Act 1
John had asked me many times to tag along with him as he made his daily rounds. He worked for a small state subsidized company that cooked, packaged and delivered dinners to people in need. He said the job paid very well, and that he derived great gratification knowing that he was helping folks that couldn't provide for themselves. He also wanted me to experience a cut of life that most people either never see, or just ignored.
I called John just after seven last Friday morning when my vacation day plans were exploded by my friend Romeo Squillace, who pulled out of our day trip to Cape May because of a nasty stomach virus that was "keeping him very busy." I asked John if his offer to take me on his job route still stood. He said, "Absolutely! ... I'll pick you up at two o'clock, sharp. I'm going to the Lynnham Arms today ... you'll love this place."
John Keenan was basically a good guy that I've known all of my life, but he's never had patience for certain people, and his aggressive sense of humor has left many folks intimidated and very uneasy. In fact, many of our mutual friends had long been turned off to his tireless taunting and teasing antics. I must admit that I was a bit nebulous about his true motive for having me accompany him on one his daily runs, but what's life without adventure, right?
Two o'clock came quicker than I thought so my hurried ceremonial shower and shave resulted in a fiercely bleeding nick just under my chin, and a dried, crunchy shaving cream deposit just behind my right ear that I wouldn't discover for several hours. John gave me a super-sized greeting, even by his boisterous standard, as I climbed up into his gleaming white “MEALS FROM HOME” company van. "Let's roll" John said, as he eased into traffic toward West Philadelphia in a swirling cocktail of Led Zeppelin, creamed corn and roast beef gravy.
As we pulled up and parked in front of the Lynnham Arms - a beautiful one hundred year old, three story brownstone rooming house currently in decay - John's relentless pursuit to have me tag along with him quickly became apparent when he said, "this place is a real fucking flea-bag-shit-hole for drunks, junkies and old dego grease-balls that want you to think they're in the mob." ...And to think that the image of John as some impish version of an angel of mercy actually crossed my mind for a half-a-moment - Not quite. Just another mockumentarous journey with the original Mic-of-Mirth... “Ladies and gentlemen, heeeere's Johnny!"
We exited and John signaled for me to walk to the rear of the van where he spread the back doors open, exposing the neatly stacked green plastic racks that held the Styrofoam meal containers. John handed me a full rack and jokingly said, "Make yourself useful!" He pulled two racks out for himself, and adroitly balancing them between his right hand and knee, slammed the doors shut and exclaimed, "This way to America, my man." I followed not really knowing what to expect from John or the tenants of the Lynnham Arms. But from John's initial description, I was fairly certain that the faded sign, dangling from the open porch overhang, hasn't been accurate for at least fifty or sixty years. "WELCOME TO THE BEAUTIFUL LYNNHAM ARMS" ...
Act 2
We climbed the weather worn marble steps and entered through the big original double wooden doors with their 3' X 4' portals of pane glass set dead in the middle. The vestibule was substantially larger than any I had ever passed through, and it led to a small reception area where a neatly dress man, easily in his seventies, sat at a small desk and cheerfully greeted John like a vaccine carrying medic during a malaria outbreak. "Hey, Mr. John – I’m sure tickled to see you. What's for dinner?" "Good afternoon, Dwight,” John said while resting the dinner racks on the small desk and reaching out to shake Dwight’s hand. “I brought some Salisbury Steaks, 'taters, sweet corn and fresh 'I-talian bread all the way up from South Philly." "Man… the folks are gonna love that," Dwight replied rubbing his palms together." …And I brought an extra one just for you," John tells Dwight as I'm sure he does on every weekly visit. "Thank you Mr. John - you know this means so much to us, thank you!" "No sweat, Dwight - you deserve it. We're going to head upstairs, okay," John asks as he leads me toward the stairs. "Yes, Mr. John - of course. Oh, Mister John! Shall I have the Chianti or the Mad Dog with this meal," Dwight yells out while opening the Styrofoam container. "Either, Dwight - either." John laughs along with Dwight's fading chuckles as we reach the second floor landing.
Directly in line with our ascent from the stairs is a long hallway with five doors on each side. John said he preferred to start with the rear rooms on the second floor. “Then we'll work our way back toward the stairs, and down to the remaining five rooms on the first floor," John said as we walk to the end of the hall. I noticed that each room had an index card taped to the door with the occupants name written in black marker. There was also a small night table that collected mail, newspapers and magazines in front of each room. John squatted and placed the two plastic food racks on the floor to his left. He carefully removed a Styrofoam container and a plastic wrapped dinner roll from the top rack, and placed them on the night table. He then stood and tapped lightly on Ms. Hattie Fryer’s door, and said “Hattie, sweetheart … you're dinner’s here.” He turned to me and whispered, "Some of the folks prefer if I just knock and leave it outside the door." As we turned to face the room across from our first delivery, John told me that Ms. Hattie Fryer was over ninety years old and had been in bad health lately.
John extended his arm and applied two sharp “man knocks" to another of the thickly painted white wooden doors. He called out, “Michael, I’m coming in with dinner.” Gently turning the door knob, John entered into the dimly lit world of Michael Patrick Durning IV. I don’t know if I stopped at the threshold out of courtesy, or because an invisible Iron Curtin of shit-musty, pissed bedding and body odor locked my frame at every joint, but I could barely see John placing the dinner container and a plastic knife and fork pack unto the dressing bureau. Mr. Durning was lying on his back in bed, and began to sit-up when a loud thud called attention to a bottle hitting the floor in the vicinity of where John was serving. John flinched, a bit startled by the sudden noise. “Fuck me - was that a live one, Johnny,” Durning sheepishly questioned with equal measures of jocularity and great concern. John pointed at the light switch on the wall just inside the door, and signaled for me to turn it on. “Jesus Christ almighty” I whispered as the light dispersed to reveal an ugly wasteland of dense disarray. “No, it’s empty you fucking sot” John angrily snapped at Durning, holding up the bottle of Four Roses whiskey - with that unmistakable label - for him to see. “Who is that guy?” Durning said pointing at me. “He’s a friend that I brought along to keep me from smashing this bottle over your fat and selfish fucking Irish head,” John menacingly threatened as he walked toward Durning. “Come on, John - calm down … I’m still sick, but I’m gettin’ better,” Durning said laying his head back onto the bed. John collected himself and started back toward the dinner racks as I marveled at the worthless trinkets, scattered photos and current trash that were only the top soil of this infertile field of sheets, blankets and clothing from Durning’s careless and evicted lifetime. “Fuck this bum, let’s get out of here,” John muttered as he passed me and walked back into the hallway. “Please tell Johnny I’m sorry, kid,“ Durning embarrassingly offered. “Sure thing, and I hope you feel better,” I answered noticing a singular shelf about six feet up the far wall to the left of the bathroom door boasting three gleaming one foot tall beacons of accomplishment from the life of Michael Patrick Durning IV – two bowling trophies, and a live bottle of Four Roses.
Act 3
John was already onto business when I returned to the hallway. I could see the snow white disheveled hair of a tall elderly man through the door of the room John was serving. The exchange was brief and without anything remarkable to report. However, it was at the precise moment of John's tapping on the next tenant's door that I discovered that lump of dried shaving cream behind my right ear. "Hey, John is there a bathroom I can use," I asked. "Yea, on the first floor, to the right,” he said smiling and pointing toward the stairs. Hurry, the rest are mostly 'knock and drops', but I do want you to meet The Buffalo. “Hello Ms. Dolores, sorry to hear about your son..." John’s voice diminished as I rushed down the stairs to the bathroom for a quick splash behind ears.
"Is everything okay," Dwight asked me as I stepped onto the thickly padded maroon carpet that helped buffer the creaking of the old wood floors. "Yes, Dwight - just need to use the head," I answered as he pointed the way. Upon opening the door, the common first floor restroom presented itself just as I had imagined - in stunning black and white. Every inch was immaculate, if not a bit too eye-tearingly disinfected with pine-oil. Preserved like a testament to a good depression era shit, I stood embarrassed to shun the stoic urinals and avert the stately toilet stall, but honored to offer my carelessly rinsed face to its thick and voluptuous pedestal sink. I wet my hands and softly rubbed behind my ear. I became fixated on the reflection of the porcelain hexagon floors and subway tile walls from the mirror in front of me. Suddenly, the door opened and a man wearing an unseasonably heavy trench coat enters. At first I was unsure, but when he removed and hung his coat over the stall to use one of those glorious urinals, I was positive. “Excuse me, sir, you’re Jimmy Cagney, right,” I hesitantly asked. He looks at me and concurs with a nod, while rolling up his shirt sleeves. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, what brings you to Philadelphia? Aren’t you dea…” I babbled like a Christmas drunk giddy little boy before he cut my question. “Just stopping by to take a leak, kid. I’d drive a hundred miles out of my way to piss in this pasture. It’s perfect in here, isn’t it,” he asked as the spotless glossy tile placidly illuminated his clean shaven, but road tested mug. “Yes it is, but aren’t you... dead,” I managed to interject turning away from the mirror to face him. “Look, kid… you say I’m dead, others say I’m pugnacious with grace, who gives a shit? All I know is that I’m a little over five foot-eight inches tall and I’m driving back home to New York today. Oh, here… dry your kisser…” he said tossing me a towel that he pulled from a silver ring mounted to the door wall. “…and say hello to The Buffalo for me, will ya,” he says turning toward those majestic urinals. “The Buffalo,” I ask a bit confused. “Oh, The Buffalo,” I alarmingly blurted out as I ran past a hysterically laughing Cagney into the lobby - now remembering that John had told me to hurry back.
As I arrive at the top of the steps, I could see that John was approaching the last of his second floor deliveries. "Rudy," John called out, precisely between two well-spaced raps on the door. "The Buffalo," I anxiously asked in a faint whisper. “The Buffalo,” John affirms as he signaled for me to move behind him. “How was that bathroom,” John asked through a curiously wide grin. “Magnificent, but something happened that I just can’t…” John quieted my next words with an index finger over his lips as heavy footsteps could be heard approaching from inside the room. A door shut and then the sound of rustling paper and open and closing drawers. Finally the doorknob jiggled, but there is a pause. “Who is it,” a low raspy voice asked suspiciously. “Rudy, it’s me, Johnny Keenan,” John quickly replied. A key turned; a deadbolt snapped; a metal hasp is unlatched; a dangling chain tapped against the wall; “He’s got five locks on the inside,” John turned and whispered to me. The door finally opened six inches and John said “I have a friend with me, it that okay?” Rudy “The Buffalo” Carmalingo pushed the door open just wide enough to fit his enormous hairy head out into the hallway. He gives me the once over from top to bottom, and then looked back at John. “Is he a right guy, Johnny,” Rudy whispered. “My best friend since we were kids,” John said without a comma. “Okay, come on in but watch where you step. I've got a lot of very important business papers lying around that I don’t want disturbed.”
Act 4
John led the way through a tiny path of open floor that was bordered on either side by half-foot mounds of neatly stacked torn-out copy book paper. He signaled for me to sit, pointing at a chair that was between the door and the dressing bureau - on the right. As I gingerly descended onto the gray steel folding chair, I watched as The Buffalo unraveled the legs of an old wobbly wooden dinner tray, and positioned it at the foot of the bed. Waiting in temporary servitude, John watched as this huffing and snorting hairy hulk struggled in slow motion to negotiate his quarter ton frame onto the bed behind the tray. "All set," John asked. "Go ahead, kid," The Buffalo answered unfurling a white cotton handkerchief that held a set of stainless steel silverware. John then laid out dinner with the guile and acumen of a Fifth Avenue waiter and jokingly asked, “Will there be anything else, sir?" The Buffalo nodded to the affirmative while chomping on the Salisbury steak, and pointed behind him to a two liter plastic bottle of Diet Pepsi that was sitting on the window sill above the night-table. John fetched it, and without aid of a cup or glass, The Buffalo sucked down the half-filled bottle while scarfing his supper and two small Italian dinner rolls in less than a minute.
From my panoramic vantage point, nearly in the corner of the room, The Buffalo is situated dead center. Like a lion that has just tracked, slaughtered and devoured a wounded impala, he sits digesting and reflecting on the kill. When he looked up at John, I could see the remnants of the pasty steak gravy and creamed corn clinging to the ends of his bushy mustache and beard like morning dew on the needles of a Douglas fir. My eyes are pulled toward the countless piles of paper that laid on the bed, night tables, dresser, wall shelving and every other flat surface available. I want so badly to ask what the papers are all about, but my attention is stolen back by The Buffalo. I am totally infatuated by his presence. I cannot keep myself from imagining the folded layers of pizza dough fat that are bundled under the short sleeve polyester dress shirt that bound him like a wet suit. I am mesmerized by his mammoth head, and even more so because I can barely see his bespectacled eyes and nose amidst the dense overgrowth of head and facial hair. I sit and brazenly continue to stare at this grotesquely monstrous perversion of Humpy Dumpy as he sinks lower on the edge of the bed, sweating and belching his vile exhaust into the already musty dead air that surrounds him.
"Two more days, Johnny, just two more days," The Buffalo announced without provocation. "You said that last week, Rudy. You keep waiting for that fucking relic to pay up, but he never delivers," John’s voice swelled with frustration. "He’s afraid of me and the people I know. I've left messages saying no one will fuck with him if he comes here and brings what he owes. He'll get here if he knows what's good for him," The Buffalo further threatened. "Rudy..." John begins, "...everyone you ever knew, or even think you knew, is dead. You're old, out of shape, and slower than that drip you call pissing. Do you really think he fears you and your ancient fucking mafia buddies," John reasoned. "Well, all I know is that some of the tenants have seen him walking through the lobby. That old Jew on the first floor told me he saw him two days ago … Wednesday … and he said he was going to square with me. What the fuck, John, all I got is hope if I want to get out of this depressing … nowhere. It's a halfway house to the cemetery, you know what I mean?" The Buffalo's voice trailed off revealing the pain in his heart. John hung his head, and placing his left hand on The Buffalo’s ample shoulder - consolingly assured him, “you’re right Rudy, he’ll turn up soon. How about another Salisbury steak” John generously offered. Rudy held up his hand to say ‘I’ve had enough,’ and then began the long climb to an upright stance. John grabbed for Rudy’s arm and helped him into the bathroom.
Closing the door behind The Buffalo, John walked toward me shaking his head sympathetically. "Poor guy, he gets to choose whether to drown in his own bullshit, or to be crushed by the truth after he struggles to the surface," John whispered as he stopped in front of me. Witnessing a much different version of the cheeky prankster I've known my entire life, but finally having my attention liberated from The Buffalo, I courteously nodded my head in agreement and seized the opportunity to ask John about the endless drifts of paper that have dangerously overtaken the small room. "The papers are part of what Rudy..." John began to explain, but stopped and walked to the bathroom door. "Are you alright, Rudy? Open up,” John called out standing inches from the door. The behemoth known as Rudy "The Buffalo" Carmalingo could plainly be heard crying and whimpering like a child. "I'm okay," The Buffalo slowly spoke, still gathering himself. "C'mon out and we'll talk about it," John softly offered. "I'll be out - give me a minute," The Buffalo said clearing his throat. John turned back and looked at me, this time shrugging his shoulders and walking to the empty dinner tray. "The papers," I remind John as he's cleaned-up. "Oh, right, the papers..." Suddenly, out of the tranquil aftermath of The Buffalo’s breakdown, a powerfully anger laced scream caromed off the bathroom walls through the sound of running water, "Fucking Cagney, that prick ruined my life."
Act 5
דער סוף
“What did he say", I barked at John. "Cagney, Jimmy Cagney ... the actor," John said looking first, into my eyes, and then to the floor. "What the fuck, John... when I was down in the bathroom", I started but was abruptly interrupted by John continuing … “Rudy lent Cagney twenty large back in the sixties, and he's still waiting for the payback. He figures, that with the juice, he's owed well over a hundred grand. That's what all of these papers are, markers with updated balances for every day since he loaned him the money." I looked at John, and then at the bathroom door that separated The Buffalo from the thousands of painful reminders of what will never be. I looked back at John and softly asked, "…And he still thinks he’s going to get paid; surly he knows Cagney is dead, right?" John shrugged his shoulders and drew a deep breath before replying, but stopped when the bathroom door creaked and slowly began to open. I rose from the chair and rushed for the hallway, my head and thoughts were spinning out of control. “I’ll meet you downstairs,” I called out as I hastily left the room and stormed down the steps toward the bathroom.
Pausing before opening the door, I felt a confused clarity begin to ground me. I remembered having the same feeling as a teenager, when an orthopedic surgeon had diagnosed a nagging pain I’d been experiencing in my right ankle for several months, as a small fracture. Not great news, but after consulting with several doctors, at least I finally knew the source of the pain. Then, moments after getting the news, as this specialist was explaining the treatment procedure to my parents, I noticed that his shoes where on the opposite feet. I suddenly was uneasy and less confident about his findings. As he continued his technical tirade, all I could think of was … Dr. Duck feet, quacking around the hospital, waving my x-ray under the noses of all his colleagues and saying: “Look closely, see it … quack-quack … I’ve discovered a small broken bone … quack-quack … no one else could find it but me … quack-quack-quack-quack.
I pushed the bathroom door open and my anxiety instantly vanished. I scanned from left to right, ceiling to floor, and everything appeared to be the same; maybe even a bit cleaner. It was empty and it was perfect. I looked back to my right and those gleaming urinals, where I last saw Jimmy Cagney doubled over with laughter, were still obligingly standing at attention, waiting to relieve the next movie star or average Joe. I then turned my attention front and center to behold that provocatively curvaceous pedestal sink where I had washed my face with its pure and cool water. Fixated on its regal spigot and knobs, I could hear that John had begun his first floor rounds. “Good afternoon Mrs. Hodges ... how are you feeling, dear,” John’s distant voice faded as he must have passed through the threshold into her room. Raising my eyes a bit to behold the crystal clear mirror that presented my first glimpse and conversation with Jimmy Cagney … “It’s gone,” I screamed out! I ran to the sink for a closer look at the wall, but found no damage or even the slightest trace of imperfection in the pristine subway tile wall. I am again calmed by whatever mystical sedative that bathroom was emitting. I wanted to stay there forever, but I needed to get outside and walk … and think.
Passing through the empty lobby and liberally apportioned vestibule to the front porch, I noticed that Dwight wasn't at his desk. I figured he must have other duties and chores to attend to, so I moved onto the business of sorting out the events of the day. I headed north on Broad Street, away from center city, and tried to clear my head. I always allow a few blocks of free thought before I settle in to dealing with what's hanging heavy on my mind. Being late afternoon, the streets were beginning to thicken with cars and trucks in both directions. I watched the as the vehicles and pedestrians moved in waves to the rhythm of the traffic lights, like the ocean tide to the moon's draw. I'm crowded now by the faces, sounds and smells of working people returning home after sharing their dreams and fears with the day. I pirouette at the corner, and maneuvering through the hustling lanes of foot traffic, I inch away from the sidewalk to the less congested area closer to the private homes and apartment houses, where I walked back toward the Lynnham Arms at a more relaxed pace. I’m besieged by questions: My beloved best friend, Johnny Keenan, who is he? Cagney, the Buffalo and Dwight ... that bathroom; who are these people, and what is this place? I have no answers, and I'm not even sure that I should. Arriving back at the Lynnham Arms, I climb to the top step to sit and gaze at the sidewalk and street. I can think of nothing but the countless thousands of people that pass by this tabernacle of loneliness, despair ... anger, blind faith and ... magic, every day, and never think twice about the extraordinary events that are occurring only a mere few feet from their glance.
Opening the door, I could see that Dwight was back at his desk, and snickering as he greeted me with a nod. I could hear John screaming at the top of his lungs. I walked toward Dwight, while craning my neck to see if I could get a glimpse of the hallway to the right of the bathroom where the calamity prevailed. "They're at it again, as usual," Dwight whispered to me. "Fuck you too, John. I gave those people places to live. I helped everyone, and I made it nice for all of them... even the schvatzas," the slightly raised voice of Morey Blum exclaimed in a tired and rehearsed tone. "Yea, you helped them with one hand while your other hand was in their pockets, you greedy Jew prick … And you're still crying about how hard you have it, 'living in this shit hole.' Why don't you move the fuck out of here, and spend some of that money you wipe your ass with," John violently screamed as he arrived back in the lobby with a few empty trays, and that sly trademark smile I see whenever I think of him. “At least I had money at one time, John … that’s more than you can say,” Morey Blum’s voice echoed through the rear hall. “Yea, Morey … you're right, but at least I spend mine. I’ll see you next week, you fucking goniff,” John answered in a perfunctory manner as he prepared to address me. "You missed some of the fun... oh, and Rudy said goodbye. Let’s hit the road, brother," John says to me while turning to Dwight and shaking his hand. "Speaking of Rudy, that fella he's always talking about stopped by here earlier," Dwight casually mentioned to John. "Jimmy Cagney," I scream out. "I saw him in the bathroom, that's what I was trying to tell you earlier, John," I tried explaining. "Well," John started to answer but was interrupted by Dwight, “I don't know his name, but he never goes in the bathroom. Never even sets foot in the lobby ... Just stands in the vestibule ... runs his hands over the marble, and just talks about how beautiful and perfect it is ... man, he really loves that vestibule." I was speechless, but also becalmed again by a presence I could only feel ... but not understand.
John and I both said goodbye and headed for the door to the delightful sound of Dwight quietly laughing. I helped John load the empty plastic trays into the back of the truck, and we were ready to go home. As John pulled-out into traffic, and headed south on broad street, a silent soundtrack hastened the disappearance of the Lynnham Arms from the passenger side view mirror of the Meals From Home delivery van. I was already beginning to forget the turmoil and sadness I had witnessed in the past couple of hours, but I don't think I will ever forget that magnificent bathroom. It truly was ... perfect!
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