Slice of Life

I heard the guy before I even opened the door.

It was Saturday night, bitter cold here in Brooklyn and I was starving.

I had gone shopping at my local supermarket and now I just wanted to pick up something for dinner and go the hell home.

I decided to pick up an order of spaghetti and meatballs at Rocky’s & Nicky’s Pizzeria on Colonial Road.

It’s not fine dining and I don’t have it often since I’m watching my cholesterol, but it’s just the right thing for a cold winter night.

The hideous arctic blast was so nasty that my aunt had called earlier in the day from Los Angeles to see how I was doing.

I let her know in no uncertain terms that I was trapped in my house and miserable as hell.

“It’s like Covid all over again,” she said.

I guess I was feeling particularly masochistic because I asked my aunt what the weather was like in L.A.

“Well…a young woman walked by a little while ago and she was wearing shorts,” she said.

I had to ask.

Worse yet, I called my friend Jeannie in Nebraska on Saturday afternoon to see how she was doing and learned that it was 60 freaking degrees in the Cornhusker State. Are you kidding me?

Oh, come on…

So, I was rather grumpy by the time I went to get some takeout.

I could see two men inside the pizzeria, one guy sitting down to eat a slice, while a very tall and rather battered-looking fellow was standing nearby and speaking at the top of his voice—or at least that’s how it sounded to me.

Cops, Gangsters, and Ironworkers

I was not in the mood for this loudmouth.

All day long I hear people talking into their phones or blasting music on car radios or roaring motorcycle engines, why should I have to listen to this windbag as well?

I was seconds away from ditching Rocky & Nicky’s and go to the neighboring deli for a monstrous hero sandwich.

But there was something about this guy. It seemed like he had put in a lot of miles over the years and was looking for an audience.

I decided to put my comfort needs aside and walked right into the delicious heat.

It turned out the tall fellow and the other guy were both from Park Slope and they were talking about the old neighborhood. I pretended to look at my phone and listened.

Park Slope is extremely expensive now, but it was a pretty rough patch of ground back when I was growing up.

The two men talked about people they had known and various restaurants and saloons that are no longer around.

“Back then, you either cop, a gangster or an ironworker,” the tall man said.

I suspect this fellow had spent time on construction sites in his youth, which would explain why he was speaking so loudly.

“We used to fight all the time back then.” The tall guy held up his hand to display his mangled index finger. “We got into gang fight with some Puerto Ricans, and I got hit with a baseball bat”

I love hearing stories about days gone by and this fellow was a walking history book. I’m only sorry that I didn’t try to get in on the conversation.

I picked up my order and headed for the door. I was glad that I had aside put my craving for comfort for a good cause.

Now it was time for dinner.