Read Online A Matter of Love in da Bronx by Paul Argentini - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Paul Argentini
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hopeless dreams! How about one for the cucumberhead! Brrrraaaacccchhhhtttt! A native-born cheer. We speak Bronx.
Rap! Rap! Bam! That would be Lou Harness. Somewhat early. Clearly in a hurry. He brought a warmth to Sam's chest. A good friend. An only friend. Better than a brother. He rushed to respond to his call, to greet him; to welcome his illumination. --Ayyyy! Effusively, waving him in.
Smiling face, horn rimmed glasses, black hair, oval face, man's nose, cleanshaven, spumy salesman's personality. --Ayyyy! Yourself! He made no move to enter the shop, instead effectively signaling his intention by putting the attache case which held a six-pack of Moosehead and a square of Permanent Ice considered as much a part of him as his name on the doorsill. --Ayyyyy! Cumbah! You don't mind I cancel for the movie tonight? No, huh? I got a real Mamma Mia waiting, and I'm late. You don't mind, huh? Sam shrugging his shoulders feigning acceptance of a difficult disappointment. --You want a Moosehead, yuh? No? 'Kay. Catch you tomorrow? Yuh? 'Kay. Give you a blow by blow tomorrow, you know what I mean? Ayyy! See ya.
Sam smiled, waved him off. --See ya. he said after the door closed.
He thought hard but briefly on his situation. Shrugged.
Struggled into his raincoat.
Sam left the shop, ignoring the light rain, going past the deli without a sideward glance, going for the broad expanse at Eden Farms. There, he'd head for the Palace Art Film, tops eighty seats, which was a low profile, no marquee, no gaudy advertising, no glarish lights theatre. Almost hidden as a doubleglass doors storefront. One small handprinted bill:
Â
NOW PLAYING
Fourex
Secret Desire
Â
Sometimes they changed the name on the billhead outside, showed the same movie inside. No one complained.
The show and intrafrication was continuous. One left when tired of sitting, or jerking off. There was such a sameness to the films that one was hardpressed to remember, or care, where they came in.
Sam paid for his ticket, shoved the bills he got in change into his pocket, passed up the popcorn and candy--for the very first time ever--and moved quickly to see if his regular seat was available. From the dim light of the screen now supposedly lit up in erotic color he found his way to the aisle seat of the very last row on the far side. There were perhaps thirty-five people, no two seated together, scattered widely throughout the narrow, long showplace. What if Sol hadn't alerted him, and he walked out of here with his fly open!
Before concentrating on the screen, he took notice of the solitary occupant at the end of his very same row, hunkered down, almost trying to be invisible. Like him.
CHAPTER 2
--MARY! MARY DOLOROSSO! Mary! A roaring voice over the
machine-gun clattering cacophony that rose and fell from the forty-odd high-speed, short-bursted piece-worked sewing machines. Brrrrrttttttt! Brrrrrrttttttttt! Brrrrrrrrrttttttttttttt! each discyclically went at the sweatshop Star Manufacturing Clothing Company on the fifth floor in the 200-block of West 37th Street in Manhattan's garment district.
Mary looked up from her machine, brown eyes glimmering from cressets refocusing.
--Boss-wants-to-see-you!
--What?
--Boss! He jerked his thumb.
--Another rub-off? Stout, long, well-formed, neatly manicured fingers cupping unpainted edematousoid lips.
The messenger, exasperated, defeated by the distance and the noise level, was reduced to mime and mouthing. Head shake. Af-ter-wo-rk!
Mary nodded. Afraid of that. Shoulder length auburn hair captured neatly in a bandanna trimmed a clear-stretched silk-smooth skin with light Italian olive complexion. Teeth. Even. White-white. Eyes. Brown. Big-big. A slightly broad nose well suited her pleasant, cheruby heartshaped face which came from highly pronounced cheekbones and the hint of a cleft in the point of her chin giving a miniature prevue of the bosomy cleavage above her work smock. Her frame stood under five-foot-five in
Rap! Rap! Bam! That would be Lou Harness. Somewhat early. Clearly in a hurry. He brought a warmth to Sam's chest. A good friend. An only friend. Better than a brother. He rushed to respond to his call, to greet him; to welcome his illumination. --Ayyyy! Effusively, waving him in.
Smiling face, horn rimmed glasses, black hair, oval face, man's nose, cleanshaven, spumy salesman's personality. --Ayyyy! Yourself! He made no move to enter the shop, instead effectively signaling his intention by putting the attache case which held a six-pack of Moosehead and a square of Permanent Ice considered as much a part of him as his name on the doorsill. --Ayyyyy! Cumbah! You don't mind I cancel for the movie tonight? No, huh? I got a real Mamma Mia waiting, and I'm late. You don't mind, huh? Sam shrugging his shoulders feigning acceptance of a difficult disappointment. --You want a Moosehead, yuh? No? 'Kay. Catch you tomorrow? Yuh? 'Kay. Give you a blow by blow tomorrow, you know what I mean? Ayyy! See ya.
Sam smiled, waved him off. --See ya. he said after the door closed.
He thought hard but briefly on his situation. Shrugged.
Struggled into his raincoat.
Sam left the shop, ignoring the light rain, going past the deli without a sideward glance, going for the broad expanse at Eden Farms. There, he'd head for the Palace Art Film, tops eighty seats, which was a low profile, no marquee, no gaudy advertising, no glarish lights theatre. Almost hidden as a doubleglass doors storefront. One small handprinted bill:
Â
NOW PLAYING
Fourex
Secret Desire
Â
Sometimes they changed the name on the billhead outside, showed the same movie inside. No one complained.
The show and intrafrication was continuous. One left when tired of sitting, or jerking off. There was such a sameness to the films that one was hardpressed to remember, or care, where they came in.
Sam paid for his ticket, shoved the bills he got in change into his pocket, passed up the popcorn and candy--for the very first time ever--and moved quickly to see if his regular seat was available. From the dim light of the screen now supposedly lit up in erotic color he found his way to the aisle seat of the very last row on the far side. There were perhaps thirty-five people, no two seated together, scattered widely throughout the narrow, long showplace. What if Sol hadn't alerted him, and he walked out of here with his fly open!
Before concentrating on the screen, he took notice of the solitary occupant at the end of his very same row, hunkered down, almost trying to be invisible. Like him.
CHAPTER 2
--MARY! MARY DOLOROSSO! Mary! A roaring voice over the
machine-gun clattering cacophony that rose and fell from the forty-odd high-speed, short-bursted piece-worked sewing machines. Brrrrrttttttt! Brrrrrrttttttttt! Brrrrrrrrrttttttttttttt! each discyclically went at the sweatshop Star Manufacturing Clothing Company on the fifth floor in the 200-block of West 37th Street in Manhattan's garment district.
Mary looked up from her machine, brown eyes glimmering from cressets refocusing.
--Boss-wants-to-see-you!
--What?
--Boss! He jerked his thumb.
--Another rub-off? Stout, long, well-formed, neatly manicured fingers cupping unpainted edematousoid lips.
The messenger, exasperated, defeated by the distance and the noise level, was reduced to mime and mouthing. Head shake. Af-ter-wo-rk!
Mary nodded. Afraid of that. Shoulder length auburn hair captured neatly in a bandanna trimmed a clear-stretched silk-smooth skin with light Italian olive complexion. Teeth. Even. White-white. Eyes. Brown. Big-big. A slightly broad nose well suited her pleasant, cheruby heartshaped face which came from highly pronounced cheekbones and the hint of a cleft in the point of her chin giving a miniature prevue of the bosomy cleavage above her work smock. Her frame stood under five-foot-five in
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