March 11, 2013--Found On Staten Island (Part 2)

“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 Moroni, was pointing at.  I was not surprised to realize from that that the club was a starkly 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 actually 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. 

And then there was the conference room where President Moroni 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 Moroni, 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 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 pounded his considerable gavel on the table, which set it aquiver, and thereby signaling that it was time for the club to commence with the formal portion of its business.

“We can forget the minutes,” Al Moroni decided, “It’s 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 Teitelberg 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 Teitelbaum 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 neither.  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 Guineas 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 this festival thing 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 Teitelbaum’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, Teitelbaum has arranged for . . . .”

President Moroni 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 grease-balls whose only idea of culture is macaroni and Dean Martin.  He thinks he’s the only one who can bring real Italian culture here.  I ask you, and you can tell me frankly if I’m wrong, what the fuck does furniture from Bloomingdales, that was probably designed 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 Teilel what’s-his-name to show us how cool he is.  To rub our faces in it.  Well, if he wants Italian music here he should bring in a tenor to sing some Verdi or Donizetti.  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 Moroni, 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. Teitelbaum would agree to that.  I think I could convince him.” 

“We appreciate what you are saying,” President Moroni 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?”  Not 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 Teitelbaum 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 Teitelbaum would say to that.”

I thought about that for a moment and said, “Well, I could mention that to him, at our lunch, and see what he might say.  Though I appreciate your point about the raffle, I don’t want to promise anything I can’t deliver.”  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 Teitelbaum, 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 Moroni 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 thirty, maybe forty.”

Stunned, I said, “That much?  I think Dr. Teitelbaum would . . .”

President Moroni roared with laughter and said gasping for breath, “At least.  Hey, where do you think you are?  This is Staten Island after all!  I knew that Teitelberg 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 Hylan 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 Guinea 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 Teitelberg, 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 the local people turn out.  Especially if you have some zeppoles and opera for them.  Some of them might even try out one of those Italian sofas.  Which should make your President Teitel happy.”  I lead the ironic chuckling.  “Yeah, that and the thirty or forty grand!” 

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

“Sal,” Al Moroni 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 Lonny Russell, executive director of the Jersey Street Community Center.  Lonny 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 with the Italian Club I came away feeling intrepid and self-confident and thus found it easy to respond, even to Lonny 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 here 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 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 Teitelbaum’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 little more than a week and I can’t say what Teitelbaum’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, “to be in better shape; but frankly I’m surprised 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 hoops.  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 or give me a stroke. 

“Let me tell you Lloyd-boy,” Lonny 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 thinkin’ 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 continuing to glare 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 Teitelbaum, your boss, he knows this too.  I gotta hand it to him but 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 here.  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 Moroni 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 with seeming irony, “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 Teitelbaum 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 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 Guineas love those raffles.”

“I can’t say for sure.  First I have to run the raffle idea by Dr. T, 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, Lonny 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?”

Lonny laughed and said, “Hey, you’re pretty tall.  Ever shoot 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 bring my sneakers.”

*    *    *

“Andy,” President Teitelbaum 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 Teitelbaum had arrived early since I could see, from the empty glasses he pushed to the side, that he was already well into his third Cutty.

Dr. T 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 Teitelbaum’s control than I already was.  Knowing how Teitelbaum 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 that 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 free-fall 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 that way.  In fact,” he added with a wicked smile, “I would be disappointed if they didn’t.  I would question if I was being responsible.”

“No, no Dr. T,” 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.  Teitelbaum pushed his away and said he would have just his usual 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 Goombas 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 . . .“

Teitelbaum 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 Teitelbaum, 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 Teitelbaum clearly wanted to hear more.  “I mean, Staten Island isn’t the easiest place to be black.”

Teitelbaum 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, Lonny 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 Lonny 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,” Teitelbaum 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 Lonny 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 Iowa!  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 Lonny was really about; and, most important, I had failed to bring back anything for Teitelbaum, for my boss and patron.  I had failed to deliver. 

So with my head reeling from alcohol and what felt like Teitelbaum’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 knowledge of Italian culture is superior to theirs.  As they put it, to rub their noses in it.”  Teitelbaum, perversely, seemed to enjoy that. 

“And Lonny, 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 stupid Advance.  And they all think that . . .”

Teitelbaum cut me off, “What about you?”

“What do you mean what about me?”

“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?”  Teitelbaum 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?  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’re gone.  Which I would say will be in less than two years.”  I paused to see how Teitelbaum 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 accelerating 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 and for some offer a way out.  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 Lonny 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, Teitelbaum 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 were his son. 

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

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 Lonny about the raffle and the money.  And that I promised Lonny I would try to convince him, Teitelbaum, to share most of it with the center.  Of course I now realized it would be shared with Lonny himself.  That it also would be in cash and that Lonny and the center, such as it was, could do pretty much anything with it that they or he wished.  And as for the Italian Club, they would agree to transact some business with Teitelbaum, including getting off his back during his remaining time here.  And that Lonny would stop jumping up and down about how Teitelbaum 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 Teitelbaum himself.

I presented all of this in a breathless monologue and Teitelbaum 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 somethin’ 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 anythin’ 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.  Teitelbaum 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 happenin’ to her up at the college.  I mean, we thought she’d get a two-year degree in business, or somethin’ 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 trut’, 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 neither.  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 squat about Russia 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.  But 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 his chair and thoughts about his daughter, “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.”