the arrival of Al Rosenkrantz, Project Supervisor for Precision Management, began to pick up. Sylvia, who busied herself with coffee and wedges of spice cake (her best, with the lemon icing), noted that only one of her co-conspirators was minimizing the danger to their way of life. Predictably, it was Myron Gold. Like Mike, Annie, and herself, Myron was one of the old-timers.
“So what’s the big deal?” he asked, spreading his hands to show his amazement. He’d been raised in the building, then gotten married and divorced, before returning to 2B after his father’s death. His mother, Shirley Gold, recovering from surgery to remove a tumor from her jaw, only left the apartment for biweekly chemotherapy treatments at Physician’s Hospital, a few blocks away. “You remember two years ago we had those people in 3F?” Myron waited patiently for them to recall the unofficial chapter of the Iron Horsemen, a motorcycle gang dedicated to speed, alcohol, and heavy metal. They’d moved in, en masse, with a mousy blond secretary who’d lived in 3F for a year before developing a taste for group sex and Harley Hogs. “All right, so it took a little time. Who can expect speed when you’re dealing with city hall? But, can anyone deny the fact Morris got ’em out of there? These creatures in 1F may not be pleasant to look at, but they’re only a nuisance. Not a cause to make a whole association. I mean some of us are talking about lawyers and housing inspectors. Gimme a break, already.”
“Then what about the superintendent?” Mike Birnbaum stared at Myron Gold with barely disguised contempt. Myron was a “get-along” Jew, an assimilationist. The kind Mike and his old man had always hated. The kind that moved back in with mommy when things got tough. “No super anymore and last night I froze my ass off. Pardon my French.” He nodded to the women. “I’m eighty-one and I gotta carry down my own garbage. Since Morris left, the whole joint is a piece of…” Noting the look of dismay on Andre Almeyda’s face, he pulled himself up just in time.
“What of the other buildings?” Muhammad Assiz, a Pakistani and a Moslem, had only been a resident of the Jackson Arms for ten months. Sylvia didn’t know him very well and she hadn’t invited him. She did want some of the Asians to attend and she’d spoken to an older gentleman in front of the mailboxes. His name was Aftab and, while he couldn’t come himself, he wanted to send a younger man. “As an observer. So we can be seeing what it is before we are signing anything. The management is already after us. You see many empty apartments where formerly we were living and things are very dangerous for us right now. But we will send one young man to observe. Muhammad Assiz, who is very intelligent, a doctor in our country, a technician in yours.”
Sylvia, tuned to the immaculate politeness and the wide smile, didn’t register Aftab’s anger until later, but, angry or not, there were twelve Pakistani families in the Jackson Arms and she’d need all of them if things got worse.
“Why in the other buildings is there nothing happening like this?” Muhammad Assiz, a polite smile gracing his smooth, brown skin, allowed his musical voice to express the very essence of reason. “There are many Pakistanis living in these other buildings and there is no problem there.”
That was the big question, Sylvia thought. And nobody has an answer. Morris owned three buildings. Two of them were running along with no changes. With the same supers, the same tenants, the same basic services. As if Morris Katz was still in charge.
“Exactly right.” Myron Gold seized Muhammad’s idea without registering the suspicions troubling the Pakistani. “There’s no reason to believe that just because a drunken super gets tossed on his butt like he deserves, the Nazis have invaded Jackson Heights.” He let his voice rise on the final phrase, ending his statement with a question mark, then
“So what’s the big deal?” he asked, spreading his hands to show his amazement. He’d been raised in the building, then gotten married and divorced, before returning to 2B after his father’s death. His mother, Shirley Gold, recovering from surgery to remove a tumor from her jaw, only left the apartment for biweekly chemotherapy treatments at Physician’s Hospital, a few blocks away. “You remember two years ago we had those people in 3F?” Myron waited patiently for them to recall the unofficial chapter of the Iron Horsemen, a motorcycle gang dedicated to speed, alcohol, and heavy metal. They’d moved in, en masse, with a mousy blond secretary who’d lived in 3F for a year before developing a taste for group sex and Harley Hogs. “All right, so it took a little time. Who can expect speed when you’re dealing with city hall? But, can anyone deny the fact Morris got ’em out of there? These creatures in 1F may not be pleasant to look at, but they’re only a nuisance. Not a cause to make a whole association. I mean some of us are talking about lawyers and housing inspectors. Gimme a break, already.”
“Then what about the superintendent?” Mike Birnbaum stared at Myron Gold with barely disguised contempt. Myron was a “get-along” Jew, an assimilationist. The kind Mike and his old man had always hated. The kind that moved back in with mommy when things got tough. “No super anymore and last night I froze my ass off. Pardon my French.” He nodded to the women. “I’m eighty-one and I gotta carry down my own garbage. Since Morris left, the whole joint is a piece of…” Noting the look of dismay on Andre Almeyda’s face, he pulled himself up just in time.
“What of the other buildings?” Muhammad Assiz, a Pakistani and a Moslem, had only been a resident of the Jackson Arms for ten months. Sylvia didn’t know him very well and she hadn’t invited him. She did want some of the Asians to attend and she’d spoken to an older gentleman in front of the mailboxes. His name was Aftab and, while he couldn’t come himself, he wanted to send a younger man. “As an observer. So we can be seeing what it is before we are signing anything. The management is already after us. You see many empty apartments where formerly we were living and things are very dangerous for us right now. But we will send one young man to observe. Muhammad Assiz, who is very intelligent, a doctor in our country, a technician in yours.”
Sylvia, tuned to the immaculate politeness and the wide smile, didn’t register Aftab’s anger until later, but, angry or not, there were twelve Pakistani families in the Jackson Arms and she’d need all of them if things got worse.
“Why in the other buildings is there nothing happening like this?” Muhammad Assiz, a polite smile gracing his smooth, brown skin, allowed his musical voice to express the very essence of reason. “There are many Pakistanis living in these other buildings and there is no problem there.”
That was the big question, Sylvia thought. And nobody has an answer. Morris owned three buildings. Two of them were running along with no changes. With the same supers, the same tenants, the same basic services. As if Morris Katz was still in charge.
“Exactly right.” Myron Gold seized Muhammad’s idea without registering the suspicions troubling the Pakistani. “There’s no reason to believe that just because a drunken super gets tossed on his butt like he deserves, the Nazis have invaded Jackson Heights.” He let his voice rise on the final phrase, ending his statement with a question mark, then
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