Richie was more forgiving. They had made the move to a diamond exchange on 47th Street. No more Italian subs, but the pastrami sandwich from the Bergers Deli was built for two. Richie and I shared one.
“So what are you going to do?” Richie positioned napkins on his lap and chest to avoid any greases dripping onto his Armani suit. He had bought it ‘hot’ from Frankie Fingers, the street’s haberdasher.
“Work in a club, I guess.” Fifteen publishers had rejected my stories.
“Any ideas?”
“None at all.” I stalled getting a job for several months, while I rewrote my short stories. The amount of typos was astounding, almost as if my fingers suffering from dyslexia.
The New Year brought an eviction notice. I didn’t panic. My landlord couldn’t take me to court for another three months. The refrigerator went empty and the heating was augmented by the gas range, as I typed away at my kitchen table, imagining fame and fortune would save me two minutes after I wrote THE END, then the springs of my typewriter broke with a off-note twang.
I walked to the repair shop through a snowstorm. The man at the counter said fixing the Olivetti portable would cost $50. My “I popped both my knees skiing. I’ll be off my legs for six months. You working?”
“No.” I could see what was coming and realized THE END would have to wait until summer.
“I need someone to schlep around goods.”
“Goods?” I knew ‘schlep’ meant to carry.
“Diamonds, jewelry to repair, money. Someone I can trust. Manny, what you think?”
“Why not?” Manny glanced up from a small pile of iridescent stones. “As long as you show up on time and don’t break my balls, you’ll do fine. $100 a day.”
“Cash?” I hadn’t paid taxes in ten years.
“I’m not the IRS.” Manny dropped a necklace into a small manila envelope and wrote an address. “Take this to the setter. Have him call me, then come back here fast. I got more for you to do.”
“Okay.” I had become a worker in less than a minute.
“Don’t lose anything.”
“Sure.” I stuffed the envelope inside my damp jacket. “What time is lunch?”
“Hasn’t been working for more than a minute and already worried about lunch. I’ll order you a sandwich for when you get back.” Manny resumed sorting the diamonds.
“Thanks,” Richie said from his desk.
“Thank you.” I would be able to pay off my back rent within the month.
“Can you two stop the love story and let the goy get going?” Manny sighed with annoyance.
“You know, Manny, I know nothing about diamonds.”
“Whatever."
There would be much more than one or two, because I had survived day one as a goyim on 47th Street and my life wasn’t going anywhere fast. At least not in 1990.
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