It was an interesting day on the street. The floating bookshop wasn't open five minutes when a 40ish gentleman approached sans his wife and elementary school age son. He asked my advice as a "man of the world." I could barely keep from laughing. He claimed his wife was abusing him, and rolled up his arms to reveal the scratches he'd suffered. They were fresh and deep. There were some on his face too. He said the abuse used to occur six times a months and is now down to four. He once called the police, but did not press charges, reluctant to break up his family, certain his wife would soon be on the street "pushing a cart." He and his son once spent a night in a shelter to get away from her. He tried city services, to no avail. She refuses to seek help. The only thing I could think of was a semi-regular customer who works in the psychiatric department at Coney Island Hospital. I told the guy I'd run it by Kofi next time I saw him. Of course, I heard only one side of the story. When I first started seeing the couple, I sensed the man was verbally abusive. Since then, they'd seemed a model family. I would never have guessed the woman was abusive. I hope they find peace, especially for the kid's sake.
A while later I was approached by a charming elderly woman who had a heavy Russian accent and spoke very slowly to make herself understood. She was on her way to buy some potatoes, an ingredient for a soup Marlene Dietrich once made for French actor Jean Gabin, who spent a short time in Hollywood, on the theory that the quickest way to a man's heart was through his stomach. Her second language was French and she lamented how much she has forgotten. We traded terms, which I learned from films: Merci beaucoup, J'taime, Je ne sais quoi, sacrebleu. She purchased The Feast of Christmas by Paul Levy, who must have converted. As she was leaving, I said "Au revoir," and she laughed. Merci, Madame, and thanks to the woman of color who bought two spiritual books, the gentleman who bought the Garcia Lorca videotape, and Big Al the beat poet, who bought two other spiritual books, although he believes organized religion is doomed.
Now playing on 57 Chevy Radio: Marvin Gaye's Pride and Joy. I remember the confusion I suffered as a pre-teen when my friend's older brother, a teenager, who claimed to hate blacks, sang along as it played. Life is so fascinating.
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