The Romero Strain (37 page)

“Are you singing?” he asked, talking through his radio.

“Sorry, I didn’t know my comm was on.”

“I didn’t know you sang? That was pretty good,” David complimented. “Sounded like Elton John?”

“Thanks. It was.
Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters
. My favorite song about New York.”

I slowed the vehicle down as we crossed 13
th
Street.

“You a musician?” he asked when Kermit’s voice came over the radio.

“Why are you slowing down? Is there a problem?” Kermit asked, brusquely.

He had been a little grumpy since he had only instant coffee to drink. But my side trip was not motivated to please the grouch; it was more for my needs.

“Negative,” I responded. “No problem, just a quick stop. Tell Sam I’ll need his bolt cutters. J.D., out.”

I stopped in front of the Open Pantry. It was my favorite place to purchase coffee. After retrieving Sam’s bolt cutters, I walked in front of the East Village Thrift Shop, which was the adjacent building front. I swore I saw Victor Walker inside behind the checkout counter, but it was only my wishful imagination. Victor, like all the other shop managers I knew, were gone.

After cutting the lock off and rolling up the gate, I punched the glass out of the store entry door with the tool’s cutting jaws and unlocked the door from the inside. Behind the checkout counter, to the right and up, were the different brand chocolate bars. I took all of the Black & Green’s milk chocolate bars, and even ones that were a different brand. I also grabbed a few cans of ground coffee. No one asked what I was doing, for it was obvious I was looting the shop.

There had been no time to mourn those we had lost. No time to be concerned with what tomorrow would bring. We had been in a fight for our survival, a struggle in which bonds of friendship and trust were born. Once we had found sanctuary in our underground hideaway, we had gone into denial mode. We had not and could not see the true extent of the world’s demise from our bunker, nor did we want to think about all we had known, all we had taken for granted, and those we loved and even hated were gone. But as the months passed at the GCC little snippets of realization emerged. Then as we were forced to find a new home we were confronted with reality. As I drove through the East Village, the harsh truth began to awaken those feelings and memories I had tried to suppress. The sadness that washed over me began to suffocate me. This was not the time or place for me to grieve. There would be plenty of time for that in private, in a sanctuary I found in the darkness and the relative silence of the armory’s roof.

I answered David as we proceeded on our way. “Once, to answer your question.”

“You never told us that,” David replied. “What instrument?”

“That’s cuz it never came up in a conversation,” I simply replied, not fully answering his question.

He questioned me again. “What instrument?”

“Piano. But that was long ago.”

“What’s up with that?”

“I started when I was six and stopped when I was somewhere around twenty-two.”

I hadn’t driven very far when I came to the Stage Restaurant near the corner of 8
th
, not to be confused with the Stage Deli. I stopped our vehicle once again.

“You classically trained?”

“I was taught to play classically, but I taught myself jazz, rock and Broadway show tunes. I didn’t just want to be a classical pianist. I wanted to be a composer like Jim Steinman, James Pankow, and Paul Williams. I wanted to sing like Harry Connick, Jr. and Joe Jackson, and be able to play like Oscar Peterson and Elton John.”

“Why’d ya quit?” he further questioned me.

“After an open mike at a piano bar in the West Village
,
some jackass came up to me and said, ‘Dude, that was awesome. It reminded me of Jack Black and Leo Sayer with hemorrhoids.’ Then he slapped me on the shoulder to compliment his snide remark.”

“What did you say to him?”

“I answered with an elbow to his forehead and knocked him out. That was the last time I ever played.”

“
Really?
”

“Yeah. I had a bit of a temper back then.”

“You don’t say.”

I was sure by his tone he was grinning.

“That’s a very endearing story,” Kermit announced over the radio with a slightly snarky attitude. “Now how about we keep the channel clear?”

I responded with, “That freeze dried java not cutting it, Kermit. Well, I picked you up a gift, so play nice.”

* * *

I have had both my music and singing insulted many times and it had never bothered me. People have the right to express their opinions, good or bad. I wasn’t trying to be a rock star or even a professional musician, so negativity never bothered me because that I never thought of myself as talented. In contrast, though, I have also had my playing and singing complimented, which was odd to me since I felt I was just mediocre. I played because I had to; it was in me like a painter’s need to paint or a poet’s need to write verse. It was just something I had to do. But on that day, for some unexplained reason, I lost it. And in truth, I had not chosen not to perform at the club again; I was banned, even from patronizing it.

However, what I had imparted to David wasn’t entirely the whole story. The truth was I had not publicly performed since that incident, but I hadn’t given up playing or singing. I just did it at home. Strange how at first I found it so painful to be forced to take piano lessons. Classical music was grating to me and I had repeatedly begged my parents to stop torturing me by forcing me to take them, until I discovered the band Chicago. Well,
discovered
was not quite the word. I had heard of Chicago and I had occasionally heard a song or two of theirs on the radio. It wasn’t until after I read an article on James Pankow, which was sometime into my fourth year of piano-abuse, about what inspired him to write the song, “Colour My World,” which brought about a profound appreciation for the classical genre.

“Colour My World” was the 5
th
movement of “Ballet For A Girl In Buchannon”, a thirteen-minute song cycle/suite from Chicago’s 1970 album
Chicago II
. The group’s trombone player James Pankow composed it. He got the inspiration to write the ballet from his love of long classical music song cycles. That’s when I changed my mind about learning classical music; it was also the first rock song I learned, being an extremely easy piece to play since it was written for piano.

One positive note that came from that night in the West Village, it was later the same evening that I went to another club to see a band called The Tiger Lillies, a London-based three-piece gypsy cabaret group. The band was known for singing songs of bestiality, prostitution and blasphemy. It wasn’t the offensive lyrics that got my attention. It was Martyn Jacques, the main vocalist, who played the accordion in ways I had never heard it. Two days later I bought the same model he played, an investment well worth the money spent.

* * *

I got out of the vehicle and Max followed. As soon as I did, Kermit’s voice came over the radio again. “More reminiscing or you lookin’ to make yourself an omelet?” he jokingly questioned.

“No, Salisbury steak with buttered noodles and cut green beans,” I retorted. Yeah, I was being a smart-ass, as usual—but he set himself up for it. “Just give me a moment, please.”

The Stage Restaurant serves Eastern European food, mainly polish. Well, it did. Many mornings and evenings I sat by myself in the back of the restaurant, usually at the end seat, which had more counter space to the left since there was not another seat next to it and was in direct view of the large stainless steel wet chemical fire extinguisher. That was because it was also the flip up counter entrance/exit to get to and from the kitchen from the back of the restaurant. Most people didn’t care for this seat, not because of the counter top, but rather due the lack of a footrest for your left foot. The stool was slightly to the right of the hinged moveable counter top and the footrest below stopped where the seam above began. To compensate for the lack of foot support, Roman had placed an institutional size can of Chef’s Quality cut green beans to use as a footrest.

The restaurant was small; it only had sixteen counter seats. The eating area was narrow, much like the food preparation/dispensing area. Two people could not pass simultaneously without squeezing by one another, especially when Chester was involved.

Chester was an enigma. He was also the morning cook. He was a large man, and when I say large I mean round. Chester always wore blue jeans, a white apron over a white collared shirt and rubber surgical gloves—for health code reasons—and a paper hat with a blue stripe adorning the top, which covered his thinning and graying sandy-blonde hair. Chester barely spoke, except when I would wish him a good day as I departed, and when he did it was soft-spoken, humble. In the entire time I had patronized Stage I never had any conversation with him, except once when I ordered a double cheeseburger, which was not on the menu. He questioned me on how I wanted it, with three pieces of bread, dividing the meat, or the two burgers stacked atop one another. I choose double-stacked with raw onion, cooked medium. From that day forward when I ordered a double, Chester knew exactly how I wanted it. I truly miss his cooking.

There was Agnieszka, Agnes she called herself, the shapely blonde-haired, hazel-eyed morning waitress with her hair in a ponytail who always had a smile to offer and a kind greeting to give. She always asked how I was doing and how Max was. She was very fond of Max, and I often ran into her on Second Avenue on my days off. We would stop and chat for a moment, mainly to give her time to give Max attention. I knew Agnes the best, even though I hardly knew her at all. Her family still lived in Poland and she had a younger sister who wanted to come to New York to stay with her. Agnes told me that her sister could never save up enough money and that she was not going to send her any. Agnes was actually glad she told me—on several occasions—that her sister could not visit, though she loved her sister dearly she also loved living alone and being able to be at home designing jewelry without interruption. Designing necklaces was Agnes’ hobby and side business, and her designs were quite beautiful.

Roman was the owner, a cheerful man, tall in stature with dark hair and moustache. He was outgoing and liked to know as much as he could about his customers. Roman always greeted his customers when they came in, whether it was when they walked in the door or after they sat down, and he always thanked them as they departed. He was the kind of man who believed the customer was important, and went that extra step to make them feel welcome. He also made it a point to know everyone’s name that frequented his establishment. He called me by my name the third time I came into his eatery.

Then there was Andrei. Andrei was the evening cook and the comic relief of the restaurant. He used to joke that Chester was ex-KGB and that he had been trained to listen but never speak. Andrei came to New York in 1991 after he completed a two-year stint in the Russian Army. A year ago he had to go home for six months when his mother became ill, but I never did find out where home was for him.

The last one to round out the staff was Robert. Robert and I had a special friendship, and it had to do with macaroni and cheese, one of the specials on Friday’s menu. Robert always saved me a big plate. Though I had a set meal break when on duty, it often was delayed because of a call. But Robert always made sure it was waiting for me no matter at what time I showed up, and for this I made sure he was always tipped above twenty percent.

I thought about how little I really knew any of them, even though I had patronized the restaurant at least three times a week for as many years as I had been on my own. I wished I had really talked to them, and truly got to know them, instead passing the usual pleasantries or making mention of what was in the news or how my job was going.

Max, whining and pulling at my pant leg, brought me out of my last thought. He looked up at me beseechingly. At first I didn’t understand. He let out a bark and ran to the edge of the sidewalk, then back to me. Another look and bark came, and then back to the street as to say,
come on, time to cross.
It only took me a minute to decipher his actions. Max wanted his treats from Phil.

“Max wants treats?” I asked him.

He barked an affirmation.

“Home is where the Greenies are. Right, Max?”

He gave me another approving bark.

“Okay, Max. But
ruhig, ruhig.”

Max and I got back into the Humvee and I radioed to the others that I needed to make one more stop before we made it to our mystery destination. It was to Whiskers.

Whiskers had been the store where I bought Max’s food. It sold holistic pet products, but above all it was where the Greenies were. Whiskers was a quick block behind us on 9
th
Street on the west side of Second Avenue near the corner. It was owned by Phil and Randy Klein.

I didn’t know much about Randy. I mainly saw her behind the desk in the office as I passed by the always-open doorway. Phil was the face of Whiskers. He was the kind of guy you took an instant liking to, the cool uncle you wish you had. Phil was a Vietnam vet who had found his calling after the war, not in Silicon Valley like many had, but in computerized document production long before people were doing it at home or running to Kinko’s.