The monkey’s ass
Friday, February 5th, 2010By Rosalie Tirella
What a dreadful cold spell. What an unlovely sight Wormtown is at tail’s end of winter. What better time - or so I thought, this afternoon - to treat myself to some real comfort food - a cheese omlette, bulkie roll and home fries at my favorite local hang out.
So there I am, on Water Street looking out the restaurant window, hunkering down, trying to avoid all the crap I have to contend with: the dog has cancer, the bills are paid but need more paying, mom has early dementia, guy pal will never get his shit together. Talking with another small biz owner earlier - we both pined for a vacation in sunnier climes. “I haven’t had a vacation in eight years!” he said. All this was weighing down on me … Would spring-time ever return, I wondered, and I looked out the restaurant window and saw ALLEN FLETCHER at the exact opposite side of the street.
He saw me. I saw him. I blanched. He - wearing his ridiculous black beret - gave me a big salute - the kind of salute Adolph Hitler gave his men before … gassing them.
I made a horrible face at him - and immediately lost my appetite.
My old neighborhood, my stomping grounds used to be hallowed ground, for me. Now it’s the Canal Distgrict (or shall we say Cabal District). Now, instead of a cool Jewish ghetto where (in the early part of the 20th century) hawkers lined the Water Street to sell fruits, vegetables, live (!) chickens and other necessities, we have Allen Fletcher in a black beret. Click to continue »
