check would help keep up the mortgage payments, but …
That evening, she presented the grim realities of their situation to Barney and Warren.
When she finished her brief report, she looked forlornly at her elder son. Barney understood and, without having to be asked, shouldered the responsibility.
“It’s okay, Mom, I’ll get a job. Seniors finish school at one o’clock, so I can probably find something for afternoons and weekends.”
Estelle looked at him with silent gratitude.
Only then did Warren realize. “What about basketball? You have practice every afternoon.”
“I know, Warren, I know!” Barney exploded. “I’ll just have to quit the goddamn team, won’t I?”
Barney sat staring at the contents of his half-open locker. The sneakers, the shorts, the warm-ups, all the paraphernalia of jockhood that had brought him such joy over the years. He could not bring himself to take the damn stuff out and hand it in.
Suddenly he heard the raucous sound of his former teammates entering the locker room. It was an awkward moment for all of them. Finally, Craig Russo broke the ice. “How’s your dad, Livingston?”
“Not too bad, Craig. Thanks for asking.”
Then it was Sandy Leavitt’s turn. “We’re really gonna miss you.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Then, gauche as ever, Sandy added, “Uh—I guess you’ve heard that—uh—I’m captain now.”
* * *
Barney was surprised to find Laura outside waiting for him.
“Haven’t you got a government to run, or something?” he joked feebly.
“I just thought you might want some company on the way home.”
“Oh.” He paused, then added, “Thanks, Castellano.”
There was no shortage of part-time jobs. That is, if he didn’t mind menial labor for low wages.
Barney opted for one that had at least a semblance of variety—soda jerk and delivery boy at Lowenstein’s Pharmacy on Nostrand Avenue, just a few blocks from home. Each afternoon, when his last class ended, he rushed to work (he was being paid by the hour) and donned a white jacket and silly-looking white hat to serve up egg creams, black-and-white sodas, and—when the challenge presented itself—banana splits to customers he knew as lifelong neighbors.
Every time his mind drifted off to the pleasurable fantasy of throwing baskets through a hoop in a warmly lit gym, he dragged himself back to the reality of having to trudge through the chill Brooklyn streets, delivering prescriptions.
He tried to console himself with the thought that this part of his job might be regarded as education. After all, old man Lowenstein did let him watch while he mixed the various healing potions.
“One thing, Barney,” the druggist would say, smiling, “when you take Pharmacology in medical school, you’re a shoo-in for an A.”
The pharmacy was officially open until seven-thirty and it was usually after eight by the time Barney got home. His mother always had dinner waiting and, while Warren was upstairs studying, she would keep Barney company. It was her own way of showing him how grateful she was for all he was sacrificing.
For reasons Barney all-too-painfully understood, her conversation seemed like a perpetual series of reminiscences.
“He always had so much pep,” she remarked nostalgically.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that.”
“We were always the last couple on the dance floor. I was positively worn out. But then, when he got home, he’d sometimes go to his study and read some Latin author till breakfast time. You can see why he was the most popular teacher in the school.”
Barney placed a hand upon his mother’s. “Don’t upsetyourself, Ma. Who cares if he has to use a cane now? At least we can still
talk
to him.”
She nodded. “You’re right. We should be very grateful.” And then she whispered affectionately, “You’re a good boy, Barney.”
Night after night she would repeat the same cathartic monologue almost verbatim.
Then came the most difficult part of
That evening, she presented the grim realities of their situation to Barney and Warren.
When she finished her brief report, she looked forlornly at her elder son. Barney understood and, without having to be asked, shouldered the responsibility.
“It’s okay, Mom, I’ll get a job. Seniors finish school at one o’clock, so I can probably find something for afternoons and weekends.”
Estelle looked at him with silent gratitude.
Only then did Warren realize. “What about basketball? You have practice every afternoon.”
“I know, Warren, I know!” Barney exploded. “I’ll just have to quit the goddamn team, won’t I?”
Barney sat staring at the contents of his half-open locker. The sneakers, the shorts, the warm-ups, all the paraphernalia of jockhood that had brought him such joy over the years. He could not bring himself to take the damn stuff out and hand it in.
Suddenly he heard the raucous sound of his former teammates entering the locker room. It was an awkward moment for all of them. Finally, Craig Russo broke the ice. “How’s your dad, Livingston?”
“Not too bad, Craig. Thanks for asking.”
Then it was Sandy Leavitt’s turn. “We’re really gonna miss you.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Then, gauche as ever, Sandy added, “Uh—I guess you’ve heard that—uh—I’m captain now.”
* * *
Barney was surprised to find Laura outside waiting for him.
“Haven’t you got a government to run, or something?” he joked feebly.
“I just thought you might want some company on the way home.”
“Oh.” He paused, then added, “Thanks, Castellano.”
There was no shortage of part-time jobs. That is, if he didn’t mind menial labor for low wages.
Barney opted for one that had at least a semblance of variety—soda jerk and delivery boy at Lowenstein’s Pharmacy on Nostrand Avenue, just a few blocks from home. Each afternoon, when his last class ended, he rushed to work (he was being paid by the hour) and donned a white jacket and silly-looking white hat to serve up egg creams, black-and-white sodas, and—when the challenge presented itself—banana splits to customers he knew as lifelong neighbors.
Every time his mind drifted off to the pleasurable fantasy of throwing baskets through a hoop in a warmly lit gym, he dragged himself back to the reality of having to trudge through the chill Brooklyn streets, delivering prescriptions.
He tried to console himself with the thought that this part of his job might be regarded as education. After all, old man Lowenstein did let him watch while he mixed the various healing potions.
“One thing, Barney,” the druggist would say, smiling, “when you take Pharmacology in medical school, you’re a shoo-in for an A.”
The pharmacy was officially open until seven-thirty and it was usually after eight by the time Barney got home. His mother always had dinner waiting and, while Warren was upstairs studying, she would keep Barney company. It was her own way of showing him how grateful she was for all he was sacrificing.
For reasons Barney all-too-painfully understood, her conversation seemed like a perpetual series of reminiscences.
“He always had so much pep,” she remarked nostalgically.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that.”
“We were always the last couple on the dance floor. I was positively worn out. But then, when he got home, he’d sometimes go to his study and read some Latin author till breakfast time. You can see why he was the most popular teacher in the school.”
Barney placed a hand upon his mother’s. “Don’t upsetyourself, Ma. Who cares if he has to use a cane now? At least we can still
talk
to him.”
She nodded. “You’re right. We should be very grateful.” And then she whispered affectionately, “You’re a good boy, Barney.”
Night after night she would repeat the same cathartic monologue almost verbatim.
Then came the most difficult part of
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