When the World was
Young
My father owned several bars in Brooklyn. I was in one once that was very spare, just a
bar and few tables.
The major one was on Flatbush Avenue, and it was more of a
club than just merely a bar. It was
quite large, the bar itself was a horseshoe shape. There were booths to one side, and on the
other was open floor and a bandstand, then further over more booths. In the
back was a jukebox. Over in a back
corner was the tiny coat check room.
Behind that was the kitchen, although no real food was ever
served. I suppose it was used for storage.
The stove was a gigantic old, black iron monster that actually scared
me. My father made me a grilled cheese
sandwich on it once, which was wonderful, but I never wanted that thing turned
on again!
Both long walls with the booths were covered from halfway up
and to the ceiling with continuous mirrors.
In the middle portion of the bar, where the shelves of liquor were, the
top portion was also mirrored. In the
light of day it was dark, as the walls, what portions were exposed, were
painted black. But at night it was
transformed and became a sparkling wonderland, like the twinkling of so many
fireflies
.
The basement had the pungent odor of beer kegs, which I used
to “ride” and pretend they were horses.
I think I only went to the bar when I was preschool age, as
I don’t remember going much afterwards.
Either my mother didn’t want to leave me with my older siblings or, the
more likely scenario, they had strong objections. So I was carted around.
That bar, while I sipped on a 7-Up, was where I heard Ray
Charles for the first time. It was
daytime, with wan sunshine coming through the tiny windows, and as I sipped and
watched dust particles dance and float in the pale shaft of sun, there was that unforgettable voice.
At Christmastime my mother decorated this bar. She used scrunched
up aluminum foil to spell out “Merry Christmas” and “Happy New Year” in giant
cursive and taped them to the mirror walls. Pink puffy “trees” behind the bar. There
was also paper garland, which my father tacked up to the rafters while he stood
high up on a ladder. I watched from
below, mouth agape. Then he dropped a
tack. It made a bee line right down my
throat. The next thing down my throat
was my mother’s finger. Suddenly I was
rushed to a hospital or doctor. I
remember the ominous x-ray machine.
Nothing was done. My mother had
to examine my poop until the tack came out, which it did. No damage done. I was not old enough to understand what the
fuss was about.
Sometimes my father’s regular coat check lady wasn’t there,
so my mother would fill in. I loved
being there at night, that was when it was magical
.
There is nothing that compares to live music. It doesn’t matter how far technology has
come, there is still nothing like it.
And the music was so wonderful. I
knew the songs, “I’m Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter,” “Young at
Heart,” “Only You,” “Sincerely.” The
jukebox had Chuck Berry, Sinatra, Patti Page, Ray Charles, Johnny Mathis.
I would be plunked into the back corner most booth near the
coat check room. I would be given
crayons and papers and a soda, and I would sit there quietly and happily.
I looked forward to seeing what everyone would wear,
including my mother. She was a
fashionista in her time and had many beautiful dresses and shoes. She was slim, so everything looked good on
her.
Then there were the patrons. All the young men in suits and
ties. But the ladies! White gloves, heels and belted dresses that
flared out, some with petticoats. Floral
prints, solids, modern designs. Everyone
with hair “just so.” They danced, they talked, they had a couple of drinks. It was like a party.
I probably fell asleep at some point on these evenings. The booths had ample space for a 5 year old
to stretch out and drift off. I never,
for one moment, felt unsafe.
It feels like a dream now.
Although I know that things were not wonderful for a great many people,
the fact is, economically, more people were comfortable then than now. My mother didn’t have a job. We had plenty of clothes, furniture, heat,
food. We used to go to the movies once a
week. FIVE of us. We used to go out to eat. Nothing fancy (well, sometimes) but
nevertheless, dinner out was a fairly regular thing. So much so that this five year old knew how
to behave, mostly because I loved it.
I grew up thinking that was the way things were and would
probably always be. Of course, I
understand that was foolish and naive.
Never did I dream that I would go on to work for 44 years. Never did I dream that the value of the
working dollar would go down rather than up.
Never did I dream that health insurance would be a major, fear inducing,
finance busting decision on an annual basis.
Television was free. Telephones and
their use was nearly free. There was a
standard of living for “regular” people that was dignified and comfortable and
it was the middle class norm.
Most restaurants now are chains. They are noisy, filled with blaring canned
music, multiple TVs that no one can hear, acoustically painful environments
where casual conversation is impossible.
Dress up? Why? Everyone is in jeans and tee shirts. The food, usually, is mediocre, much the same
from place to place, yet overpriced.
Due to age and arthritis, I don’t wear dresses or even low
heels anymore. But I recently had an
event to attend were “dressing” was required.
I chose loose black slacks, a black and white blouse, and a soft, loose
black jacket. I wore the sparkly earrings my daughter bought for me. While there, I noticed that many other older
women were making similar choices.
Still, it felt good to “dress up” and be among others who had done the
same. It felt, somehow, deeply
respectful and appropriate.
Later, my husband and
I went to a quiet little bar. The music
was low, there was one television, on low, behind the bar. We, along with the others there, were in a
tiny booth and conversations were occurring.
It made me recall those nights of my long ago childhood.
I know now that my childhood belief was all illusion and
lies. My family shattered to pieces not
too long afterward. Everything I thought
was real and true was not. It took me
longer to come to the realization that everything I was fed to believe about my
country was also fairy tale and lie, the supremacy of everything American, all
of its goodness and light. All
lies. I understand that now.
Still in all, there was some truth, and that was the quality
of life. It was better then. The “happy days.” We all had enough. Some had more, some had less, but we all had
enough, and that was good.
The extreme economic disparity that now exists is destroying
our society. It is not that there aren’t
solutions, there just isn’t anyone interested in initiating those
solutions. No one should lose everything
because they get sick. People should not
need multiple jobs to survive. We have
made small strides in inclusion and tolerance only to be thwarted once again
into an atmosphere of divisiveness, fear, brutality and unnatural hatred. It seems to me there should be some joy to
this life, not just never ending work and worry. And certainly not daily fear. I know it can be done, I know people can do
better because I remember when they did.
I remember it and it was magical, it sparkled, like so many fireflies.
No comments:
Post a Comment