East Side Stories:Tales of Jewish Life in the Lower East Side of New York in the 1930's Read Online Free
Author: Sidney Weissman
saw the tie, its fabric dappled in many colors. That was what he had seen, a tie colored in similar fashion, not exactly the same, but similar, in Phil Kronfeld’s window of his haberdashery store on Delancey Street, a few blocks from the Bowery, where it was said the gangsters bought their clothing. So it had been priced at $2.95 in the window, so what? the boy asked himself. So they got the money, they can afford it, I can’t. He stared down at the tie in his hand, held it up against his shirt and looked down at it. It was the current style, he wanted it.
The peddler had appeared at his side and was saying, “You like it? Take it. For twenty-five cents it’s a real bargain. It sells for a dollar, at least, in the stores. Go, look. You’ll see.”
“I’ll take it,” the boy said. Reaching into his pocket, firmly grasping the three dimes, he gave them to the man along with the tie. The man folded the tie with an expert flip, placed it in a small bag, gave it to the boy, and digging into his short money apron came up with a nickel and gave it to the boy.
As the boy took the coin, the man said, “Go in good health, boychick.”
The boy nodded. Clutching the bag he turned back towards Delancey Street, weaving and jostling through the crowd. As he passed the pushcart with the bric-a-brac, he glanced at the false teeth lying there. Who bought them? he asked himself. The woman at the corset pushcart was shouting out her wares in a loud voice, a shirt vendor’s shout mixed with hers.
Outside, some of the stores displayed items for sale, some on wooden racks, or display bins, or hung from one inch by two-inch lengths of wood extending from their doorways. A suede jacket slowly billowing in the breeze caught the boy’s eye, but he looked away. It was no use, he couldn’t buy it. Not now. Maybe some day... Some day...
He reached Delancey Street and turned left towards the Williamsburgh Bridge. As he walked, the noise of Orchard Street began to diminish and fade. He went to Essex Street, where there on the corner, the large store open above counter level to the sidewalk, was Levy’s. Fingering the nickel in his pocket he walked to the counter and said to the server behind it, “A hot dog and a root beer.”
The young man behind the counter served him the hot dog flavored with a swipe of mustard and a layer of sauerkraut. The heavy glass stein of root beer appeared. The boy placed his nickel on the counter top, picked up the hot dog and bit into it. As he ate, he looked down the street, the wide middle of Delancey Street running into the Williamsburgh Bridge, the left and right side lanes of the street running down and merging beneath the rise of the structure.
The boy took a long sip of the sweet foamy root beer. Ah-h! He took another bite of the hot dog.
Well, anyway, he thought as he ate, still clutching the small bag with the tie, I didn’t get a shirt, but I got something for the holidays. Not like last year when I got nothing at all.
MARRIAGE
They sat at the tan porcelain-topped table in the kitchen, her mother and father sitting next to each other and she, Claire, across from both of them. The overhead light fixture with its small electric bulb burned dimly. Across from her, past the heads of her parents, Claire could see the window in the kitchen, a wide window that was part of the wall that separated the kitchen from the unlit dining room, its bulky furniture dark shadows in the gloom of the other room. Another window, less wide, at the end of the kitchen looked out into the rear yard of the tenement building, the outside all blackened by night. Behind her, near the kitchen sink was the bathtub standing on its four clawed metal feet, the top of the tub covered with its large removable porcelain lid, black irregular chips showing here and there, especially at its edges. When David, Claire’s younger brother, came home from school that was where he did his homework.
Her father was saying,
The peddler had appeared at his side and was saying, “You like it? Take it. For twenty-five cents it’s a real bargain. It sells for a dollar, at least, in the stores. Go, look. You’ll see.”
“I’ll take it,” the boy said. Reaching into his pocket, firmly grasping the three dimes, he gave them to the man along with the tie. The man folded the tie with an expert flip, placed it in a small bag, gave it to the boy, and digging into his short money apron came up with a nickel and gave it to the boy.
As the boy took the coin, the man said, “Go in good health, boychick.”
The boy nodded. Clutching the bag he turned back towards Delancey Street, weaving and jostling through the crowd. As he passed the pushcart with the bric-a-brac, he glanced at the false teeth lying there. Who bought them? he asked himself. The woman at the corset pushcart was shouting out her wares in a loud voice, a shirt vendor’s shout mixed with hers.
Outside, some of the stores displayed items for sale, some on wooden racks, or display bins, or hung from one inch by two-inch lengths of wood extending from their doorways. A suede jacket slowly billowing in the breeze caught the boy’s eye, but he looked away. It was no use, he couldn’t buy it. Not now. Maybe some day... Some day...
He reached Delancey Street and turned left towards the Williamsburgh Bridge. As he walked, the noise of Orchard Street began to diminish and fade. He went to Essex Street, where there on the corner, the large store open above counter level to the sidewalk, was Levy’s. Fingering the nickel in his pocket he walked to the counter and said to the server behind it, “A hot dog and a root beer.”
The young man behind the counter served him the hot dog flavored with a swipe of mustard and a layer of sauerkraut. The heavy glass stein of root beer appeared. The boy placed his nickel on the counter top, picked up the hot dog and bit into it. As he ate, he looked down the street, the wide middle of Delancey Street running into the Williamsburgh Bridge, the left and right side lanes of the street running down and merging beneath the rise of the structure.
The boy took a long sip of the sweet foamy root beer. Ah-h! He took another bite of the hot dog.
Well, anyway, he thought as he ate, still clutching the small bag with the tie, I didn’t get a shirt, but I got something for the holidays. Not like last year when I got nothing at all.
MARRIAGE
They sat at the tan porcelain-topped table in the kitchen, her mother and father sitting next to each other and she, Claire, across from both of them. The overhead light fixture with its small electric bulb burned dimly. Across from her, past the heads of her parents, Claire could see the window in the kitchen, a wide window that was part of the wall that separated the kitchen from the unlit dining room, its bulky furniture dark shadows in the gloom of the other room. Another window, less wide, at the end of the kitchen looked out into the rear yard of the tenement building, the outside all blackened by night. Behind her, near the kitchen sink was the bathtub standing on its four clawed metal feet, the top of the tub covered with its large removable porcelain lid, black irregular chips showing here and there, especially at its edges. When David, Claire’s younger brother, came home from school that was where he did his homework.
Her father was saying,
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