Exhausted from his week of teaching, which included three class coverages from absent Curtis teachers, Tom planned on stopping at Kaffman’s bar at the corner of Morningstar Road and Walker Street for a couple beers. He was not a fan of teachers using their union-mandated personal days to do Christmas shopping. There was plenty of time on the weekend to go Christmas shopping. Besides, Tom didn’t have anyone to buy a present for, except his mom and his sister, Cara. Of course, he would have to get Amon something. The man did so much and got little but aggravation in return.
At the last minute, Tom felt a vague sense of anxiety. The idea of sitting in a hazy, sour-sweet–smelling saloon did not appeal to the skinny science teacher. So he went home and had some potato chips and soda—his usual unhealthy early-afternoon snack. Lately, his breakfast was equally unhealthy, consisting of a slice of apple pie, downed with a cup of instant coffee. Sitting on the faded red living room couch, he started to drift into a light sleep, dreaming about his high school sweetheart, Joanie. The skinny teacher’s dream was interrupted by the jarring ring of the telephone.
“Tom, we got to talk to that lawyer friend of yours. I got a letter from the city telling me to vacate my tugboat. They’re condemning all the boats in the harbor for some kind of project.”
Tom said he’d call Stan Mislicki, the amiable lawyer whose office was directly above his family’s bakery on Morningstar Road. As luck would have it, Stan said he was hanging around his office, finishing up some paperwork. If Tom could get there with his friend in a half hour, he’d wait for them.
Amon showed Stan the notice that was posted on his tugboat. There were identical notices posted on the rotting docks, crumbling buildings, rusty ships, and corroded hulks, which had remained dormant for years. The studious young attorney read the document carefully while Tom and Amon exchanged worried looks. Amon felt helpless before the weight of municipal government–welding power, which could change the course of his life and the lives of people who depended on him.
The lawyer asked Amon if he lived alone on the tugboat, and the latter replied that his girlfriend, Mary, lived with him.
“No children?” the congenial lawyer asked with a straight face.
Blushing, the charismatic young man said no. Tom was startled to see his usually unflappable friend’s face turn red. Doubtlessly, there was a powerful bond between Amon and Mary.
“Are there any children living in the residential house on Simonson Avenue?”
Amon started to shake his head, and then his face brightened. “There’s this woman who talked about moving into the Simonson Avenue house, but we have no vacancies.” Turning to Tom, he said, “You know who I’m talking about—Evette. She has a little boy who goes to PS 44.”
“Is there room for her and the boy on your boat?” Stan inquired.
“We’ll make room for her. There’s a cabin we use for storage in the bow,” Amon replied.
“Well, things might get kind of cramped in your boat,” Stan offered.
“Evette is very accommodating. She likes to help out. I came to her aid when she was struck by a car in Port Richmond,” Amon commented.
“He saved her life or at least prevented her leg from being amputated,” Tom interjected, to Amon’s distress and the lawyer’s amazement.
“That might work. The city does not want to put families on the street. Of course, the builder won’t be happy. But most judges can be convinced to issue an injunction where children are involved.”
“Well, that’s settled. I knew you could do it, Stan,” Tom chimed in.
“These builders have money and influence. So nothing’s settled. They’ll come back in six months and apply for a building permit again, after they’ve greased the skids a bit.”
Amon shook his head in disgust, and Tom patted him on the back. “We’re buying some time, but as Yogi Berra says, ‘it ain’t over till it’s over.’”
Amon asked Stan for a bill. “This is the second time you’ve helped me, and I want to pay you for your time.”
Holding up his hands, the young attorney said he was working pro bono.
As the two young men started to leave the office, Stan said that he had read in the Advocate that Joey Caprino was pitching again on the local men’s baseball team.
Tom was surprised because he thought his old friend had given up on baseball entirely for “the good life as a Wall Street stockbroker.”
“He still works on Wall Street, but on weekends he pitches for the Staten Island Seagulls. There was a story about him in the paper—he’s developed a knuckleball that’s just about unhittable.”
“Good for him. It’s nice to hear about an Elm Park kid making good,” Tom said.
Joey had been the first kid he made friends with when he and Cara had moved to Staten Island years ago. The stocky youngster used to spend hours playing stoopball, throwing a Spalding against his front porch steps and catching the carom endlessly. Less talented than the hard-throwing Mike Palermo, Joey had had the gift of perseverance and baseball smarts. He also had an uncanny ability to do arithmetic computations in his head, especially the batting averages of his favorite team – the old Brooklyn Dodgers.