the old neighborhood

Upon leaving the attorney’s office, I returned to my room at the Y which I shared with three other travelers. Initially, I had planned to return to my home city on the early morning train (D. having insisted we meet at daybreak which was when his office hours typically began). 

But I had decided to stay, visit the delicatessen and perhaps move into my uncle’s rooms that same afternoon, “home” being an anomaly or at any rate easily transportable, even from city to city.

Certainly, I wouldn’t miss my former quarters, which were cramped, filthy, and noisy. I was also in arrears with my rent. Moreover, I had left nothing behind of consequence, everything I needed—passport, photo ID, bank book, a few meager clothes—already in my possession. 

The day lay before me and with it new possibilities. I even felt grateful to D. for our early meeting, ensuring me a head-start on the day.

At the Y, my roommates were still asleep in their bunks. Fortunately, I had a lower bunk and therefore easy access to my footlocker and baggage. After taking a hot shower in the facilities down the hall, I returned to finish packing.

I settled my bill at the concierge’s desk—and why not, D. having provided me with an advance on my stipend—and obtained a map and directions. Outside, I waited for the bus.

Now mid-morning, the first wave of commuters—business executives, office workers, shopkeepers—had subsided, replaced by maids, janitors, nurses, au pairs.

It was dark outside, rain clouds scuttling low in the sky, the streets steeped in fog and mist. I closed my eyes, rested my head against the window, my great uncle’s delicatessen and the old neighborhood still miles away.

I recalled him as a young man behind the counter at the meat slicer, his arms thick and veiny, joking with clientele as he cut, always to their exact specifications, thick, thin, lean, marbled.

Though there were stories, obviously apocryphal. The apprentice counterman rushed to the hospital whose severed thumbs were reattached to the wrong hands. Missing fingertips, bruised and cut flesh, human and animal blood intermingling. A first aid kit kept always close by . . . .

Artwork: from Chirologia, or the Naturall Language of the Hand (1644). John Bulwer (1606–1656), an English doctor and philosopher, attempted to record the vocabulary contained in hand gestures and bodily motions. Courtesy, Public Domain Review.

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