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Vito and his Girls By Tim Boisvert Five short items written in New York and New Jersey around New Year's of 2005. Vito and his Girls The party train leaves from Princeton on Wednesday at noon, and arrives at Penn Station an hour and twelve minutes later. We board it early, hoping to get seats before they are gone. The doors close and the chatter begins. North Brunswick flies by as I hear Vito behind me brag about his newfound humility. "I'm a humble guy." Monica next to him calls him on it. "I really am!" I'm eavesdropping against my wishes. My travel companion is next to me reading a book, and I'm reading Marquez. But in between "The Leaf Storm" and "No One Writes To The Colonel," I find myself caught up in the reality rolling out behind me, Vito and his tales of mittens and Dr. Dolittle. "And did you know," he says to the girls, "that right back here there's a hoagie shop that'll make you any kind of hoagie that you want?" The language is colorful and the accent pure, and now we're crossing a river. And I'm missing it all, the Marquez and the scenery, because I'm caught up in the true stories of the young man sitting behind me and his two lady-friends, all of us rocking the way to Penn Station. (Train from Princeton to Penn Station, 12/30/2004, 1:00 PM) The Manhattan Escalator Conspiracy of New Year's Eve, 2004 On the morning of New Year's Eve of 2004, a Friday, select landlords and business owners of the borough of Manhattan gathered in a candid and secluded room under Madison Square Garden, and there set forth the annual New Year's Day Escalator Operational Plan. Officials of the various escalator maintenance outfits were not invited to the meeting -- this action had to be performed without their knowledge and the accompanying ability to prepare for such a situation. The plan was simple: as the clock wound down in the early hours of January 1st, and the partygoers had trickled in at a slowing pace, small bands of middle-grade electricians would be dispatched throughout the city to locations previously screened and selected, and there they would commence to disrupt the circuitry in the main computer units of the escalators. They would work under the caution of night, stepping quietly and moving softly so as to not alert the security guards of their presence. I feel that I must re-emphasize that this action was executed under the authorization of the highest of the business and residential elite of the island, but that word of the plan was deliberately withheld from their subordinates. Only the involved electricians, as previously mentioned, were given about their work, and even then they were only told about their particular job. The escalators disfunctional, the citygoers asleep, and the plan's architects waiting humbly, the sun rose in New York City. First the garbagemen arrived on the street, but they never left the roadways. Newspaper vendors alike steered clear of the buildings. The hour of 10 AM struck before a broken escalator was reported. Repairmen were dispatched. Another came in, and a second repair vehicle was sent. At roughly 12 PM, the mass of New Yorkers, immigrants, and holiday-makers woke up to a sunny and calm morning. They dressed for the day and headed for the park, or the electronics store, or just a cup of coffee. And then the madness rolled forth as planned. Hundreds of escalators lay still and quiet throughout the greater part of the island of Manhattan. Tempers flared, coffee was spilled, shots were fired. A typical day in New York, you might say, but with one small exception: with the escalators broken, thousands were given the opportunity to walk off their hangovers, a fete which went largely unnoticed by the press, otherwise occupied by international violence and tales of Hollywood divinity. And so, for the benevolent group of forward-thinkers, this committee, this think tank, who planned for the relief of the masses after the greatest night of the year, the only reward was found in the bloodshot eyes of the formerly drunk as they went about their business on New Year's Day. (Central Park, 1/1/2005, 3:10 PM) New York Deli Turkey on white, lettuce, tomato... $4.75 Roast beef on white, lettuce, tomato... $4.75 Tuna salad on white, lettuce, tomato... $4.50 Egg salad on white, lettuce, tomato... $4.00 Pastrami on rye... $5.25 All sandwiches come with pickle. Cheese: $.75 I'm getting the turkey. On white. No, on wheat. No, I'll do white. Or maybe I'll get the egg salad. I love egg salad. I haven't had egg salad in years. I used to love egg salad. I should get the egg salad. Wait, the pastrami looks good, too. But not on rye. I don't like it on rye. I don't like rye. I wonder if they'll do it for me on white. No, I don't want my pastrami on white. It's only okay. It's not that good. What did Donny get here? He told me he really liked something here. What was it? Was it the egg salad? Maybe I should get the egg salad. I hope they don't put mustard in it. I don't like it with mustard. Well, a little bit of mustard. I wonder if they put mustard in it. I should ask to see if they put mustard in it. I could just get the tuna salad. I don't feel like tuna salad. I should just take a chance on the egg salad. I bet it doesn't have mustard. I should ask, though. Where's the guy? I don't see anyone at the counter. Oh, that eclair looks good. I should get one of those, too. I don't need it, though. I'm getting fat. I should stay away from eclairs. I'm gonna get the eclair. To hell with it. I want the eclair. So, I'll get an eclair and the egg salad. On wheat or white, though? Wheat, maybe? No, white. Egg salad on white. And an eclair. (1/2/2005, late evening) Midnight at the Parkside Diner My stepbrother Glenn and I sat in a booth at the Parkside Diner in Trenton, New Jersey, just a few nights ago. I had a chicken parmesan sandwich with fries and a chocolate milkshake. And, of course, a pickle. No meal along the Northeast Corridor is complete, it seems, without a wedge of pickle. Sitting at a diner isn't usually a monumental fete, nor an occurence worthy of writing, but our waitress's name was Doris, and she called me "honey," and she was witty. And so, on my first experience in an east coast diner, in a moment that I swear I've seen in a thousand Hollywood movies before, I found myself chilled in the spine at the thought of being in such a special place at that exact moment of my life. I looked at my surroundings and breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that I was exactly where I wanted to be. To my left was the window, and attached was a miniature jukebox-styled song selector, the kind that has pages that you can flip through. The page wouldn't turn, though -- when I turned the dial, the page smacked against the window of the box. So we were given a limited selection of songs by Dolly Parton, Styx, and a few other outdated acts. And yes, I looked for The Boss on the pages, but to no avail. I have no doubt that there was a disproportionate number of Bruce Springsteen songs in that jukebox, but they must have been on the other pages, the ones we couldn't see. Doris called me honey again, and I noticed that she was a smoker when she wasn't serving us. We were the only people eating in the diner, so she'd sit in another booth twenty feet away and take drag after drag and then check up on us again. And there were other people in the diner, but they were just sitting at the counter behind me and to the right, chatting smalltalk with the owner. We ate and talked about how good the food was, and about how great it was to be sitting in a diner in the middle of the night in New Jersey. While the city slept around us, we had life in the diner, the Parkside Diner. With Doris and milkshakes. I rediscovered the secret of life there, I think. Be happy and eat well. Travel and see the world. Have a good time while the good times last. I was having fun the way I wanted to, and nothing could take that moment away from me. It was mine. And 20 minutes later I found out that my grandpa was dead. (Delta Airlines, flight 551, 1/2/2005, somewhere over Virginia) Buddy Charnock Killed A Man During The War On the evening of March 16, 1944, on an island somewhere in New Guinea, Private First Class Harley Benjamin "Buddy" Charnock, Jr., of the Fourth Signal Corps of the United States Army, sat down in the latrine to take care of some business. He read a comic book while he went, Captain America, given to him by another soldier at the radar station. Between pages he looked up, surveilling the growing darkness in the trees. The latrine was at the back of the camp, near the makeshift barracks, pressed against the endless jungle. After he finished his book, he sat there still and quiet, hoping for a bit more personal time. He relished the moments when he could be alone, far from the ruckus of the other soldiers. This was a radar station, after all, hundreds of miles from combat and relatively free of stress. It more closely resembled a college dormitory than a military installation, with the exception of the uniforms and the food. And so, Buddy sat there, staring at the trees. He focused on a point about 50 feet away and looked for any derivation or change. He might see a bird or a snake, he thought. But what saw instead was a uniformed Japanese soldier stepping silently toward the camp. He was alone, it appeared, and he carried only a rifle, which he held in front of him at waist level. Buddy watched him, but the Japanese soldier didn't notice him back. The latrine was concealed and quiet -- the Japanese soldier was moving toward the camp at an angle that would take him right past the latrine. Buddy leaned back slowly and pulled his knife out of the sheath attached to his belt. It was a big knife, a Bowie knife, the standard issue. Up until that point it had only been used to cut twigs and boxes. He looked at it, hoping to find his reflection, but it was dull and worn. The Japanese soldier continued on his course, unaware of Buddy's presence. As he passed the latrine, Buddy leaped out at him and stabbed him in his side. The rifle fell to the ground first. Buddy didn't stay to watch the Japanese solder die. He ran a few yards and screamed for help. After a few moments the camp medics showed up and looked the injured Japanese soldier over, but he was already dead. The knife pierced his heart and he died a quick and relatively painless death. Buddy Charnock is a hero, for those who step up to protect their countrymen are blessed with the most courageous of gifts. (Delta Airlines, flight 551, 1/2/2005, somewhere over Georgia) Back to Tim's Short Stories |