Distinctions

Nine of us were seated at an oval table in Sidewinders when Bobby Flynn walked in. He seemed tired,
depressed, as if he'd had a losing day. Then again, he expended so much energy trading that perhaps he
hadn't any left. Perhaps he'd made money after all.
The last available seat was between Deemo and Phil. Bobby frowned. "I can't believe I'm breakin' bread
with a scum like you," he said, giving Phil, who smirked, a sidelong glance.
I'd never been sure if Bobby's insults of Phil were rancorous or jocular, as he spoke crudely to everyone,
even in jest. Suddenly it was clear - he hated Phil. Why, I'd no idea. Having worked with Phil for four years, I'd grown fond of him. Many brokers teased him good-naturedly, dubbing him "Wayne Newton" because of a hairstyle that featured a fluffy section combed forward and upward to cover a thinning front. Of average height, he'd recently gained a lot of weight, the result of an eating binge engendered by the breakup of a two-year marriage and separation from an infant daughter. His cheeks were bloated and his shirt was stretched about his mid-section so that his flesh was visible through the separation of the fabric being pulled apart at the buttonholes.
"You're liable to pop a button and blind somebody if you eat too much tonight," I teased.
The others laughed as he flushed.
"I gotta go on a diet," he said, rubbing his gut. Where's Chris, by the way?"
I sensed he felt outnumbered, as he and I were the only Italian-Americans present.
"On vacation," said Deemo, a gangling blond barely out of his teens.
It was five PM. The place was vacant except for our party. We'd been placed in a nook apart from the
main dining area. I suspected management anticipated trouble. Perhaps they knew of the rowdiness of
commodities employees. Perhaps the others had been here previously.
A plump blonde took our orders, smiling, enduring the innuendo leveled at her. Soon the appetizers came forth: baked and steamed clams, three type of shrimp, rice, french fried sweet potato sticks. We feasted, hands darting at various dishes. Bobby and I sipped wine. The others drank beer. I was surprised. I'd thought Bobby of little refinement. Perhaps it was merely the demands of trading that made him seem so. The commodities game elicited a wide range of behavior, much of it harsh. His present state was a stark contrast to his working posture. Then again, perhaps a preference for wine had nothing to so with refinement.
"Put out that cigarette," Bobby told Phil. "It's disgusting. You're the only one here smokin'."
"I'm exercisin' my constitutional right," Phil retorted, waving the cigarette. "I have my rights as a citizen. This's a free country. I'll blow smoke in your face if I want."
The others laughed. Soon they were baiting him, eager to hear his renowned views on politics, race,
women and the Yankees. In his view Yankee fans were "real Americans," Met fans were "liberals, pinkos,
gays, Jews and blacks." He fancied himself a right-winger, although he argued for universal health care and was pro-union. It was often difficult to tell if he were joking or serious. I doubted, were he to be endowed with absolute power, that he would put his beliefs into practice. If I'd thought otherwise, I would have never befriended him. His prejudices, like those of most people, were under control. On more than one occasion he'd told me: "I know it's wrong, but I can't help it. That's the way I feel. I'm a sick bastard. Why'm I like that?"
"You're a product of your environment," I told him.
He seemed skeptical of this. I sensed he wanted to be told his views were original, correct, sanctioned by God. He took pride in his "sickness," in the role of eccentric. He had to avoid saying anything about Jews this night, as Kenny, a young options broker who was teased about a head shaped like a light bulb, was Jewish. So was Phil's wife, for that matter. Or at least she was half Jewish, her father having been Italian-American. I hadn't been able to suppress a laugh when he first told me he was engaged to a Jew. In fact, he chuckled himself. It was no longer funny, as a child was involved, one who would suffer her parents' separation. Before the marriage had soured, I would tease him that, according
to Jewish law, the child's faith was the same as its mother's. He would force a smile through a reddened
face.
"I knew it was too good to be true," he'd told me. "Everything was so perfect. I shoulda known better. No relationship of mine ever went that good. I never had the luck. I thought this was finally it. Now I'm right back where I started. 'That's what ya get for marryin' one,’ my father told me."
He was 34. The marriage was doomed the day of the baptism. No one in his wife's family attended. He
blamed his mother-in-law. He claimed his wife had agreed beforehand that their children would be Catholic. No pre-nuptial agreement had been signed. "She knew I was a fanatic about it. I'd've never married her if she'd said no. 'I don't want my kids to be the product of a broken home,' I told her. I don't know what made 'er change 'er mind. Her mother - that's what. 'Why'd you marry a sick guy like me?' I said to 'er."
Arriving home one day, his wife and child were gone. In their place was a note explaining the
circumstances, of which he said he'd had no inkling. "It hit me like a ton of bricks," he said. I suspected he knew it'd been coming.
He was to vacate his apartment within a month. His mind had been elsewhere for some time. I listened
sympathetically, keeping his travail confidential, growing uneasy whenever someone happened to ask about his child, which necessitated his lying. He was asked to bring in snapshots. "I don't even have that," he told me, disconsolate.
I was not surprised by the split. I did not believe religion the sole cause of it, however. His wife was a
college graduate. Phil had barely made it through high school, his wild days. Recently his wife had persuaded him to take a real estate course, which, to his own surprise, he'd passed. He did not pursue the vocation, as it involved long hours and high pressure. He'd often related his awe of his in-laws' knowledge
and drive. He seemed to feel inferior to them. He was not as ambitious as they. He wanted to live
comfortably without having to work hard. He spoke of being taken under the wing of a broker and reaping
the windfall. He wanted that broker to be me and was frustrated by what he deemed a waste of my education and intelligence.
Curiously, in an age of escalating divorce rates, Phil's was the first close view I'd had of it. Anti-Semitic
remarks poured from him. I did not argue. He needed to vent his spleen, and I was happy to serve as a firing board. "I can talk to you," he told me. "I can't talk to nobody else at work." In our basketball pool he used a symbol rather than a name, a C enclosed in a circle, signifying Christian supremacy.
He was under financial duress and was forced to move in with his parents, a circumstance that
compounded his woe and diminished his self esteem. His bank account, held jointly with his wife, had been frozen. He hoped to come away with half of it, which would allow him to meet legal expenses. He'd had to borrow from his father to retain counsel. His dream of buying a house had been quashed. He'd decided to fight for maximum visitation privilege. I'd heard that divorce favored women, at least financially, and it appeared to be so in this case as well, although I realized I was hearing only one side of the story. His lawyer had cautioned him about getting his hopes too high. He suggested a psychiatric evaluation, proving Phil's fitness as a parent.
"Don't tell the shrink the crazy things you tell us here," I warned, only half-jokingly.
He rolled his eyes heavenward. "That's all I need. I'd never see my daughter again."
His mother-in-law would not allow him to speak to his wife. She acted as intermediary, which incensed
Phil. His father shouted threats in the background whenever Phil spoke to her on the phone, and went so far as to suggest a kidnapping. Phil dubbed him: "...nuts, worse than me," although he claimed he would indeed kidnap the child had he fifty grand to begin anew elsewhere.
I wondered how I would handle such a situation. I saw myself submitting without a struggle, avoiding a
bitter custody battle that would scar everyone, especially the child. I believed a child's place was with its
mother. I kept this to myself. It wasn't what Phil wanted to hear.
I had a clear image of his father in my mind, although I'd never met him. I was certain he was like the
fathers of my childhood friends - a no-nonsense, lower middle class laborer. He gave Phil a bit of advice one night: "Listen, I want you to go out, forget about everything, pick up a broad, and get laid - but don't tell ya mother I told ya to." We had a great laugh over it, drawing stares from others in the subway car in which we were riding.
It was a month before he was allowed to see his daughter. In a preliminary hearing he'd been granted a few hours each Sunday. He waited in the car, as ordered by the court, as the child was passed to his sister. Just months old, the infant didn't know him. I felt hollowness as he related this. It seemed so unfair, especially to the child, who was as yet innocent of ethnic prejudice. For weeks I'd been considering approaching a Jewish woman at work. I was now more reluctant than ever. I wasn't sure I'd allow my children to be raised as Jews, although I was not religious. I feared, should I agree that they would follow their mother, that I would go back on my word, and I considered my word bond. I hadn't been circumcised and I wouldn't allow my sons to be circumcised without their consent. Was a college degree, intelligence, reason, of any use in such a matter? Dare I think it wouldn't happen to me because I was more educated and more tolerant than Phil?
"Have you tried talking to your wife?" I said. "Maybe you can still work it out."
"I can't get near her," he replied, frustrated. "That bitch won't let me. I know my wife still loves me. She
don't really want this, I know she don't."
I wasn't sure if this were the truth or the clinging of a battered ego to a fading hope. One thing told me it might have been true: his mother-in-law had lost her husband at an early age. I wondered if there were an a subliminal urge within her for revenge against her unhappy fate, an urge she herself didn't understand. I kept this to myself, as it was guess-work and, perhaps, nonsense. I'd never met the woman. It was just as likely the conflict was entirely religious or cultural. It did seem curious, however, that the daughter had married in the fashion of the mother. Perhaps it was too Freudian to be valid.
The waitress cleared the table and brought pitchers of fresh beer. We sat back quietly, digesting the
appetizers.
"How much money would it take to get you to leave?" said Bobby quietly to Phil, elbows on the
table, hands folded before his chin.
"At least fifty," Phil calmly returned, caressing a pilsner glass that was half full.
Bobby dug into his wallet. "Here's twenty," he said, dropping the bill onto the table.
Others contributed. Joey Flynn, a broker like his brother, added $20. Paul, another young options
broker, added $10, as did Kenny. Deemo, John, and Elmer, all clerks, chipped in $5 each. Only Jimmy Flynn, a clerk known as "cement head," and I did not ante up. I failed to suppress a smile, although I was averse to the circumstances. I sensed Bobby's intent was humiliation, not humor. He seemed to be trying to prove Phil would do anything for money. Apparently he'd lost sight of his own behavior while trading. Or perhaps his subconscious was revolting, trying to drag Phil down not to his own level but way below it, proving there was a great distinction between them. Or perhaps something had transpired between them in the ring, something Phil was too embarrassed to mention to me.
I admonished myself for psychoanalyzing. Phil had a hard look on his face. I feared that his feelings had
been hurt, that he saw beyond the joke. I suspected he would take the money to make the others pay for
having the audacity to consider themselves superior to he. I dreaded being left alone with the others,
although I liked them all. Phil was my closest friend among the group. Although we hadn't known each other long, and although we were very different from each other, we shared things in common. We were from the same neighborhood, of Italian descent, and employees of the Exchange. The others worked for a large brokerage house. None were Italian-American. Indeed, Paul and Elmer were WASPs. Deemo was of
Maltese extraction. John and the Flynns were Irish. All were surburbanites, Jerseyites or Long Islanders,
except Bobby. The largest distinction between us, however, was the direction of our ambition. I was irked
that this made me uneasy.
"Here's seventy-five," said Bobby. "Beat it."
"You think I won't?" said Phil defiantly.
"I want you to."
"Awright, you stupit mic. You think you're so smart? My belly's half full and I'm seventy-five bucks ahead. C'mon, vic, we'll take a cab."
I shook my head. I wouldn't run out on Joey Flynn, who had invited me here. He was seated directly to my right. Like his brother, he was of medium height and build, thick-boned, and muscular. He had a bit more hair and a smoother complexion.
"Will you get atta here already, you miserable..." said Bobby.
I'd been shocked by his crudity the first time I was stationed behind him in the ring. He wasn't at all what I'd imagined a broker to be. In fact, few of the silver brokers conformed to my preconceived image. Many were blue-collar men in a white-collar position. Bobby had worked his way out of the streets, having tended bar and driven a hack along the way. The Flynn family was large, six brothers, two sisters. I respected Bobby's drive, the place he'd earned. He wasn't one of the better brokers in the ring, but he gave it everything he had. Joey, on the other hand, was an astute trader, despite limited education. I was amazed that someone who had difficulty with simplistic crossword puzzles could be so adept at trading. His success made formal education seem irrelevant, as did the workings of the entire market, at least in terms of money-making. He loved his work and went at it with an energy that had to be seen to be believed. More importantly, he loved life. He was one of the few brokers with whom I felt comfortable. He hadn't forgotten his roots. He treated everyone, brokers, clerks, Exchange employees, alike. He was laughing moments after a dispute. If he held grudges, it wasn't apparent, and this was rare in the profession. He was one of the few genuinely successful people I'd ever met, as he seemed to have mastered the art of happiness. He loved his wife and daughter. His broker code was a combination of his name and his wife's, a sentimentality for which he'd been teased severely at first. Many brokers were far wealthier than he, but none seemed anywhere near as happy. He personified the American dream: success was yours, no matter your background, if only you worked hard.
I was older than the Flynns, although I looked younger. Bobby, the elder at 35, looked closer to 40, his
light hair thinning and disheveled, scraggly beard graying. He was teased unmercifully about his looks by
his peers. Compassion was almost entirely absent from the silver ring. It was a tough though potentially
lucrative market. Joey did very well. Bobby held his own. In exchange for trading privilege, each
surrendered half his profits to the company employing them. They drew a modest salary but made no
commission on the vast number of customer orders they filled. Bobby grumbled occassionally. Joey said:
"I'm just glad to have the badge." I was intrigued by the stark differences in their personalities.
"Victor's staying with us," Joey told Phil.
Phil pocketed the money, seized his jacket, and left abruptly. The giggling soon ceased. Only Bobby
seemed unremorseful. John asked if I thought Phil's feelings had been hurt. I shrugged. They wanted me to go after him. I believed it incumbent upon them to invite him back. Finally, Deemo left the table and,
moments later, returned with Phil, who'd been waiting outside. Phil, unamused, refused to return the money. He flashed it before Bobby's face. Bobby snatched and redistributed it.
The main course was served, or rather, dumped on the table from a large basin. We eagerly went to work on the crabs, using wooden mallets that had been provided. Bobby had swordfish, carving neatly with a knife and fork, serving me a small portion, as I'd never tasted it before. The others were not pleased with the fare. Unaccustomed to dining out, I thought it delicious. I stuffed myself foolishly. Everyone did.
Returning from the rest room, I found Joey examining my unabridged copy of Les Miserables. I hoped Phil hadn't forgotten himself in his inebriated state and divulged my literary aspirations. Fortunately, no one questioned further than my opinion of the novel. I was relieved on two counts: firstly, that the others weren't put off by what they might have perceived as intellectualism, or snobbism; and secondly, that I wouldn't have to discuss my failures, which I confronted daily within myself and which seemed magnified in light of the financial success of traders.
"How come you don't talk like you're from Brooklyn, Vic, like Philly and the other guys on the floor?"
said John.
I shrugged. Although I liked John and knew the question had been offered without malice or
condescension, I deemed it unworthy of reply. It was the type of non-violent prejudice one encountered
daily and which, I believed, was better ignored. John, a handsome young man who seemingly hadn't a mark on him, lived in an affluent suburb. I would not boast of my education or belittle my neighbors or cite the greats who'd called the borough home, as John's view would harm no one, not even himself. In fact, I was certain my image of the life he led was erroneous. I was even surprised to have been told I spoke intelligently at work, given the invective and grammatical aberrations that escaped me. It was difficult to rise above the harshness of the environment. I was a mystery to most.
Suddenly the distinctions between the others and myself seemed greater than ever, despite our common
experience. Phil and I were the oddest pieces of the puzzle, linked by our differences from the others yet separated by our differences from ourselves. The feeling was familiar. I believed there were few like me, and it was often the cause of loneliness and frustration. Just as often, however, the distinctions that abounded in life, in the city, were the source of fascination and joy, even though I often felt apart from them.
I was unable to resist desert, pecan pie, although I was stuffed. I resolved to work out harder than usual
tomorrow. When everyone had finished his coffee, Joey asked for the bill, which was more than $500. The
others were surprised it wasn't greater. I was shocked, although I knew it would be a tax write-off. God
bless America, I thought.
"How much would it take to get you to walk around the restaurant in your underwear?" said Bobby to
Phil.
"I wouldn't do it in here," said Phil, blowing smoke over his head, sitting back, legs crossed, an arm
around the chair beside him. "Gimme a hundred and I'll do it outside."
The same $75 was raised. I felt an acute resistance within me. I was sure Phil would do it, and I cringed at the thought of those who would be offended. And I didn't want to see him make a fool of himself, although he was eager to accept the challenge, to prove his superiority to the others, even at the lower rate. As I saw it, he knew he would never match them in wealth, education, or background, so his only recourse was brazenness. None of the others would dare parade about midtown in his underwear, none would ever match him in "sickness." I found it sad, although no malice was intended by anyone except, perhaps, Bobby. I was reminded of a short story wherein an unfaithful wife had her adoring husband masquerade as a fool at a party, where he suffered fatal realization. I doubted the present consequences would be as dire, however.
We left the place with great anticipation. As soon as we'd gathered outside, Phil began to strip, to the
delight of everyone. The temperature was about 50 degrees this April night. Phil stood proudly in his briefs, black dress socks sagging about thin ankles. He held his arms out at his sides, inviting all to behold. "Am I sick or what?" he demanded. Everyone concurred.
"Look at those socks!" Bobby cried out, beside himself.
I stood apart, embarrassed yet amused as he accepted congratulatory high-fives. It was a harmless prank. I hoped the public would perceive it as such. Phil handed me his clothes, not trusting any of the others, and set off along 72nd Street, smiling, belly protruding and supported by spindly legs taking long strides. I laughed so hard I collapsed into a squat trying to draw breath, which was difficult on a bloated stomach. My vision blurred at the force of my mirth. Those he passed were amused rather than offended. And he did not go quietly into the good night. He talked up a storm, avoiding, however, eye contact with passersby.
I lagged, still in a squat. I did not rise until I noted the amused stares of the people seated just beyond the window of the restaurant. I looked away, irked at my self consciousness, certain it was assumed I was
drunk. I slipped into a nook, hiding, intending a practical joke of my own, worried only that a policeman
would appear and slap Phil with a summons for indecent exposure. I didn't have the heart to make him wait long. He dressed on Lexington Avenue, boasting as he pulled on his pants, assuring everyone he
would do it again if the money was right.
"I'm no fool," he boasted. "I got seventy-five tamatas in my pocket. Go 'head and laugh, douche bags. Who's better than me?"
Our post-meal lethargy had vanished. It was decided we would go to Lucy's, a bar further uptown. When
we'd traveled two blocks Joey offered Phil $20 for an encore. Just ahead was a restaurant with a large glass front. He stripped with even greater ease than before and walked past the startled patrons, clothes draped over an arm like a fastidious valet. Everyone laughed, although it wasn't as funny in rerun.
Lucy's was long and narrow, bathed in bright colors, and featured a campy seaside decor. I liked it
immediately, especially when I heard Talking Heads playing over the sound system. The crowd seemed
yuppyish. I admonished myself, realizing I'd relegated them to a stereotype, as John had all Brooklynites.
We settled at the far end of the bar. Beyond, up a a few steps, there was seating. Phil was asked to buy the first round. I declined a drink, as the others were having beer, which I hated. As I was scanning the crowd for pretty faces, I was handed an aqua blue frozen margarita that had a tiny plastic shark in it. Noting that it cost $10, I felt bad, having eaten into Phil's profits. It was delicious, however. I wondered if the mixture of hard liquor and wine would inebriate me. I then cursed my inabilty to let go, to lighten up.
Phil was soused. He spoke directly into the ear of an attractive woman at the bar, telling her friend he was a broker who was interested in her companion and why didn't the four of us....? He must have thought
the word "broker" an automatic pass to a woman's bedroom. It failed him, as did his sticking his tongue into the woman's ear. He came away resentful, muttering threats and obscenities. I tried to calm him , having heard of his drunken belligerence.
"That John's a wise guy," he said. "I'd like to punch him in his cute little Irish face."
"Johnny?" I said, surprised to hear such venom leveled at so well-mannered a young man. "What
happened?"
"I just don't like the things he says. He thinks who he is."
Was he referring to John's remark about Brooklyn? I wondered. I let it go, certain discussion would be
futile. In vino veritas, I thought, as Phil's bitterness began to manifest itself. He believed he was unlucky, the victim of prejudice, of schemers. In my mind, a sense of inadequacy generated his resentment, which, in the wake of his marital woes, was at an all-time high. I supposed he was angry even with God for not having blessed him with the ability to play for his beloved Yankees. His behavior while drunk was such a contrast to his congeniality while sober. Fortunately, he rarely imbibed. I was afraid he would pick a fight and that I would have to drag him from the place or perhaps become involved to protect him. I abhorred such embarrassment, such foolishness.
"Let's go; this's no place for us," I told him, experiencing the exact loneliness I felt whenever I was in such an establishment. I realized I wanted to flee my own disappointments and failures, to return to the safety of my vacant apartment, and it pained me. Fortunately, I was not given to belligerence myself. I tended toward despondency, introversion, and I felt it beginning to sweep over me. Given my financial situation, there wasn't a woman there I would dare approach.
Phil wouldn't budge.
"I'll wait for you outside," I said, hoping he would follow.
I paid my respects to the others and left the bar. I leaned against a parked car, resolved to give Phil ten
minutes before I set off on my own. Soon he emerged, arguing with a bouncer, who towered over him and
laughed at the threats directed at him. His beer had been confiscated. I suspected he'd gotten fresh with
another woman.
"Let's go," I said. "The trains're murder this time of night."
"What train?" he smirked. "We're takin' a cab."
"Why throw your money away?"
"Don't worry about it, you cheap Sicilian bastard."
I had to fight to repress a comment about the thick-headedness of the Calabrese.
"That mic's comin' with us. He's springin' for the cab."
Although Bobby's earning at least tripled ours, I still couldn't see commissioning a cab, paying 25 times
the subway fare. My parents' immigrant frugality still influenced me. Phil had been right in this
distinction, as I'd been regarding him, as he definitely conformed to the stereotype of the Calabrese.
"Let's go, you dumb guineas," said Bobby as he emerged.
He hailed a cab. The driver, of Arabic descent, pulled down the meter's lever. I hoped Phil would behave.
"I want you to make three stop in Brooklyn," said Bobby.
"Only two," said the driver through a thick accent.
"I said three."
The cabbie shook his head. "Two! Only two."
"What's the difference? We all live near each other. It'll take you ten mintues extra."
"I'm sorry, I can't do. Find another car."
"You're doin' it. We're not leavin' this cab until you do."
"Come on, Bob," I said, "it's not worth it."
"Wait a mintue," Phil interjected, irked. "I ain't gettin' out. I'm an American citizen and I demand my
rights. You get out, you ....... immigrant. I was born in this country. Who're you to tell me what to do? I'll
tell you what to do."
Had the scene been part of a movie, I would have laughed. As it was, I was annoyed. I covered my eyes
with a hand as the argument raged. Bobby, seated in the middle, and Phil remained adamant. I was tempted to get out and head for the subway. "We're not leavin' this cab," said Bobby emphatically. "I drove one for three years and never turned anybody down. I went any place. Get out and call a cop. You gotta take us. It's the law. It was passed 'cause
of guys like you."
The driver slid out and gazed along Lexington Avenue.
"What're you tryin' to prove?" I said. "All this time we're wastin' we could find a driver who'll take us."
"He has to take us or get fined," Bobby insisted. "I'm surprised a level-headed guy like you would let
himself be pissed on."
"What is this - a great moral or philosophical question?"
"It's the principle."
I rolled my eyes in disbelief. "Well, I'm tired. I wanna go to bed. We hafta go to work tomorrow."
"I ain't movin'," said Phil. "I lived here all my life. No foreigner's gonna tell me what to do. I'll get out and wipe the floor with 'im."
The cabbie flagged down a squad car.
"See?” said Bobby. "The cop won't get out. He knows the guy's wrong. He has to take us or get fined."
"Who's responsible for the meter?" I said, noting its approach to $5.
"I ain't payin for nothin'," said Phil. "He's settin' it back to zero when we start or I'll smack the piss atta him."
The driver returned.
"Can we go now?" said Bobby.
"I'm not going."
"Fine, then take us to the precinct. It's right around the corner here. I'm sure you know where."
Moments later we were double-parked behind a row of vacant squad cars. The driver approached a pair of officers standing nearby and persuaded one to intercede.
"Good evening, gentlemen," said the officer, smiling, tipping his cap, projecting a politeness that seemed comical.
It was a startling contrast to any policeman I'd ever encountered. It was as if there were no barrier
between the public and he.
"First of all, I'd like to tell you that you're absolutely right. By law, he has to take you. But you'd be better off finding another cab. It'd take you hours to file a complaint. You'd be here 'til sunrise."
"I understand that, Officer," said Bobby, "but we're not leavin'. I want him fined."
"I'm a Vietnam veteran and I demand my rights," Phil croaked. "I parked my car in the garage back there overnight 'cause I'm in no condition to drive. I want this bum to take us home."
"That's very commendable, sir, but as I said, you'd be better off if you found another cab. Goodnight."
Phil was not a veteran, nor did he own a car. I sensed that not having served his country, especially in
Vietnam, contributed to his sense of inadequacy. He hadn't approached, let alone surpassed his father's
accomplishments. His father, a veteran of World War II, the owner of a home, was retired and living on a
handsome pension. Bobby was chuckling over the lie. I was too irked to be amused.
"You mean to tell me you'd tie up a precinct like this over something so trivial?" I said. "God knows what goes on here at night." I wondered if this too were an unjust stereotype.
The driver peered into the cab, found no change, and headed toward the stationhouse. In my mind, he was as foolish as my companions. He was costing himself money, and the stops he would have to make were all on safe streets and minutes apart.
And so we sat, waiting, arguing as the meter ticked toward $10.
"If I was a little drunk I'd drive away with this thing," said Phil, noting the keys dangling from the ignition.
"You don't know how bad I wanna do it, how bad I wanna screw this camel jockey."
The driver tried again. I wondered if he were Irani, Iraqi or Afghani. There was no way of knowing by his appearance. He pulled the meter from its rack and the keys from the ignition. His calm seemed sham.
"Goodnight."
We watched him disappear into the stationhouse.
"What now, men of principle?" I said.
"I'd like to piss in the mother......'s cab," said Phil.
"Do it," said Bobby.
"Don't get crazy now," said I.
"Screw 'im. I'm doin' it. No Iranian 'so-and-so's' gettin' away with holdin' me hostage."
I walked away, wanting no part of vindictiveness. The stationhouse was on the opposite side of the
street.
Someone in civilian clothes emerged. I was sure he was an off-duty policeman. "Don't do it, Phil," I said
softly, urgently. "Don't. I'm warnin' you." I'd resolved to go home were he nailed for indecent exposure.
He was wedged between the open rear door and the side of the car, Bobby at his back, standing lookout.
He was there a long time, having consumed a copious quantity of beer. To my relief, the man in civilian garb kept walking.
Phil's satisfaction was bitter, not as cheerful as it'd been during his strip. His dialogue was laced with
invective as we headed back toward Lexington. "I'd love to see his face when he comes out. I hope it stinks like hell in there."
"Why don't you wait for him?" I said, hailing a cab. "Let's ask this guy, first. I'm not goin' through that
crap again."
Soon we were on our way. The driver was black. I hoped there would be no more trouble. Phil was loud
and vulgar, deliberately, I was sure.
"I'm glad I pissed in his cab. I wanna know who the.... he thinks he is holdin' us hostage. They should send everyone of 'em back where they came from."
Although I knew he was drunk, angry and pained, I was angered by the distinctions he'd made between the immigrants of today and yesterday. I realized I too was making one in my own mind between his and my own ancestors.
"That was stupid," I said.
"I thought you were a principled guy, Victor," said Bobby.
"Men of principle don't do what you guys did. If you really cared about principle you'd be in the
stationhouse right now filin' the complaint. All you did was waste time."
I wondered what the driver was thinking. He seemed hardened. Perhaps he considered us white trash. We were certainly conforming to the mold. I was irked that the negative distinctions one made were too often correct. I was surprised the driver hadn't evicted us after having heard what'd been done to a fellow cabbie. I supposed he too might be resentful of foreigners.
"I'm a little short," Phil," said Bobby as the car left the highway. "Pay the fare. I'll get you tomorrow."
"You cheap mic bastid. I knew it."
"I didn't realize I didn't have it. Relax, you made ninety-five bucks tonight. I'll fill out a voucher in the
mornin."
"Calm down, Philly," I said, "he'll pay you."
Bobby's was the first stop. As soon as the cab pulled away, Phil said: "Whattaya wanna bet he don't pay
me?"
"Why would he say he would?"
"Watch. That's just my luck."
"You want ten bucks?"
He smirked. "Keep your money. I come out way ahead tonight, anyway - my belly and my pocket're both
full."
"Tip the cabbie good," I whispered, peeved at the grammatical aberration, the conforming to the rhetoric
of the street. "We were pretty loud."
"Don't worry about it," he said, miffed, insulted.
I suspected he might not even pay the fare. I pictured him running into his house, leaving the black man
high and dry in the white neighborhood, as the Arab immigrant had left us. I was tempted to tip the driver
myself, but I didn't want to show Phil up. Besides, as always, I too was short.

John, Elmer and Paul stayed at Lucy's until closing time and caught a couple of hours of sleep in an
elevator at work until they were chased by security. Joey and Kenny made it to their wives before curfew.
Deemo and Jimmy each found his way home alone.
Bobby did not repay Phil, despite the ridicule heaped on him by others. I was surprised. He had only to fill out a company voucher, which would be used as a tax write-off. I didn't ask Phil if he'd tipped the cabbie, as I was sure he would say he had even if he hadn't.
Accounts of the event drew howls. Phil basked in the glow of the distinction he'd earned. Months later he was fired, caught in the act of stealing a broker's briefcase that contained several one hundred dollar bills. He spent a harrowing night in jail, the only white in the holding cell. Only Bobby and I were not surprised by the act. The last I heard of him, Phil was hanging out with wise guys. That part of the evolution hadn't surprised me, either.