To everything there is a season.
It is the birthplace of baseball, Frank Sinatra, and
Maxwell House Coffee (the stink of stale brew
setting the town’s square-mile boundary).
Hoboken is where my daddy was born
and my uncles grew up
and my grandfather played poker after hours
after his waiter day was done
until the boys came and got him
in the back room over the bar
in the morning
and my grandmother cooked
in the luncheonette.
Seemed like she was always cooking
mashed potatoes, mushroom gravy
turkey, corned beef, ham...
She cooked everything.
Seemed like day and night.
Seemed like the best food ever.
Still seems that way.
Still seems like nothing will taste that good again
It was the town of many childhood Sundays
in Grandpa Max’s arms
a bright pink rash
tattooing the freckled baby skin
on my arm
evidence of the pickle barrel brine.
Susie the cat outside guarding the door
moving her two black whiskers
to sniff the day
watching me walk next door
for some chicklets
and a comic book for me
and a pack of cigarettes for my father.
Andy saying, “Look, how big you got
Betsilla, look.
Oy, shayna maydel.
Here wanna kiss?
Take a kiss.
and take one of these to your
beautiful mother.”
And me running back down First Street
“Grandma look,
Andy gave me candies!
and one for Mommy too!”
When I worked Off-Broadway
at the Roundabout
on 23rd Street
in the city
just across the river
I lived in Tante Hannah’s apartment
at Sixth and Bloomfield
while she wintered in Miami.
Washington Street felt just like little-girl home.
Safe. Easy.
Short walk past Maxwell’s and the
Clam Broth House to PATH.
So, I decided this was where I would stay.
So, on Erev Pesach I went to see an apartment
right there on Washington and Second.
And Dad said that yeah he knew the landlord.
“He went to school with Uncle Morris.
He’d know Morris. Morris was
tops in his class. Very popular
and this guy would
know Benny, you know
Ben Musto. (Dad’s best friend
from Hoboken) They went to the same
church.
I met the landlord’s son on the stoop.
“I’ve got two apartments. Let’s
look at the one on the second floor first
and the one on the third floor second.
The tenant’s still in the first one, but she’s
gonna move to a new one on the fourth
floor.” He said as we climbed the stairs.
When we got there, she was there.
The tenant. A woman about my age.
Hair and eyes the same as mine
But, having children too young
made her look much older,
at least, that’s what I was
thinking while we were talking
and I was thinking, wow, she’ll
be a great neighbor. I’ll keep sugar
on hand just so she can borrow a cup
and I’ll ask her what’s the best place to
shop, and maybe her kids will come over
and play with the cat, and ...
“What are you?” she said.
What do you mean?
“Where do you come from”
I’m from here. I’m from Jersey. I’m from
Woodbridge, near Edison.
“What are you?”
Eastern European.
“What are you?”
Russian, Lithuanian, Austrian, and
one of my grandparents was born in
Natchez, Mississippi...
I was babbling. I was blocking it out.
I was hoping it was a different question.
I was going to say writer, lighting technician.
“What are you?
Are you Jewish?”
Yes.
“Get her out of here!” she screamed.
“I don’t want her in the same room as
my children. Get her out of here.
No Jews around my children. My
children.”
And, without saying anything
like he didn’t hear it
like nothing happened
like it was invisible to him
without saying anything about it
not sorry she’s crazy
not anything, the landlord’s
son just said, “C’mon, let me show you
the one on the third floor.”
And she was screaming up the stairs.
“Get that Jew out of here.”
While he was showing me the kitchen.
“Get that Jew out of here.”
While he was showing me the bathroom.
“Get that Jew out of here.”
While he was showing me the triple bay windows.
“Get that Jew out of here.”
Without a response, I left when the tour
was over saying I would let him know.
I left shaking. I called my mother. Told
her the story. Wished them good
Yom Tov.
A few months later, late September
just after Rosh Hashanah on my way back
from the city about two in the morning
I was walking down Washington Street
and saw a big fire.
There were all these
fire engines and
police cars
And a woman about my age with the same
hair and eyes was standing there crying
with her three little kids.
And the next morning, there was
no more building there.
I passed a synagogue
on the way to work.
I’d walked this way many times
but never noticed it before
just like I never noticed how many
of the people at the Roundabout were
Jewish and how many of my friends
weren’t.
A sign reminded the congregation
of the time. Days of Awe.
Day of Atonement.
L’Shanah Tovah, I thought.