A Matter of Love in da Bronx Read Online Free PDF Page B

would he go into his reserve. No, sireeee! Not the way he had to put the twenty bucks together! First, he came to an understanding with Sol that all the "lost" change he found in the furniture he could keep. Then, it was months and months of nickels and dimes and quarters exchanged for dollar bills, changed to five, changed to tens, changed to a twenty, which was neatly folded and tucked away in his wallet. His cache. Mad money. Once he had that, the change from then on went to much needed summer Pepsies, a slightly more expensive cigar, an extra beer on Saturday nights. In all the years he had the secreted twenty-dollar bill, he never once came close to an occasion where he even thought of using it. He sure wasn't going to break it today just for a second hot dog of the day. He'd bull it through until he got home for the pasta Ma said she'd keep warm for him, if he was lucky and Mom remembered.
    Whatever, the immediate concern wasn't an empty belly as much as it was Sol. It wasn't that unusual for him not to be in the shop, in fact he was out quite a bit. At times Sol would come in later than usual, and come and go as he pleased--it really wasn't any of Sam's business. For Sam, he could be out making deliveries, or talking to clients, or seeing some bimbo. As long as Sam had work to keep him busy, he really didn't care what the man did. Today, he'd wait until noontime, put on his semi-wet clothes, go to the deli and call his house. In the meantime, to work. Sol's quota for the day was impossible to meet just for starters, but with all the delays it was a lost case considering he had some of the chores to do that Lincoln Jackson usually was assigned. Course, there were short cuts. There were times when Sol would tell Sam the client had hustled him down quite a bit on the price, or some rhubarb over the material, and Sam's time on the job should reflect the cut-rate price. One avenue, in such cases, was to shave the amount of time to clean up the piece, the tacks, the staples, removing only just enough of the old material to allow him to recover the piece. Through deft padding and layering of cotton, the new material was put on right over the old. Sam overhold material was left on to make the new material last longer, just like putting a pad under a good rug. She was satisfied. Sol was satisfied. And Sam was content to have the work.
    There were no short cuts for the work waiting for him today. All the furniture was standing around, stark naked, waiting for his ministrations. Whenever Sol came in, it would be best for him to see him busy.
    ...Son of a gun! Why didn't I tell Lincoln Jackson I'd give him the fiver if he went to get me a donut and Pepsi? Could bought him one, too, and still had my birthday salami sandwich on white Italian bread with mustard. Hamm! Smelled so good! Makes my mouth water just thinking of it. Shoulda bought him a dog, but! How can you ask a deadhungry man like that to wait even a second? Did you see him demolish the sandwich? Three bites? Two? The five bucks I gave him? I'll never see it. What the hell. Have had to meter out the pennies all my life, makes me feel human to splurge like that. Not for some crazy thing. Like what? Hard to say what's crazy until you do it. Yeah, but what if Lincoln Jackson uses that fiver you gave him for bug juice, and that's the one drink that does him in? So? As the fish said about the whale, am I my brother's kipper? That choice--buying booze-- is Lincoln Jackson's choice, not mine. No need to get moralistic just for your own morale.
    No matter, I'm still hungry. Now say it, hungry goes away as I work on my quota. Hungry goes away...
    In the semi-hypnotic state of the craftsman who has mastered his art, Sam dressed, stretched, tacked, stapled, pinned, and sewed the material in place with time passing as unnoticeably as water around his ankles if he were standing in a brook. He was hunkered down tacking paper tape to hold the skirt to the couch when he heard the door