Mom’s Visit to the Lower East Side
My parents had sent me $50.00 for my twenty-fourth birthday (May 31, 1967) with a note saying that they would be in New York the following September; they had made reservations for a suite at the Plaza Hotel overlooking Central Park. Dad had noted that we would shop for winter clothes. Buying real winter overcoats and other accoutrements was a study of futility in San Francisco. Before going to New York, I had asked at several stores if they carried winter clothing; they assumed that I was going skiing up in the Sierras and showed me parkas and ski equipment.
My parents would stay in New York for a week and then fly up to Boston to visit my father’s family. Instead of staying with his family, my father had made reservations for a suite at the Copley Plaza Hotel in downtown Boston. I was invited to accompany them and I agreed. My mother, a Protestant, and his relatives, Irish Catholics, did not get along and never would; staying at a nice hotel far away from his relatives would relieve much of the incipient trepidation that had accompanied our previous visits.
My mother insisted on seeing my apartment. Some prep work was needed before her visit. Late one afternoon, I took the subway down to the Lower East Side to tidy up my apartment. I had borrowed a vacuum cleaner, dusted, made the bed, and put everything away. Although a bit sparse, the place looked pretty good. But there was the permanent group of six or seven Puerto Rican young men who gathered on the building’s stoop most every evening. They drank beer, watched the girls walking by, and talked sports — they loved the Mets and hated the Yankees. I think one of the guys actually lived in the building. We got along okay; they called me Steve, and I knew most of their names.
After the housekeeping, I went downstairs as the guys began gathering on the stoop. I went to the bodega next door and bought two cases of beer and gave them to Ricky who seemed to be the de facto leader.
Ricky said, “Hey, Steve what’s this for?”
“My parents are visiting me from California. Mom insists on seeing where I live. She and my father will be here tomorrow. Perhaps you could be nice to her. You know, no whistling or those other noises you guys make when an attractive girl walks by.”
Angel, one of the guys, said, “So what does she look like?”
“She’ll be wearing a hat, gloves, high heels and a nice ensemble.” Angel looked confused and needed a better explanation. “You know, like those women in Bronxville and Scarsdale. My father will be in a suit.”
Angel look more confused. Ricky clarified, “Like those rich white women who live in Westchester County, north of the Bronx.” Passing out the beer, Ricky said, “We’ll dress up nice and be real nice. Polite, I mean.”
“Great,” I said. “Enjoy the beer.”
“Hey, Steverino,” Ricky said, “Are your parents rich?”
“They’re doing okay,” I replied.
Ricky downed a beer and said, “Salud. And don’t worry, Steverino; we’ll be just like those guys you went to college with.” All of them laughed. “How about a beer for the road?”
“Why not,” I said as Ricky handed me a cold one.
The next day in the afternoon, Mom, Dad and I took a cab down to the Lower East Side. As we left the nicer part of New York and descended into meaner parts, Mom and Dad looked concerned; Mom said that they had over dressed. They were holding hands as we turned east on Houston Street and were deep into the Lower East Side. I pointed out various things, but they were not paying attention. The cab pulled up in front of my building. Ricky and Angel helped my mother out of the cab, called her Mrs. Jordan, and introduced themselves while my father made a deal with the cab driver to stay where he was so he could drive us back to the Plaza.
Mom asked me, “How do they know my name?”
“I was down here yesterday and told them that you and Dad would be visiting my apartment.”
She turned to Ricky, “Are you in a gang?”
He laughed, “No, not at all, none of us are. After work, six or seven of sit around on the stoop, and watch the girls go by and talk about sports. And if some beer is handy, we drink that. We’re pretty harmless.” He ran up to the building’s entrance and opened the entrance door for us. “Nice meeting you and your husband.”
Mom smiled at Ricky, and we started on the six-floor climb to my apartment. Once inside my apartment, Mom walked to the front room, looked out the window and broke out crying.
