Mazie’s Diary, April 25, 1921
A teacup overturned, the stain of leaves on the kitchen table. Rosie seemed excited when I got home. A visit from the gypsies. Rosie’s probably trying to secure Jeanie’s fate. Like a good life’s something that can be paid for. Like our future’s up for purchase.
Mazie’s Diary, May 1, 1921
Sister Tee found Al Flicker in an alley today, down off Bayard Street. Beat up bad. She wasn’t looking for him. She doesn’t look to help the men. But she couldn’t step over his body, couldn’t just leave him there bleeding. I saw her walking him along on Park Row, his arm around her neck, her bending from the weight. I ran from my cage. I hollered that I knew him, and she stopped. I know him, I know him. Screaming like a loon. We walked him into the theater. Rudy grew pale from the blood. Rudy’s useless sometimes. I told him to get some towels. We sat Al on the balcony stairs. There was a cut under his eye that was gushing, and his nose was off center, mushed up, and bloody. His long legs and arms were bunched up, still in fear, and I remembered him crammed into his bed beneath the stairs, surrounded by his books. I asked him who had done it and he said it was the police. Told me it wasn’t a crime to speak or think or be aware of the world.
He said: I didn’t bomb anything.
We pressed a towel against his wounds, and it soaked through, and then we pressed another and another, until finally he stopped bleeding. I sent one of the ushers to find his sister, and she came and took him away. I think she might have even said thank you, words I never thought I’d hear from that woman’s mouth. Slighted me since childhood. We’re all the same when our loved ones are injured though.
George Flicker
This is when my mother called me back, when Al started getting in trouble. I didn’t want to come. In France the girls found me charming and they were free with their bodies in a way American girls would never be with me. In New York City I knew I’d be just another schmo from the Lower East Side. I had the same nose as everyone else and eventually people would forget I’d served my time; they’d forget that they were supposed to respect me. In France I was an exotic Jewish American soldier, an enemy and a savior at the same time, and I swung my cock like a champion.
I’m one hundred years old, and every morning I get up and read the paper and have coffee and a roll and then I take a walk through the garden here and then I come home and lie down in bed and I often spend the rest of the morning thinking about my time in France, which was one of the best times of my life. But my mother sounded scared in her letters, and there was one phone call in particular that rattled me. She cried the entire time. This was a woman who never cried, a tougher human you’ll never meet, so when she cried, it meant something. All the French pussy in the world couldn’t compete with my mother’s tears.
Mazie’s Diary, May 15, 1921
I always know Ethan’s around before I even see him. Laughter and flowers, Ethan’s around. There were the lilies, drooping in a vase in the kitchen, smelling faintly of piss, like a dog had gotten too friendly with them. Then there’s Jeanie laughing over nothing, just to have a good time with him.
They were dancing in the living room. I stood and watched them, Louis and Rosie, too. Two left feet, Ethan has. Suppose that’s why he fell in love with a dancer, admiring that which is not his. He nearly dropped her when he dipped her and we all gasped.
She said: It’s all right. It doesn’t matter really.
He said: I’ll take lessons.
She said: You’re sweet.
He said: Sweet on you.
She said: You don’t need to take lessons.
He said: Do you think I’m getting better?
She said: You couldn’t get any worse.
He stepped on her foot and she yelped. He was all apologies. Rosie nearly went to her. Those precious legs.
She said: It’s fine, I promise.
He said: Truly it doesn’t matter?
She said: Truly.
I think we were all watching her to see if she was telling the truth.
Mazie’s Diary, May 31, 1921
Al Flicker got beat again last night, and it was bad. I heard it from Rudy who heard it from one of the ushers who heard it from a friend on the force who was there while it was happening.
I saw Mack in the afternoon, walking his beat. I yelled at him that I wanted to talk about Al. At first he ignored me, but people started looking at us and he couldn’t dodge it. Lousy coward is what he is. He sauntered over to the cage, dragged his nightstick slowly across the bars. He didn’t scare me. He’d never scare me.
He said: How about you show some respect?
I said: How about you and your thug friends respect the people in your neighborhood? And not pummel innocent men for no reason.
He said: I wasn’t there and I don’t know what you’re talking about anyway.
I said: He’s not a criminal.
He said: Mind your own, Mazie.
He doesn’t understand a goddamn thing though. These streets are my business.
George Flicker
Al kept getting beat up, and we were pretty certain he had developed some kind of brain damage. Al started calling them “Bad luck nights.” Poor guy would come home early in the morning, blood on his clothes and on his face, wobbling and dizzy. Half the time he’d tip over into the furniture. And then — always with a smile on his face — he’d say, “Had another bad luck night!” I don’t know why he didn’t just stay home but we couldn’t stop him for nothing. He thought it was his right to walk the streets when he pleased. Which it was.
A few times I tried to talk to him about it and he shook me off. Finally my mother insisted I corner him, and so we took a walk to Washington Square Park where he liked to play chess on occasion. I said, “Al, we’re all so worried.” Then he very carefully explained to me that because of the color of his skin he was much better off than many people in this country, and if he had to take a little bit of beating he could survive it. Because in the morning he would wake up free to walk the streets again. He could sit where he wanted to sit, eat where he wanted to eat. He was free. He said, “None of it bothers me because I always remember it could be worse.” Which was a beautiful notion in a way, but at the same time, something an impaired man would say too.
But then another time I asked him about it and he said, “George, I’m making a point.” And I said, “What point?” And he said, “If you have to ask, you don’t get it.” And he waved his arms around at nothing. Now this was nonsense of course. Just tell me the point already. I want to know the damn point. It was hard not to write him off as damaged goods. My best guess is he was somewhere in the middle.
Mazie’s Diary, June 4, 1921
Louis drove me to work today. No reason why. We just missed each other, our time alone together. We didn’t even discuss it. He was up early and so was I and away we went.
He said: So what do you think about Ethan?
I said: I like him just fine.
He said: He’s asked for Jeanie’s hand in marriage.
I said: Quite the surprise.
He shifted a little bit in the seat, squeezed the wheel with his giant hands. His voice dipping down deeper than usual. A little bead of sweat emerged from his fedora.
He said: I’m not her father. She can do what she likes. But what do you think? He’s good to her, yes?
I said: If she loves him too, she should marry the poor guy. It’s obvious he’s smitten for eternity.
He said: He’ll provide for her.
I said: Yes! Oh, Louis, she means the world to him. He’s got a good job. He’s not going anywhere.