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Sampler from, Red Hook, Brooklyn @ Amazon.com, Smashwords and Nook Press.
CHAPTER TWO
Whistling Joe, other folks and the Brooklyn Dodgers
The Projects were like a little city. There were thousands of people living in these six story buildings that were connected in twos and threes. Our building was connected to two other buildings. If you think of the letter “L” lying on its side, my building was the flat part on the bottom of the “L”. There were a couple of Sycamore trees out front (the kind that drop “itchy balls” that we’d throw at each other or stuff down the back of someone’s shirt — harmless, really, but fun to watch the people squirm around) and a fenced playground for the kids and old folks. The kids played and the old folks sat and watched. Everybody else worked. Men and women returned home from work almost all day long. Some worked nights, some worked early shifts and some came and went at all hours, probably working two jobs; but the kids played and the old folks watched.
Most nights a stillness blanketed the Projects. My brothers and I would fall into a deep and rejuvenating sleep that awakened us to a new and wondrous day.
Many kinds of exotic and interesting people lived in our little city. One such person was Whistling Joe. He was both talented and very interesting. Whistling Joe had lost his legs in the war, World War II that sent a lot of men home with physical and mental ailments. Whistling Joe just had a physical ailment-rumor was that he lost his legs when he stepped on a land mine that blew up and almost killed him. But, it didn’t kill him and he was able to return home to Brooklyn.
Whistling Joe loved music. He was an artist of sorts–he could whistle any tune ever composed. Not only could he whistle he could stop you dead in your tracks and mesmerize you with his sweet lamentations of popular songs and improvisational whistling.
I remember the first time I heard him. My father and I were coming home from the bakery on an early summer’s evening. He heard Whistling Joe first. My father was a singer himself and he had a good ear for music. “Hear that?” he asked.
“What? What should I hear?”
“Listen,” he said softly. “The whistling, do you hear it?” I watched my Dad’s face broaden into a smile as he listened and walked home. That night was a special time for me as we listened to Whistling Joe while walking together on a summer’s evening. Thesight of Whistling Joe seated and leg-less, on a small wheeled, two by two crate cover with his hands wrapped in heavy cloth to protect them as he propelled himself along the street whistling and never missing a note was a defining moment for me. I mean I saw the spirit of the man rise and soar above his leg-less body and capture every ear and transport everyone to a better place and time. Here was Whistling Joe leading a growing crowd of listeners who swayed and kept time with bobbing heads. Here was earthbound, leg-less Whistling Joe soaring and swirling above us and we were envious of his journey, his private reverie and his internal song.
That night I learned about my internal song. Well, maybe not that night, but it began to hum somewhere deep inside. I would learn–later in life–that there was a place for personal reveries and songs of freedom, liberty and sheer delicious joy within each of us. I would also learn that you couldn’t hear the song unless you listened very, very closely.
So Richie and I and Johnny Boy had become good friends. One day, Richie and Johnny Boy came knocking at my apartment door.
“Ya gotta see this,” Johnny Boy blurted out when I opened the door.
“Come on,” Richie said dancing excitedly behind him, “Let’s go.”
My mother had left me in charge. “Watch your brothers. I have to go to the store,” she said and kissed me on the forehead.
“I can’t.”
“Why?” the two chorused.
“I’m supposed to watch my brothers,” I said.
The anxious duo circled each other seeking an answer that was obviously not forthcoming while I watched. My brothers peeked around the door to see the cause of the commotion.
“Listen, guys, I can’t go. Okay?” I began to close the door and shoo my brothers back inside.
“No, no. You gotta see this,” Johnny Boy pleaded. “Tell him.”
“There’s a dead guy on the street,” Richie said.
“Hit by a car,” Johnny Boy said.
“We saw it happen,” Richie exploded.
“You saw it happen?”
“Yeah,” they answered solemnly in unison.
Well, my mind struggled with anticipation and uncertainty. I wanted to see the dead body; but I had to watch my two brothers. Johnny Boy and Richie danced with anticipation to leave and run back to the dead guy. I put a plan into action.
“Now listen carefully.” This I directed to my pals and my two younger brothers. “We’re gonna go downstairs, take a look and come right back up here.” All the heads bobbed affirmative responses. I grabbed my middle brother’s hand and said, “Johnny Boy, you and Richie hold onto Danny. Don’t let go of his hand no matter what. Got it?”
“Sure Alan, we got him, right Richie?”
“You bet.” And they each grabbed a hand to show their point.
“Okay, Lenny will be with me. You hold on to me, okay.” Lenny nodded and put his hand into mine. I grabbed the house key, closed the door and we were down in the elevator in a flash. By the time we reached the dead guy at the corner a crowd had gathered and the police were in charge.
In the middle of the street there lay an old black man. Nearby was a bag of groceries that had spilled out onto the street. Traffic was stopped and the police were directing cars to turn around and try another street. One door of a police car was opened and I could see a young girl sitting inside. She was crying. She looked familiar, about my age but I couldn’t see her face. A policeman was kneeling down talking to her.
“Alan, what’s the matter with Lenny?” Johnny Boy asked.
Lenny was sobbing, tears rolling down his face formed rivulets that stained his skin.
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