The Last Phone Booth on the Left in Brooklyn

By J. Quest

Organized crime retained its hold on the New York boroughs through neighborhood loyalty. As the residents struggled economically due to increasing gentrification, the mob was seen as more of a potential savior than the corrupt politicians.

The one-two punch of gentrification and displacement was felt most keenly in the South Brooklyn neighborhoods of Gravesend and Benconhurst. In spite of the influx of "Yuppies" and "Hipsters" robbing the area of its classic charm, the Italian Mafia fought to retain its presentence and control. Organized crime was struggling due to relentless pursuit by law-enforcement pursuing RICO cases. Yet, they maintained a presence, even if it was diminished in comparison to their legacy.

Italian-American Teresa Cussimano and her nephew Anthony become involved with the mob when they desperately need help. But neither Teresa or the mob knew there was an informant working with the F.B.I. to build a RICO case. When mob members are finally arrested for Racketeering, Teresa feels an obligation to those who helped in her time of need. She becomes involved in the trial, on the side of the most unlikely of allies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Apr 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662923609

Book preview

Chapter 1

It was a beautiful spring day in late June. A great time of year in New York City, particularly Brooklyn, as the searing heat, haze, and humidity did not begin yet, thank God. On this day however, the sky was a beautiful bright blue with thick cumulus clouds and a gorgeous breeze, a can’t-be-more comfortable 75 degrees.

Teresa Cussimano, age 72, Italian American, single widow and long-time resident of the section of Brooklyn known as Gravesend, just finished her shopping at the C-TOWN Grocery store on Kings Highway. She gave one of the Mexican workers three dollars so he can help her load her old Ford Escort Sedan with the bags of groceries.

Please, honey, make sure the bags are placed so that the bottles don’t bang and break when I hit a pothole she said to him, most of which he understood. When he finished loading the bags of groceries into her car, she thanked him again.

De nada, he answered, and he proceeded back to C-TOWN from its small parking lot.

Teresa then started her old beat-up Ford and headed down Kings Highway towards McDonald Avenue. At McDonald, she made a right turn heading south and continued onto the avenue, under the New York City Transit elevated train, which ran directly above McDonald Avenue. The tremendous rumblings above, caused by the F-train drowned out any street noises for thirty seconds, as it proceeded towards Manhattan over-head. The F-train ran through Brooklyn to Manhattan and then on to Queens and back. Soon after, typical street sounds, particularly Brooklyn Street sounds resonated everywhere. Horns blowing, rock music from somewhere, rap-music from someone’s parked car stereo, laughter from four teens; two boys and two girls, and of the typical Brooklyn Italian cuzzene and cuzzette stereotype typical of neighborhoods like Gravesend, Bensonhurst, etc.

Teresa glanced at them for a moment while at the red light at McDonald and Avenue U, as they stood in front of the Carvel Ice Cream parlor. Suddenly, the car behind her beeped as the light hanging from the elevated train trestle turned green. Teresa turned right onto Avenue U, the main drag in the Gravesend neighborhood, an area of Brooklyn where when you head towards Coney Island, most of your streets intersecting main thoroughfares like McDonald Avenue or its parallel partner Ocean Parkway, are named simply as letters of the alphabet. For instance, Avenue P intersects with 65th Street, which will take you all the way down to the Bay Ridge/Sunset Park border, right onto the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway or better known as the BQE, a nightmarish congested road if there ever was one. Avenues P, S, T, U and finally, Avenue X, another main drag in Gravesend, similar to Avenue U that has fruit stands, cafés, pizzerias etc. However, there is only one Avenue X Bagels, which is a 24-hour Bagel take-out, one of the best of many throughout the Borough of Brooklyn on Avenue X, just off McDonald Avenue. As Teresa Cussimano proceeded up Avenue U, she passed another main drag in Gravesend; a two- way street running parallel with McDonald Avenue and Ocean Parkway. Like them, West 6th Street which was a two-way street, runs North/South and cuts deeper into the residential part of this quiet and clean, mostly, just about mainly, Italian American enclave. Rents and real estate have become insanely high, especially the last five to seven years. At least, here in Gravesend, you are for the most part safe, close to city transportation, and not like other New York City neighborhoods. Throughout these days, generations have stayed put here. While in other locations, there is the flight to suburbia and as a result, those neighborhoods have become flushed with all types of immigration, which in New York has always been the norm. No, not here in Gravesend. This oasis on the corner of South Brooklyn, English or, better yet, Brooklyn English is the language. American flags are prevalent in this neighborhood. Occasionally, there are many Italian flags present, particularly, every four years, when the Soccer World Cup games start up and eyes in this neighborhood are watching the television to see Italy’s team play. The historic and classical Brownstone Buildings and townhouses prevalent in other parts of Brooklyn, particularly in Park-Slope, you are not going to find in Gravesend. Yet, the neighborhood had its own unique charm to it. A close-knit area where its residents all for the most part knew each other and looked out for one another. Lately, as some regulars moved on, that special reputation regarding the neighborhood started to sadly, erode. New arrivals for the most part, kept to themselves. Another common site in this neighborhood like so many Italian American enclaves, were the backyard gardens, where tomato plants and squash and eggplants and peppers and all being grown was a common, if not regular thing. Some residences had the occasional Fig Tree and some literally grew grapes for the secret making of home-grown wine. Some quietly joked, calling this the Gravesend Special or Italian Moonshine.

Teresa passed through West 6th Street and at West 7th Street; she then turned onto her block, a block she has resided on the past 32 years. Parking in Gravesend is always a nightmare with its alternate side of the street parking rules. The idea is to pray to God that a car full of groceries not parked too far from the house, certainly not from both the refrigerator and closets where the goods go.

As she proceeded less than halfway to her house, she noticed three boys running up and down West 7th as they were throwing and catching a football. This type of activity all residents of Gravesend, including Teresa Cussimano, were used to, as street games like touch football and stickball, wiffleball, stoopball and punchball, etc; were prevalent on those streets. Whereas, in the nearby concrete City Parks with its common green maple-leaf insignia, basketball, handball and paddleball and roller-hockey were common. Teresa gently tapped her horn to let the boys realize she was slowly proceeding down the block towards them. To Teresa’s immediate dismay, she realized that one of the boys was a nineteen-year-old nemesis of hers named Tommy Brannigan, a punk if there ever was one, who lived almost directly across the street from her with his mother, father, and two sisters. Tommy Brannigan, a high school dropout, has had scrapes with the law on-and-off, ever since he was a juvenile. Although Tommy was half German and half Irish, he always played the South Brooklyn Guido role to a tee. Wearing gold chains, crucifixes, etc. around his neck and every sentence it seemed that came out of his mouth, was laced with profanity. On this particular day, he wore a loose tank top, shorts and expensive FILA high top sneakers, or what the local cops call felony shoes, where Tommy’s array of gold chains and tattoos were more than obvious.

Teresa again gently tapped her horn as she got very close to them. As she proceeded past them, she looked in her rear-view mirror. She noticed Tommy’s right hand raised high and his left one low. Teresa homed in better at her rearview mirror and immediately realized the raised arm of Tommy encompassed the middle finger and the lower arm was grabbing his crotch.

That punk bastard, Tommy, thought Teresa right away. Her immediate flash of anger was snuffed out, as luckily a parked car right in front of the Brannigan house pulled out, which meant Teresa would be parked across from her dwelling and carrying four bags of groceries would be a simple task of walking a slight diagonal across West 7th Street, which is a one-way street to her front door stoop. As Teresa slowly backed into the parking spot, bop and plop, as their football hit the back-passenger side of her Ford Escort and bounced radically on West 7th Street to the loud laughter from the boys. Teresa continued to back in, park her car and proceeded to get her groceries out of the back seat.

That spot is reserved, Tommy said loudly, as he approached Teresa’s car.

Teresa simply ignored this no-good loser, a practice she always used over and over, year-in and year-out, whenever Tommy Brannigan would deliberately attempt to agitate or harass her.

Eh, I told you, that fuckin’ parking space, I’m kinda saving it for somebody, he, again snapped only loudly in his Brooklynese.

Easy Tommy, give her a break guy, replied one of Tommy’s cohorts. Teresa finally erupted and replied, Respect your elders and stop always looking for trouble. One day Tommy, you’re gonna get yours and I’d love to see it.

Teresa continued to her residence, opening her front gate and rushed to get her key frantically in the door of her house.

Your car ain’t safe here, you wacko, was the last she heard from the mouth of Tommy Brannigan, as she slammed her front door shut; safe, finally in her home. Her blood pressure was now up, she walked into her bedroom on the first floor and reached for a prescription pill bottle and quickly popped a pill that would calm her nerves and downed it with a warm cup of water from the kitchen sink. She did not even wait to give the water from her faucet a chance to get cool. She then plopped onto her living room couch, gasping for air as she prayed her medication would kick in immediately. She placed one of the sofa end-pillows behind her head and while grasping a set of rosary beads and a small bottle of holy water, both of which she took from her dresser drawer, she then recited the Catholic prayer of Our Father,

Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come. Suddenly her phone rang, and Teresa literally jumped out of her seat.

She took a deep breath and answered her phone. Yeah? she answered.

Teresa? replied the caller.

Yeah? replied Teresa, again in an atypical voice, due to the previous incident stressing her out.

Teresa, its Marie.

Who? replied Teresa.

I said Marie, you know, your sister. Are you okay? Yeah, yeah. replied Teresa.

Well, you sound out of it. Are you sick? asked her younger sister.

No. I’m, I’m. Listen, I can’t even park my own car on my own block. I got, I got a low life bum from across the street, Teresa began to ramble.

Marie quickly cut in, What low life across the street? What, the kid that years ago you accused of shooting the BB gun at your aluminum siding?

Teresa snapped back defensively, Accused? Marie, accused? Who else did it, Marie? Who else?

Teresa, replied back from Marie, I thought all that was ages ago, dead and buried and, yet you never really knew who shot at your house with pellets or whatever, Marie replied.

How could you say that Marie, you don’t live on my block. You’re all the way over in North Williamsburg. Mt. Senior Field lets you park on the inside of Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church, replied Teresa.

Look Teresa, rebutted her sister, All I’m saying is the video camera on your rooftop, your union friends installed years ago never filmed or caught whoever the bastard is that did that. Secondly, you’ve had numerous encounters over the years with people on your block. You with all your ‘mishigas’! Who was the girl you taped notes on her stoop window two doors down because she didn’t pick up her dog shit? And then, there’s all the times you called the cops. One time just because someone else’s dog barked all night.

That dog never stopped barking Marie! Never stopped! Snapped

Teresa.

Look, Teresa, you’re my sister. We all love you honey. It’s just that your neighborhood is immaculately clean, a quiet, quaint area. Yet, you’ve had more battles than I can think of, replied Marie.

What! How can you say that? Teresa again snapped.

Well, try living by me, Teresa. If it isn’t the Goddamn yuppies coming in closer and closer to me. They’re now inching their way on my side of Bedford Avenue, gentrifying the neighborhood one way south of me and the hipsters are inching closer from the opposite direction where I’m being squeezed out of here. This new generation, these millennials and ‘Generation-Z’ are a different breed. Can any of them spend one minute of the day away from their iPhones and Androids for God’s sake?! And the ones that walk around with those white plugs in their ears where they don’t even hear you when you try saying something to them. I just don’t get it. At least, you’re in Gravesend, it’s different. These types know to stay out. And, you know, who keeps them out. Anyway, I didn’t call you to debate this and that, I just called to relay a message from Anthony, replied Marie.

Who? Teresa asked confused.

Anthony, replied Marie, Your nephew and my only son. Oh yeah, yeah, answered Teresa eagerly.

He’s coming by tonight for dinner. In fact, I’ve got to start the sauce. I got great sausage and meat from the Salumeria on Avenue U yesterday, continued Teresa.

Well, I’m calling on his behalf, answered Marie. He wanted me to let you know he’s going to be late. Expect him around 8 o’clock and he’s bringing your favorite cheesecake from Fortunato’s by me here on Manhattan Avenue, so cheer up, okay? continued Marie.

Oh wonderful, snapped Teresa, a burst of euphoria radiated her with that last bit of good news, Thanks Marie.

Any problems, call me. Okay? replied Teresa’s sister, Marie.

Bye, Marie, Teresa hung up and leaned back on her sofa.

I wonder if my nephew has any really tough guys that he can bring over with him tonight. I’ve got more than enough food. I’d love to have that bastard approached across the street to put the fear of God in him. Then maybe, just maybe, I can live in peace, she thought.

Teresa adored her nephew Anthony, a bright articulate nineteen-year-old, who graduated from Christ the King High School in Middle Village Queens on Metropolitan Avenue, with honors. For graduation, Teresa took both him and his girlfriend out to dinner at one of her favorite old neighborhoods, where as a girl, she grew up with her mother, father, three brothers, and Marie, her sister. The Cussimano family grew up, born and bred in the Fordham area within the Belmont section of the central part of the Bronx. Teresa grew up as did her sister and brothers on Arthur Avenue. Her father, Henry Cussimano owned and ran Cussimano & Cussimano Butchers, there off 187th Street. The family’s Catholic Church was Our Lady of Mount Carmel, which was on 187th Street. Teresa vividly remembers what a real neighborhood Belmont was. Neighborhoods like that back then, are now a dying breed, practically extinct. She remembered the code of her old close-knit neighborhood and when she worked in her father’s store. For years how the two mysterious men twice a month like clockwork, received a cash envelope and either a shoulder chuck or lamb chops or whatever.

Teresa, as a girl and later as a teenager, never asked questions especially about dealings with people her father did off to the side and in an indiscernible whisper. One day, when Teresa was sixteen or seventeen, she asked her father Henry, Papa, the landlord says you are late with the rent. Yet, you give these men who do nothing for you, hard-earned cash. Why?

One day, my dear I’ll tell you. Just not now. One day, one day. Replied her father.

On a certain day, a few weeks after that, Henry Cussimano came to open his butcher shop and found his store had been broken into and his safe was bashed in, cut and compromised. Two days later, some teenager from outside the neighborhood was seen early in the morning hanging from the light post on 187th Street and Hughes Avenue, hanging by only his thumbs. It was also more than obvious that he’d been severely beaten. The local police asked questions to total deaf, dumb, and blind persons of the neighborhood. Apparently, this unlucky soul had robbed other shopkeepers there and the men with envelopes of cash handed to them, saw to it that all merchants of Belmont got their money’s worth. It was quite a spectacle as things like that never happened in Belmont way back then. In fact, there wasn’t any crime there at all. People left their doors open, stepped out on the fire escapes on hot summer nights, cars parked were unlocked, and windows were down. It all eventually dawned on Teresa as a young teen, who those men were who her father Henry or better named Enrico, gave tribute and fawned respect.

Yet, just a year ago, she went back to the old neighborhood to treat her nephew for graduation from High School. They went to the famed Italian restaurant Dominick’s on Arthur Avenue, where food and portions were beyond comprehension. It was a Saturday and like any Saturday, the place was jammed. People from all over flooded to Dominick’s for an incredible lunch or dinner. People from as far away as Connecticut, New Jersey, Long Island, etc. were more than willing to pay the bridge tolls. Having to pay outlandish two-way fares and drive through some rundown slummy Bronx areas, until finally hitting Belmont, Little Italy in the Bronx. It was its own enclave, and oasis with decades of turn of the century (20th) tradition. In what other neighborhood do you still see lambs and rabbits hanging in some butcher’s window? The Cusumano Butcher Shop closed after Henry Cussimano’s death in 1970. His store was replaced by none other than a social club, affiliated with one of the most influential organized crime families of the City of New York.

Teresa, her nephew Anthony, and his girlfriend Lena waited online to finally say, Three people.

You all are number 75, replied the Maître d’. Bar upstairs.

All the patrons knew the food was worth the wait, as a quick glance at all the long tables, revealed portions of fried calamari, stuffed peppers, and pork chops. There was also pasta, pasta, and then more pasta, red wine, Sambuca, etc. etc. You knew what you were eventually in for. The aroma circulated by the many ceiling fans, was also incredible.

Let’s take a walk around the old neighborhood, suggested Teresa. Anthony felt a good walk would be okay, being they just finished with the long excruciating drive from Gravesend Brooklyn, all the way to the Central Bronx. Not far geographically, but with all the traffic and construction detours, you might as well have driven to China. Anthony, of course, did all the driving as Aunt Teresa was incapable of driving on expressways due to my eyesight. This despite it being a clear day in the afternoon. As they walked around the old neighborhood, it didn’t take long for Teresa to realize that it definitely was not the same. Many of its old shops with Italian imports were gone. Gone too, were some bakeries, butchers, and homemade pasta shops. Arturo’s bakery, much to her delight, was still around. Teresa’s last visit to her old neighborhood was a good five years ago, when her sister Marie, got behind the wheel back then and drove them both up to the old Bronx. She was delighted, as after the three entered the bakery and the string bell rang as it has been for thirty years. From the back came Giovanni Coniglio, bald, with his white apron and stained with cannoli cream.

Teresa, my God, Teresa Cusumano!

Anthony, Ciao Bella! Ciao Bella! Teresa yelled in Italian.

They embraced and Teresa introduced the old man to her nephew and his girlfriend and then they both spoke in Italian. Basic portions of their discussion involved health, family, and the old neighborhood. Although Teresa hadn’t lived there in over thirty years, she regularly visited until just a few years ago. Many old timers of Belmont had passed on. Their kids moved off to places like Staten Island and New Jersey. Mr. Coniglio explained how surprisingly Italian import shops, further down 187th Street, have been replaced by fried chicken places and other things like Dominican Bodegas or Bodegas owned instead by Yemeni merchants, a sight getting more common, particularly up in the Bronx. All this showing the shrinking of Little Italy and the Italian Markets of Belmont within the confines of Fordham with Fordham University not far from it, to practically nothing. Similar to Villa Avenue off of the Grand Concourse.

Giovanni Coniglio said plainly, As soon as the FBI take all the Borgata to jail, oh the neighborhood quickly changed. God damned gentrification! They should be in jail for letting my neighborhood’s traditions, go with all the displacement. Times are not like when Sicilians, Italians, the newcomers settled here. Those who chipped in monies from their own pockets to place the Christopher Columbus statute all the way up Arthur Avenue in front of the park off the Albanian café. Please Teresa, don’t go one block past the church, you’ll see the changes. The only part that’s left is Arthur Avenue and Hughes Avenue. There, you still have the social clubs. No place else really in this neighborhood, anymore. Old Rudy Giomo, he may have moved to New Jersey, but this is still his area, and he comes in six-seven days a week. Old ladies are safe on these two blocks, still like the old days but the immediately surrounding area is not the same anymore.

Well Giovanni, we’re heading back there for dinner at Dominick’s, ciao, replied Teresa.

Arrivederci, replied Giovanni.

The three returned to Dominick’s for a splendid dinner, as Lena also marveled how her boyfriend was awed at his Aunt Teresa. Despite the sadness of seeing her old neighborhood change drastically and not for the better, the three had a great time eating and talking of plans for the future. At that time, Anthony thought of the service, particularly joining the Marine Corps. He wanted his Aunt Teresa’s opinion and she, to the dismay of Lena his girlfriend, who would miss him if he joined the military, agreed that the Marine Corps is wonderful.

Teresa had many brothers and uncles who proudly served their country in different branches of the service and different conflicts, last of which was Vietnam.

Teresa’s main outlook to her nephew was, Honey, get in, get the GI Bill money for college and get out with honor. Don’t pursue anything with the government beyond that. As you know, I don’t trust the damn government. Get the money for education. You’re too smart to be exploited.

Teresa remembered that day over a year ago, up in the Bronx, as if it was yesterday. But she thought, A year ago exactly and that was it seems like it was only last month, God the years are flying by.

As it turned out, nine months ago, Anthony walked into a Marine recruiting office in Long Island City, Queens, right off the Queensboro Bridge. Gung-ho and all his hopes of being a United States Marine, a full-fledged leatherneck, jarhead, were shattered. The Marines, of course were gung-ho for Anthony. This, after filling out the initial brief pedigree for staff Sergeant Rosario, a career Marine who knew the lingo and all. Sergeant Rosario was a Puerto Rican, who grew up in Jersey City. He immediately set up the aptitude test for all military branches called the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery (ASVAB). He picked Anthony up on that date for this, extremely early in morning at 4:05 a.m. at Roebling Street off North 7th Street in North Williamsburg Brooklyn, where Anthony lived with his mother Marie, also a widow. The gung-ho staff Sergeant and Anthony Romenelli jumped right onto the Brooklyn Queens Expressway and in no time, they were at Fort Hamilton. Fort Hamilton is the base in Bay Ridge Brooklyn, where all recruits get processed for possible entry to any branch of the US military. It was quickly apparent to Anthony as to why they pick you up so early, as any hour after 5:30 A.M. and the Expressway begins big traffic tie-ups. Anthony, before the test, met tons of other gung-ho boys and young men at Fort Hamilton. Particularly he met an eighteen-year-old recruit with tattoos all over, and a Metallica T-shirt, who said to Anthony, Shit, dude, I hope the test isn’t too much. I left an underground after-hours punk rock nightclub in Manhattan at 3:00 o’clock this morning. The place was like the old CBGB’s club that used to be in the East Village that years ago my older brother used to go to with his spiked Mohawk hair colored green and his pierced tongue with all kinds of tattoos, one across his chest with the word ‘Anarchy.’ He used to hang out on St. Marks Place between Second and Third Avenues. My father ended up throwing him out of the house. I’m next, so here I am trying to get into the service and the hell out of my house. When I got home to Woodhaven Queens, it was already after 4:00. Shit man, the fucking Navy recruiter was already parked in front of my apartment. I’m still pretty buzzed from a few hours of partying and slam dancing.

Not surprisingly, smart Anthony scored a 93 on the ASVAB and now the Marines really wanted him. Sergeant Rosario’s supervisor personally called Anthony to congratulate him and told him, You can have any job you want, go technical, get into computers.

Yet, Anthony wanted to be a grunt, an infantryman like the poster on the wall at the recruiting station at Queens Plaza, where the Marine holding an M16 with camouflage face paint, a real killer. Immediately they set up the medical unit to entering the military, again at Fort Hamilton at the MEPs, or medical examination proceeding station. Another trip in the dark of early morning of 4:00 a.m. with Sergeant Rosario, who was already counting on his commission, by figuring after the medical, Anthony will be sworn in for active duty any time now. Shockingly and sadly for both, it never materialized. An old shoulder injury from when Anthony played Lacrosse for Christ the King Catholic High School showed up on an x-ray and some doctor rejected Anthony without a chance to apply for a medical waiver and denied him from all branches of the military as well. Anthony’s dream of being a Marine was shot down, like a German Lugar.

Anthony took the news very badly and for weeks kept to himself and vanished some periods for days on binges and finally tried the drug Molly or its known name, Ecstasy at some Rave show out on Long Island. After about five weeks, Anthony came back to his senses at the behest of his mother Marie, his girlfriend Lena, and his Aunt Teresa.

Trust me, honey, it wasn’t meant to be with them. Sending our troops, like sitting ducks to police countries that have been killing each other for centuries. Anthony, you weren’t born at the time to remember Beirut, what happened to all those poor Marines. And for what? And what my brother went through after Vietnam! No, no, honey. God was looking out for you on this one, said Teresa. Today, the same that happened in Afghanistan.

Anthony always appreciated Aunt Teresa’s opinion, even more so than his own mother’s. His mother Marie was his real mother, but he was always under the wing of Aunt Teresa. After a time, Anthony considered Civil Service and was thinking of taking the police test and the firefighter’s test. Aunt Teresa was totally against both. Teresa lectured her nephew, Anthony honey, the damn city of New York doesn’t want you for those jobs. Forget it! You, a soft heart in Brownsville Brooklyn or Crown Heights and they’ll crucify you. If you’re a cop and a fellow cop does anything corrupt and you keep quiet, so as not to rat. Then, once the federal government gets involved and they think or better yet want to think you lied to them and they hit you with one of their felony federal conspiracy or obstruction or whatever charges. Then honey, then, if you’re lucky enough after ten years as a cop, a white cop in the ghetto, having bottles thrown at you, you’ll eventually get transferred to a rich neighborhood. It’s worse over there. All the rich WASP bastards who expect the world from you and threaten to sue you and the city and then what? Honey, with all these facts and all, why do you want to work for the City of New York? Oh, and don’t you think of the MTA or the worst of the worst, of the Goddamn Post Office. Every six months some poor bastard in the Post Office goes postal. Honey, it’s not because they don’t like the new stamps they came out with. That job, the Post Office, is how do you put it, what’s the word? Slops?

Anthony replied, Sucks, Aunt Teresa, the word is, ‘it sucks’ and I get the picture.

Anthony, replied Teresa, Like I keep telling you, you’ve got a mind. Get an education! So as no one can exploit you! Lo and behold, Anthony did some research on two things; where to be a psychology major, something Anthony was always fascinated with and where the tuition wasn’t going to bury him alive. Also, he wanted to stay close to home. He did not want to leave the ‘Big Apple’ and wanted to remain close to his mother Marie, as her health at times, as a diabetic, was trying. With his excellent high school marks, he could have gotten into some great colleges, even Columbia, but he did not want to owe crazy student loans until he was 95 years old. He also didn’t want to start college at a Community College like Kingsborough, the only community college in Brooklyn within the inexpensive City University of New York or commonly known as the ‘CUNY System’. However regardless, it being way down in Sheepshead Bay off the Belt Parkway past Emmons Avenue, was far from his mother’s North Williamsburg home he lived in.

A girlfriend of Lena’s suggested New York University commonly known as ‘NYU’, in Greenwich Village a university that was expanding all over the general area around its main campus with its distinctive white banners with the purple torch. But that institution was the same situation as Columbia expense-wise, so she again had an idea, a school also private with a great psychology program, cheaper in tuition and a few blocks from Washington Square Park and New York University. The idea of hers was an institution called The New School. When Anthony personally visited the campus, he thankfully noticed real hot chicks who were students, but, unusually, not one of them it seemed, returned eye contact or any soul contact at all to him. Yet, he noticed many of the guy students were checking him out. When he first got there and asked one male student directions to one of the school’s wings, the guy was gazing up and down Anthony’s body as he was explaining the route.

When confronted, Lena’s girlfriend smacked her forehead and embarrassingly explained, Anthony, shit, I’m so fucking sorry! I forgot to mention the student body and faculty was ninety percent gay. Its big on the LGBTQ issues. Shit, I’m so sorry. Anthony had no bad feelings regarding them. Anthony certainly wasn’t what is known as a ‘homophobe’. In fact, he marveled at how great the annual Halloween parade in Greenwich Village was, mainly due to their efforts. It’s just that Anthony didn’t want anything to interfere with what he knew would be the normal rigors of starting college. So much for the New School, plus the tuition was still a fortune. No need for an indoctrination along with the education. Anthony applied to get into Brooklyn College in Midwood on Bedford Avenue, also of the City University of New York or CUNY system which had a great psychology program which required a 3.25 grade point average to get into. Brooklyn College being a four-year college where you can graduate with a Bachelor of Science or the Arts was one of the four original colleges within the CUNY system that for so many years and many years ago, only consisted of Brooklyn College, Queens College, Hunter College and the City College of New York or: CCNY, commonly known as the City College. Where CCNY known years ago, as the poor man’s M.I.T; when it was attended by many children of Jewish immigrants and other types. It has outstanding alumni, the likes of the late Colon Powell who was the son of Jamaican immigrants and actor Judd Hirsch who was the son of Jewish immigrants and some Nobel Peace Prize winners. CCNY with its renowned accredited engineering program did not have open admissions until the mid-seventies at the behest of the Harlem community where CCNY or the ‘City College’ was located. The local community felt its Black residences were being shut out of the school. The school, to increase diversity of its student body agreed to ‘open its admission policy’ on the condition that the engineering program and others kept its rigorous standard, which it did. In fact, years ago the head of the prestigious ‘Bell Labs’ out in New Jersey was an electrical engineering graduate from CCNY. The school was and still is known for having students from all parts of the globe, like no other college or university. In fact, eventually a group of researchers mostly from CCNY but also from the Borough of Manhattan Community College also of CUNY with the CUNY office of research invented a technology that could save lives. Their invention was marketed as a smartphone app, providing real-time maps and turn-by-turn navigation, and eliminating the need for the costly sensors and 3D scanners currently on the market. The minds behind this exciting project received training and funding from the National Science Foundation (NSF) and are the beneficiaries of CUNY’s decade-long push to provide academic researchers with the acumen, resources and networks needed to translate their inventions into commercially viable ventures. However, Anthony wanted to be a psyche major to a close to and reputable college which Brooklyn College was the both of. The problem with Brooklyn College was the psychology program was ‘full’ and Anthony applied too late and was told the program may not have an opening until the following year. Anthony didn’t want to wait. As it turned out, Anthony wisely settled on Hunter College, conveniently located on 68th Street and Lexington Avenue. As also part of CUNY or the City University of New York systems, the tuition was do-able. Anthony quickly settled in and got excellent college grades his first year, to the surprise of no one. From his beginning first year, core psychology classes, of which, he found fascinating. He would have numerous insightful discussions with his professors. He would describe certain behavioral characteristics and the professor would clarify many.

Oh, Anthony, that would be a bi-polar disorder. Oh, that personality is a manic-depressive. A person with these traits Anthony, could have symptoms of paranoid, etc. etc.

Incredibly to Anthony, without giving in, the behavioral scenarios he described to the Professor, all were flashbacks to actual scenarios of one human being. That person being, Anthony’s favorite and one and only aunt, Aunt Teresa. Scenes emanating from his aunt exhibiting one type of eccentric behavior after another, up to her many Orwellian thoughts, ideas and conspiracies.

Anthony became acclimated with Manhattan’s east side. Seeing things there he wasn’t accustomed to, after all this was Manhattan, not Brooklyn. Or to be official, this was New York County, not Kings County. Things like seeing dog walkers who were paid to walk anywhere to up to a dozen different pure-bred pedigree dogs at the same time. Seeing a professional dog-walker walking say, a Great Dane, an Irish Setter, Golden Retrievers, a Brittany Spaniel a large Poodle, a Sheepdog an Afghan a Schnauzer and Dachshund, etc.; all at the same time as just an arbitrary example of various breeds walked at once, which was a sight regularly seen in Manhattan. Another common sight were nannies attending to and caring for some professional mother’s young children as the mother is working in the corporate world in say publishing, advertising or as an attorney for a corporate law firm or say, as some kind of ‘Global Marketing Manager’ for one of the world’s premier cosmetics companies, or some other ‘yuppie’ career. This in order to provide the luxury residence the income needed in order to be a ‘Manhattanite’ with all of its ‘status’. In fact, a classy dog led to Anthony for a while, sowing his oats. A very classy forty something year old bombshell with frosted blonde hair with a touch of grey in a fur coat, was walking her classy large poodle in December. While Anthony was petting the dog, they struck up a conversation and that lead to a temporary fling that was hot and heavy and adventurous. The woman’s husband and she were quite wealthy, old Manhattan money. The husband was an investment banker and owned a private equity firm. His father was a real estate tycoon who owned residential buildings in Tudor City in midtown on the east side. The husband also was involved in other things with various titles and went away on business trips many times to Europe and the Caribbean. Mostly Switzerland in particular, where he had Swiss bank accounts and other places like the Cayman Islands, Bermuda and the Virgin Islands. Which, like in Switzerland, he had many shell corporations where he hid much of his money that was not in a living trust for his wife or her expense account. There, in between margaritas at the beach villas and some scuba diving, he would monitor his offshore bank accounts he had there. He knew all the wealth-hiding loopholes such as offshore tax havens, dynasty trusts, anonymous shell corporations and bogus transactions. This, to keep as much away from the Internal Revenue Service as he can. Coming very close to going over the line into tax evading. Yet, it was the City of New York looking at him for unpaid taxes to the city. Him, being very philanthropic, which could be used as a bargaining chip if he ever had to face any music regarding taxes or prosecutions regarding such, as a pillar in the community and with ties to the community. If he got a tip not to come home, he had enough Swiss Francs to keep him warm by the Adriatic. Until then, he kept building up those frequent flyer miles as he was now. This is when his wife, a major socialite, would take Anthony to places he never imagined he’d ever go to, but found it all exciting. Mondays she took him to the Met at Lincoln Center on West 66th Street, to see the opera, where before they went that night, she saw to it that they hit a classy liquor store to get bottles of wine to bring into Lincoln Center for slow drinking during the opera. She knew of a classy liquor store up on First Avenue in the upper 70s, which they would go to first in a Taxicab, where the cab would wait. Then they both returned to the parked idling Taxi, to continue to Lincoln Center. Cutting west on 66th street through the Central Park Travers, through the park and up to the light at Central Park West. After that, continuing west-bound passing Columbus Avenue, then passing Broadway and up to Amsterdam Avenue to Lincoln Center. Before heading in, they would walk around the fountain outside the complex. She made sure to take him shopping on Madison Avenue to purchase the right suits that she paid for, for these occasions and others.

She would also take him to the Museum of Art on Fifth Avenue and 81st Street when certain functions that she got an invite to came about. She also took him to the Guggenheim Museum on Fifth Avenue off 88th Street with its bizarre white spiral type of architecture and she also took him to the Museum of Modern Art or MoMA at 11 West 53rd Street also just off Fifth Avenue as well, always when a ‘function’ came about. Those in her circuit at these places, seeing Anthony for the first time would quietly comment to each other saying things like, I guess she found another one and got tired of the last one she pranced around with. The bowtie and striped vest wearing waiters that serve cocktails and small food items like ‘pigs in a blanket’ or fried clams or shrimps with cocktail sauce and such on a tray, who were also familiar with the socialite/cougar and her routine, also commented by whispering to each other. Things like, She’s running out of room on that belt of hers, to add another notch. Some of the female wait-staff commented to each other, He’s a good one. Pretty handsome. I bet he’s got a big dick. Some female guests commented in the Ladies washroom far from the socialite/cougar. Things like, This one’s got to be huge where it counts. You can tell by that look on her face that this young stud she’s now toying around town with, brings her to multiple orgasms. I’d love it if she invited me to be with them for a threesome while her husband goes away again. I hear she goes both ways. At that the two women laughed. As the one gossiping woman started putting on more lipstick in front of the Ladies Room mirror, she further commented to her female friend who went in with her by saying, I’m getting all wet just thinking about it! The socialite also took Anthony to the 21 Club for dinner, places like that.

Another night when her husband was out of town, the socialite took Anthony to the Italian restaurant phenomenally rated called ‘il Vagabondo’ at 351 East 62nd Street between First and Second Avenues. It was apparent the waiters and staff knew her well and treated her with the utmost courtesy. The restaurant was within walking distance of her luxury building on Sutton Place South where its green canopy, a common sight with luxury buildings, extended from its entrance to the sidewalk, in case of rain. The restaurant ‘il Vagabondo’ made great pasta comparable to that of Aunt Teresa. It was the red wine and the Italian style potato ‘Gnocchi’ that Anthony loved. The ‘Gnocchi’ was spectacular, however none of this would be mentioned to his beloved aunt Teresa so as not to slight her in any way, being she takes immense pride in her cooking. Anthony and this highly attractive classy cougar ordered many wines. The atmosphere and the wine as they held hands and looked into each other’s eyes during small talk, which was very intoxicating. Dinner was finished off with cheesecake and espresso. Then, it was off to her building at 14 Sutton Place South on its west side, heading east on 62nd Street to York Avenue where at that intersection, across the street before the entrance to the FDR Drive northbound, was the 24-hour animal hospital which she knew all too well from having to take her upscale pet poodle there on two separate occasions for veterinary procedures that were very expensive. However, the socialite spared no expense when it came to her beloved dog. Turning right on York Avenue southbound where in the middle of the avenue was a large protruding cylinder or pipe around six or more feet high and close to a foot circumference emitting billows of steam, a semi-common sight on the streets of Manhattan. Past 57th Street, which is two-way, York changes its name to Sutton Place at 59th Street until at 57th where once you pass south of 57th, Sutton Place becomes Sutton Place South. Her domicile on Sutton Place South on its west side between 54th and 55th Streets with its front of the building green canopy with the building’s street number on it, where the door men of Local 32-B/32-J all knew to keep a secret. This, knowing it being one paramount rule for that great Christmas envelope she gives all of them. Upon entering the suite on the 14th floor very intense love making went on. Anthony provided her with what her husband could not, due to his health and erectile dysfunctions.

One outdoor function Anthony had with this ‘socialite’ was a horse carriage ride into Central Park. The affair only lasted for six months, but it was great while it lasted. Apparently, the woman moved on to someone else, or thought better not to continue their affair. What Anthony couldn’t understand, was that she never even let him know why suddenly. We have to stop seeing each other. Maybe she caught wind that her husband hired a private investigator. Anthony sure went to a lot of places and did a lot with her in those six months. Regardless, she now was history. Despite this, Anthony continued to experience the excitement that Manhattan had to offer. He made friends easy, particularly one who graduated from Lincoln High School who was from just north of the Coney Island area on Ocean Parkway right off the Belt Parkway and another who graduated from New Utrecht High School and lived on 72nd Street off 18th Avenue in Bensonhurst.

At Hunter College Anthony enjoyed the experience of commiserating with those students from diverse origins, despite not getting too involved with its various clubs and all. Nights with friends to different areas throughout Manhattan such as Tribeca with a few bars and all on Murray Street and Warren Street where after knocking off a few, they would occasionally hit the Odeon eatery at 145 West Broadway, an upscale diner that’s been a staple in that area from the days when very few people lived in Tribeca but was back then known for its after-hours night clubs like A.M./P.M. and places like that. Anthony and friends from school would on some Friday nights hit the South Street Seaport’s Pier 17 at 89 South Street by the East River also in the lower part of Manhattan as is Tribeca, which is on the western part. At Pier 17 Anthony got ‘introduced’ to ‘Bass Ale’ which he preferred even to import beer, the types of which so many who flocked to the seaport preferred. Was it that they actually liked that type of beer, or was it a status symbol that you drank the likes of say, Amstel Light or Heineken or Becks and of course Coronas, all of which must be in a bottle. Budweiser or say, Rolling Rock or even non-union Coors beer was not the preferred choice, unless that actually is your choice of beer, South Street Seaport and its Pier 17 be damned.

This type of place for ‘social gathering’ was not for the elites or executives in the corporate world, that ‘one percent.’ They, being in a totally different stratosphere wouldn’t be caught dead at Pier 17 at the South Street Seaport ‘mixing it up.’ Those that own Venture Capitalist companies or the owner of a ‘Forbes 500 top corporation or the actual partner of some major international conglomerate law firm, are examples of who would not venture out to the South Street Seaport on any given night. It was not for those who get chauffeured around town and to airports to a waiting private jet and wear cufflinks. The younger white-collar types aren’t actual ‘players.’ They were merely underlings who may hold ‘titles’ and went to elite private colleges with the crippling student loans that came along with that as a further sacrifice. They are not those who do the delegating but are the ones who get delegated to, whether they had a title or no title. For example, an attorney at the Seaport who is not a partner of his or her law firm but is one of the many lowly lawyers who are employed by the firm and would be the one who will spend three sleepless nights in a row preparing a ‘summary judgment’ brief. The partners of the firm are way beyond that. Another example would be the young stockbroker who doesn’t own the firm or has a high position in it or at some investment firm, but is a broker with the license, who spends all day making random sales calls based on leads to prospective buyers of say Pfizer stocks and such. Spending all day on the phone trading stocks and bonds for institutionalized investors. Nor would the owner of some hedge fund, be seen at the South Street seaport as well as some bigshot who deals in commodities on the Commodities Exchange.

The South Street Seaport’s Pier 17 was a festive place with plenty of attractive young office women who worked at the various corporate firms, also having a night out and they always came out in groups or herds. The reason for this was two-fold. One reason to be in a group as females was that instinct of looking out for each other as a nurturing type of thing. And the second reason was that a young woman alone, out and about at the different gathering places and all was considered ‘taboo’. For a guy to do so, that was often done, but a woman alone may give the appearance of being too easy and possibly vulnerable. Going out in groups or packs as females ‘on a mission’ was a type of protection mechanism for all of them and