breeze he generated as he flew past me, and watched in awe as he elevated his body above the rim and slammed the ball home. “Check your sneaks,” he said, “I think the laces may have become undone.” He was no longer smiling.

He slapped the ball to me and I retreated to the top of the circle before turning to advance once more toward the basket. But unlike the first two times, this time, facing me, he crouched low, rocking forward on his heels; and before I could dribble even twice more flicked a hand in my direction, stole the ball, and in a single graceful motion sliced to the basket where he again executed a slam-dunk—this one with a flourish, shifting the ball from his left to his right hand while seemingly suspended in midair. It was clear that the game was effectively over. “What’s that score now, boy?” he asked tauntingly. I was out of breath, panting. He was hardly even breathing. And he and I knew he now owned both my body and my mind.

And then, in just a few more minutes, as he raced by me essentially unimpeded, and as I was rendered motionless, standing bent nearly double, with my hands on my hips, dripping with sweat, the score reached 10-2. He was just a point away from finishing me off. “Why don’t you go get some water,” he said to me, showing mercy for the first time, “I don’t want any dead Crackers on my hands.” He was grinning again. This time with self-satisfied glee.

I supported myself by leaning on the tiled wall by the water fountain, trying to gulp down a few mouthfuls while simultaneously attempting to pump my body full of oxygen, thinking maybe I should just concede and get the inevitable over with. But when I looked up, I was surprised to find Lonny standing nearby, looking down on me with what appeared to be some form of understanding.

“You know,” he said, “I’m cramping up myself. Maybe we should call it quits and not worry too much about who wins. We could call it a draw. How does that sound? I’m not as young as I used to be; and,” he winked at me, “it seems, neither are you.”

“Let’s play it out. I’m only down eight points,” I gasped, clinging to last of my evaporating pride, “and who knows, if you’re as out of shape as you say, anything can happen.” I tried to grin up at him but was so beat that I couldn’t force my mouth to form anything resembling a smile.

“Whatever you say, dude,” Lonny spat back and just as quickly bounced the ball to me. It was my turn to take it out. Which I did, on automatic pilot—the time-out had not rejuvenated me. This time I didn’t turn my back to him and advanced the ball slowly toward where he crouched waiting for me. I shifted the ball from hand to hand as he had, all the while not looking down at it, rather trying to keep my eyes on his as a way to catch any indication of how he planned to again reach in to steal the ball and race to score the deciding point, attempting in that way, while remaining light on my feet, to see if I could turn to my advantage his defensive quickness, faking one way, as if toward his strength, while quickly altering direction and, perhaps catching him off balance this time, drive past him to the basket and score an easy lay up.

Incredibly, the strategy worked—Lonny poked his right hand toward the ball, as he had many times previously; but this time, before he could snatch it, as a fake, I shifted my weight to the left toward his flicking hand, but in the same instant torqued my tired body to the right, scooting by him, as he for a change found himself riveted to the floor by my fake; and as I had envisioned, I easily and neatly banked in a lay up. The score stood at 10-3.

It was his turn again. Unlike earlier, after taking the ball out beyond the foul circle, rather than thrusting/twisting aggressively toward the basket, he stood fixed in place, languidly dribbling the ball and said, “So boy, what’s the deal you worked out for me?”

“You mean about the raffle money?”

“Yeah, that.” He continued to remain in place, just dribbling. “Did you talk to your man about that? You said you would.” He was smiling once more.

I was happy for the respite. Maybe I would be able to catch my breath. I keep one eye on the ball and the other on his feet to catch the first sign of a change in tempo. I was determined that he would have to work for the winning basket. “I did. My word is good.”

“So what’s up? What’s my cut gonna be?”

“That’s up to you and me to work out. He gave me the OK to do that.”

He kept up his rhythmic dribble. “As I recall you were talking five figures.” I nodded. “So let’s say you pull in 50K. If we split it down the middle, that would get me, I mean the center, 25 grand. I could live with that.”

I reminded him that I had told him it would be “low five figures,” and to me 25 thousand was not “low.”

He snorted at that; and, though he did not move forward with the ball, he began, agitatedly, to shuffle his feet and pound the ball, like gun shoots, into the floor. “So you’re like the rest of them clowns up at the college. Your word ain’t worth shit.” The gym was echoing with his fierce dribbling. “And I was beginning to think maybe you were gonna be different.” I tried to say something but he talked right over my attempt, “I checked you out, man, how you operated at that Queens College. You did some OK things there. For the people. But here you are trying to hustle me and my community like some butt-boy for Teitelbaum.”

“I am not his butt-boy, thank you,” I shot back, “I know what he’s about. You don’t have to tell me. I’m here to be straight with you and to see if we can do some things together. Some real things. Maybe even some important things. Not the kind of bullshit things Teitelbaum has made a career out of.” I knew he was listening because he had resumed his earlier, gentler dribble. So I continued, “I can’t be sure how much we’ll make from the raffle, but I can get you a third of the take, maybe $15, perhaps as much as $20 thousand, and . . .”

“Again, we’re talking cash? Sorry, how did you put it last time, we’re talking ‘unrestricted money,’ right?” I nodded. “That will do me,” he said and began to move from side to side, indicating that he was about to resume the game.

“That’s your piece, the money; but then there is the college’s piece.”

“I’m not followin’ you so keep talking.”

“This is not free money. For it you, or should I say the center, will have to do a few things.” I kept my eyes on the ball and his feet. We were still not done with the game. “And, to quote you, not ‘bullshit things.’”

“Keep talking.’”

“Well, I expect we’ll want to offer some off-site college courses here; maybe provide some tutoring at the center for high school kids to help get them interested in and prepared for college. Stuff like that.” I thought I saw the hint of a nod. “And part of the deal will be that you’ll agree to put the college’s name up in whatever space we use here and will agree to, say, a ribbon-cutting,” he shot me a sour look and increased the pace of his dribbling again. “Yes that, side-by-side with Teitelbaum. Perhaps we’ll get the Advance to send out a reporter to cover the story. Take some pictures. That sort of thing.”

I added, feeling good about myself, “It will be a beautiful thing to see the two of you together!” At that, with just a snicker ff response, he sprang into motion, for the first time turning his back to me. In an instant, feeling restored, I closed in on him, digging my elbow into his back to impede his push toward the basket. Lonny outweighed my by at least twenty-five pounds and I needed to lean into him with all of weight to slow down his relentless advance. “So I know about you and St. Johns,” I said. “That you even played in the NIT in Madison Square Garden. So who’s hustling who?” He pounded his body against mine. Locked together he moved the two of us to the foul line. “That after St. Johns you went to Brooklyn Law School and then worked on Wall Street.” I jabbed my elbow into his kidney and heard him grunt. “And I even know what happened to you after that. I also did some checking.”

Still saying nothing but dribbling the ball with his left hand, bent low to protect it from any attempts to poke it away, he rotated quickly to his right and, after hacking his right elbow into my kidney, which sent a streak of pain up the side of my body, and pounding his big bottom into my groin, which unleashed another wave of agony, he turned to the basket for what we both expected would be the final shot. But as he twisted by me, I somehow, before collapsing to the floor, managed to get a couple of fingers on the ball so that when he let it go this altered its trajectory enough so that rather than falling through the hoop like all his other shots, this one perilously circled the rim twice before falling harmlessly to the floor.

The score thus still remained at 10-3.

He retrieved his own rebound and dribbled slowly back toward the foul circle. I remained on the floor, attempting to pretend that I had just slipped. It would be all over in a moment since we both knew he could score the final point unimpeded.

But he said matter-of-factly, as if nothing had transpired, “Let’s go back to my office. Pry your skinny bones up off the floor because we have a few details to work out. I’ll be waiting for you. What’ll you be drinking?”

“What’s the score?” I managed to croak, still curled up on the floor.

“I think it’s a draw,” he said, “But I asked what you’ll be drinkin’”

Still not able to rise, I said, “Water will do me fine. If you got any.”

“What a honky,” he muttered as he turned to leave me there.

Just like the other day I found him behind his desk, swinging in his chair. On his desk, just like in Teitelbaum’s office, there was a bottle of Cutty Sark. With irony I said, “I see you and he have the same taste in booze. Why am I not surprised?”

“Well we community-oriented boys know how to be good partners.” He poured two glasses of Scotch.

“That’s what happened to you, right?”

“Whatya mean?” He was eyeing my over the rim of his glass.

“Partner—you didn’t make partner at that white-shoe law firm.” He didn’t move. “Remember I checked you out. They dumped you even though you did more billing than any of the other associates. Do I have that correct?” Still he did not move of give any indication that I was talking about his previous life. I pressed on, “I can only imagine what that was about and how it made you feel.” I then shut up and just looked back at him. Neither of us wavered or blinked. After a moment I continued, speaking almost in a whisper. The sun had nearly set in the window behind him. “Really, I can. I think I do understand. You said you knew about `my work at Queens College. So maybe you heard what happened to me there.” He did not move. “Well a version of the same thing happened to me out there.” For an instant he looked away but returned to hold my gaze. “I don’t know how to put this, because it is usually the other way around. Like what happened to you. But in my case, I too was let go, fired because of my color. Because I was white.”

“Still are, boy. Not was,” he spat under his breath.

“Fair point. Because I was and am white.”

He refilled my glass. But still he did not engage me. So we sat together for what must have been twenty minutes and silently, slowly emptied our drinks. Twilight had fallen and Lonny did not move to turn on any lights but we could still see enough of each other, in silhouette.

I heard him creak forward in his chair. “Let me tell you something Lloyd.” This was the first time he had called me by my name. “What happened out there on that court, well we can think about it as a metaphor. You’re a literary guy, right, so you’ll be able to follow me.” I did not respond to his mocking jab. “Let’s say the court is life where lots of one-on-ones get played out. You followin’?” I nodded. “Good. And on that court, in this life we play with the tools and skills that we have—those that were given to us by God; others that we picked up or learned along the way; and then a few more, important things, that were given to us, assigned to us by others. God gave us black folk big butts, and He gave you Jewboys big brains. Don’t stop me,” I wasn’t in fact attempting to, “I’m not being anti-Semitic. I’m just trying to make a point. And that point is that yes there are some God-given differences, but they are very slight, much less that folks imagine, but from them, from out of what appears to be characteristic of black folk or Jews or women they make a big deal. They mischaracterize people based on these insignificant differences. Out of fear. Fear of being displaced from wherever they see themselves to be located in the world. To preserve that place. Pitiful though it may be. In fact, the more pitiful the more they do their mischaracterizing, the more they try to define you away. And then they act accordingly.”

“I understand that,” I took the chance to interrupt him, “But what does it have to do with the metaphor with which you began? I’m not yet seeing the connection.”

“Well hang with me for another moment, Lloyd, you know how discursive we black folk can be. I’m sure you studied us in anthropology or somethin.’” Even in the darkening room I thought I could see a smile emerging. And he was right about that—I had an interest in oral cultures when in graduate school.

“OK, so what happened out there on the court? True, you checked me out--I could maybe have gone to the NBA, I was once that good. So I had that advantage. But it was the last point that we played that held all the meaning. Listen up now—I used my God-given big butt to my advantage and you developed a defensive strategy by using that big Jew brain of yours.” This time he pitched back in his swivel chair and roared with laughter. “And guess what?” He paused. This time I was the one not to move. I was determined to wait him out. It didn’t take long. “I’ll tell you, we both won.” He placed both hands behind his head and, self-satisfied, rocked back and forth.

“You know what,” I finally said, “I’m not quite getting the message—maybe I’m not understanding, but then again I’m not sure that everything you’re sayin’ adds up or is consistent. But that’s OK because enough of it sounds right to me for me to consider becoming your partner.” I decided to add, “Maybe you feel the same. But above all, there is one thing we both share, that we both know—we both got the shit kicked out of us pretty good. And, for the same reason.” I touched the skin on the side of my face to emphasize my point. “If we acknowledge that and operate out of that understanding, we can both win. Like what just happened on the court. It will be quid pro quo up the poop. There’s another metaphor for you!”

Lonny lurched forward, slamming his feet on the floor and hauled his bulky body up out of the chair. Unsteadily, we both had had too much to drink after the One-On-One, he weaved his way toward me and, grasping me in a massive bear hug, said, “As you see, I like Teitelbaum’s brand of Scotch. Now let’s see if I can come to like that quid pro quo of his. Let’s say, twenty grand worth.” With that, in each others arms, we both rocked with conspiratorial laughter.

* * *

“So Lloyd, did you make us a deal?” It was Teitelbaum, high up on his regular bar stool at the Staten Island Rathskeller. We were meeting for our second monthly liquid lunch just two days after I had picked up the Fiat and had my One-On-One encounter with Lonny. Andy had filled Dr. T’s glass and left the bottle of Cutty on the bar. I could see that he had been there for some time since the bar was blanketed with his sprawl of papers and the glass was almost empty. He patted the seat of the stool to his right and I hopped up onto it.

“Well, I did make a deal,” I said, feeling proud of myself. “I got the Italian Club to eat the cost of printing the raffle tickets, as you can see from your office window that I picked up the Fiat and it’s . . .”

“Now Lloyd, you know that’s not the deal that interests me. I couldn’t care less about the car or the raffle or the Italian Club for that matter.”

“But I thought you saw the Cultural Festival as an important part of your agenda for the college.” I was totally perplexed. “You know, to build bridges to the community.”

“I have no interest whatsoever in that community.” Andy had set an empty glass full of ice in front of me and Teitelbaum refilled his glass and then mine.

“But aren’t they, the Italians, I mean the Italian-Americans the real community here? I know, I know,” he had sneered at me and waved a dismissive hand in my direction, “they may be only one of many communities here—I read your book, you know,” he held his sneer, “--and I know how you feel about black and Hispanic people, how public institutions have a special obligation to serve them. I’m with you, but on Staten Island most of the poor people are of Italian descent. Don’t we have an equivalent obligation to them?”

“You are certainly free to see things that way. I have other matters on my mind. And since I do, and I am your president, I would like to know about your discussions with Mr. Sonny Russell. You do know him, don’t you?” He folded his stumpy arms across his chest and sat there, puffed up, staring at me. I could hear the ice cracking and settling in his glass.

“Yes, I also met with him.” I stared back.

“And . . . ?”

“As you told me, he did go to law school and then on to Wall Street.” I was going to make him pull out of me what had happened.

“And . . . ?” He couldn’t continue staring me down without taking another deep drink from his glass and to do so he was forced to avert his eyes for a moment. When he looked back at me I thought I saw that some slight advantage in our jousting had shifted in my direction—it now wasn’t enough that he was my president. I had something he wanted and he couldn’t force me to shift it to him. I had been fired from an important job at a real college, working with the very community about which he was, yes, obsessed, and he sensed that I might be prepared to let that happen again if he pushed too hard; and since he had clearly failed to make a deal, on his own, with the only black leader on the island he cared about—a “real militant” as he once referred to him, a Black Panther—he needed me more for this perhaps than I needed him.

With that realization, I sat there and, looking over his head at one of the stuffed boar’s heads, I asked, “Are we ordering food today? I’m starving.”

Teitelbaum gestured to Andy who bounded over and Dr. T told him to bring us two orders of broiled flounder. I cut him off said to Andy that I’d prefer a burger, medium-well with some onion rings. Also, that he could take away my Scotch and bring me a draft Lowenbrau. Teitelbaum’s sneer had disappeared and was replaced by an ironic smile. “I see that my young dean is feeling very good about himself.” I folded my arms across my chest in imitation of him and nodded that for certain I was. “Well, that’s very good. Very good indeed. I like that. You know that I like to see my people feeling empowered. After all, that’s what we’re about, aren’t we—empowerment? Power to the people and all that.” He emptied his glass and pulled mine over to him and began sipping from it. “No need to waste good Scotch.” His smile, visible through the ice and diluted Scotch had taken on the look of evil.

“And so, you met with Mr. Lonny.” I indicated that I had. “And I assume from all of your smirking that things went well for you. Of course, I mean for us, for the college.” I indicated with a nod that it had. “And I assume Mr. Lonny enticed you into a game of One-On-One in that place of his that he calls a gym.” With this he had me off stride again so I indicated nothing, which of course he took as a sign that he once again had seized the advantage. I could tell that when I saw him straightening himself on the stool to his full height. “Did he tell you, Russell I mean, that he tried that with me as well? From the look on your face I can see that he of course did not. Well, he did. And do you know what?” I couldn’t help myself from appearing surprised and puzzled. “We wrestled rather than played One-On-Whatever. You can close your mouth now. It’s not a very attractive look for a dean. Yes, I had wrestled in college and, though I am a little older than Lonny Russell, and he had never done more than play basketball, out of macho pride he accepted. So he came to the college and together we went to the wrestling room. Just the two of us. I know you are eager to know what happened, but he and I agreed to keep that between us. That, ironically, is the only deal we ever consummated. Which is why I had to send you too him—as my representative.”

Andy put the flounder platter in front of Teitelbaum and the burger on my placemat. “So what do you think of that?”

I took a huge bite and chewed slowly. I ignored him. I needed to regain my equilibrium. I swigged half the lager. “To tell you the truth, I don’t make very much of it, considering how little you told me about what really happened between the two of you.”

“You will never know that,” he said solemnly, “since I suspect Lonny will keep his word as have I.” He bent over his fish and concentrated on it for a few minutes as I did on my hamburger. It was juicy and delicious. Then he put down his folk. “I will ask you one more thing though before you tell me what you and he agreed to—that I am entitled to know, that I insist on knowing. It is after all the business of the college of which, I remind you, you are an employee.” I once again nodded. I would give him that much. “What I would like to know is not the college’s business.” He had me intrigued. “But I want to know if he offered his rap, that’s what they call it, yes, did he—about black butts and Jewish brains?” I stiffened, on alert. “I can see that he did. About how God gives people different . . . .”

But before I could even begin to say anything, Andy, at the far end of the bar signaled that there was a call for President Teitelbaum from the editor of the Staten Island Advance. “I have to take that call. It’s from Len Trout himself. But before I do, as the college’s business, do we have a deal with him? He’ll get his cut of the money?” I nodded twice. “And then he will work with us?” I nodded once more. “Including agreeing to joint public events to which the press, such as it is on this miserable island, will be invited? Good. Let me take this call.” I could hear him chuckling derisively to himself as he left me to take the call.

I finished my food, had a second beer; but still he remained on the phone, gesturing dramatically as if he were on stage. He did not look my way; and since it seemed the call would go on forever, I slid off the stool and left, not stopping to wave in his direction.

There was a great deal that had to be completed before the upcoming weekend when the Italian Culture Festival was set to begin. I hoped the weather forecast would turn out to be wrong—rain was predicted--because we were hoping to sell at least another 1,500 raffle tickets.

To Be Continued . . . .