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That was Mapes. Silver, the sheepherder took over O'Brien's, was even worse. “Hello, welcome to the neighborhood,” I said walking across his lawn, my hand out. “That your dog?” he asks, pointing toward Ginger rolling in the pachysandra. “Yeah. Come here, Ginger. Shake the man's hand.” “Dogs are supposed to be leashed, mister. If you don't get him off my property in five minutes, I'm calling the pound and having the animal destroyed.” With that he walks away.
Welcome to Lindbergh Street.
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I'm not saying it was because of that but right about then a lot of old-timers put their houses on the market. It was sad because before, guys like Scotty could at least say they wanted to go to Florida, actually look forward to it. But now? Now the ones who ran out ran out because they were forced to. Taxes up, cost of living, heating oil, you name it. Here we'd had these homes for thirty years, broke our backs paying the mortgages off, you'd think it'd become easier for us now. Forget it. It was harder. It was harder keeping them than getting them.
What made it worse was the price everyone was getting. Forty thousand. Fifty thousand. The ones who stayed couldn't handle it anymore thinking they'd only paid seven. The real estate bastards dazzled them into selling even though they didn't want to. That was the sad part of it, seeing them try to convince themselves Florida would be nice. “We're getting a condominium,” they'd say, the same somebody told you they were getting a valve bypass or a hysterectomy. “Well, I kind of like fishing,” Mike said when he broke the news to me. “Don't they have good fishing down there?” “Sure they have good fishing, Mike,” I told him. “Good fishing if you don't mind having your finger sucked by a water moccasin.”
You think I'm exaggerating? You expect me to maybe say something good about the place? What if all your friends were taken away from you by coronaries, you wouldn't be too fond of heart disease, right? That's exactly the way I look at Florida. Guys like Buzz and Scotty think they're going to find Paradise down there, they're going to find mosquitoes, snakes, walking catfish, old people, that's it. This guy I know in the plant had his vacation down there. He thought it would be nice, no crime, no muggers. The first night there a Cuban breaks into his trailer, ties him up, rapes his wife, takes everything they had. Florida? You guys can have it. If Ponce de Leon were alive today he'd be living in Levittown.
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But anyhow, nature hates a vacuum, the sheepherders moved in, started taking things over. You have to wonder about them to begin with. Here they are starting off where we finished, everything took us so long to get they have right away. They're sad more than anything…sadder than the old-timers moving south. You know what these kids who stayed on Long Island know? Shopping centers, that's it. If it's not in a mall they don't know nothing. And talk about dreams, they don't have any. A new stereo? A new Datsun? Call those dreams? Those aren't dreams, those are pacifiers. Popsicles. That's exactly what I feel like telling them. You find your own dream, pal, you're walking on mine. My generation survived the Depression, won the war, got Armstrong to the moon and back. And when I say we I'm talking about guys I know, not guys I read about. You think Grumman only makes F-14s? I worked on the landing module my last two years. Me, Tommy DiMaria. Nobody knows this but Scotty and me carved our initials on the facing under a transistor panel inside of the cabin. T.DM.S.S.H. right straight to the goddamn moon. But that's the kind of thing we did. What will the sheepherders be able to say they did when they get to be our age?…Evaded the draft. Bought a Cougar. Jogged.
It's like I told each of my kids when they were teenagers. “This town is where you grow up,” I told them, “not where you end up.” And they didn't either. They're scattered all over the place. I'm proud of them all. The only problem is like when Kathy got sick the last time it was a hell of a job getting everyone together. When I think about Kathy dying you know what I remember? Kennedy Airport. The TWA terminal. Going there to meet each of the kids, trying to figure out plane schedules, time zones, who I'm seeing off, who I'm meeting. The older I get the more I think what the real problem is in this country isn't what or how or why but where. Where's the question, the country's so goddamn big. Where in hell do you put yourself in it? Where?
Each of the kids wanted me to move in with them after Kathy died. Candy's a psychologist, she told me I was crazy to live by myself in the suburbs. If it was one thing people in suburbs couldn't stand it was to see someone living alone. It threatened them, they'd do anything to get rid of that reminder the world wasn't created in minimum denominations of two…that's the way she talks. But I told her no because the very last thing Kathy said was, Tommy, whatever you do don't give up the house. She was holding my hand, it was late, I was there all by myself not even a nurse. “Tommy, don't give up the house!” “Shh, Kathy,” I whispered. “Rest now. I won't ever give it up.” She squeezed my hand. I looked around to see if the nurse had come in, but it wasn't her, it was the lady in the next bed mumbling something in her sleep. “I'll never give it up, Kathy,” I promised. I bent over. I kissed her. She smiled…she closed her eyes and it was like she had gone to sleep.
“Goodbye, Kathy,” I said. “Sweet dreams, princess.”
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It was harder without her. I remember I'm in the back yard fixing up the garden for spring just like I would if she was still there, watching Ginger out of the corner of my eye, when Mapes's wife comes up the driveway. She stands there chewing gum. “I'm sorry about your wife, Mr. DiMaria,” she says. “I guess you're going to sell your house now, huh?” When I told her no she acted mad. “We'll see about that!” she says.
Her little boy Ringo runs over to help me like he sometimes did. She pulls him away, stands there clutching him tight to her body like she's protecting him. “Never play with that dirty old man again!” she screams. “You old people think you can keep putting us down all the time! You think you can ask anything for a house we'll pay it on account of we're desperate! What's Janey supposed to do, live in Queens the rest of her life?” She's screaming, getting all worked up. Mapes comes over, looks embarrassed, tries to quiet her down…away they go.
A few days later I'm out there again, this time planting beans, when I hear voices coming from the porch. I'm just about to go inside to investigate when this guy in a suit comes around back with a young couple holding hands. “This is the yard!” he says, pointing. “It's a nice yard, good place for kids. Hello doggy, what's your name?” He walks around me like I'm not there, squeezes a tomato, leads them back around front. Ten minutes later they come out of the house. “You'll like it here, it's a good investment. Oh, hello,” he says, “you must be the owner. I'm Mr. Charles from Stroud Realty, here's my card, these are the Canadays, they love your house.” “Scram!” All three of them jump. “Go on, you heard me! Clear the hell out before I call the cops!” “But I'm showing the property!” the little guy squeaks. I had a hell of a time chasing them off of there.
The pressure really started after that. It was little ways at first. Kids that had been friendly before staying away because their mothers told them to. Finding my garbage can spilled across the lawn. Mail stolen, things like that. One morning there's a knock on the door, this pimple face is standing there holding a briefcase. “Mr. DiMaria?” “That's right, who are you?” “I'm from the county. We've come to assess your home.” “It was assessed.” He looks at his chart. “Yes, but twenty years ago. I'm sure it still can't be worth just four thousand now can it? Excuse me.” He butts his way in, starts feeling the upholstery. He's there five minutes, he comes back to the door. “Nice place you got here, Mr. DiMaria. I can see you put a lot of work into it since we were last here. Let's say forty thousand dollars' worth, shall we? Your taxes will be adjusted accordingly.”
“You're crazy!” I yell. I'm about to lose my temper but then I remember something. “Hey, you know D'Amato down at the county executive's office? Him and me grew up together.” “Never heard of him,” pimple face says, shaking his head. “Well,
how about Gus Louis in the sheriff's office?” “Oh, we don't have much to do with them these days I'm afraid.” He starts to leave. “Well, you're probably going next door now, right?” “Oh, no,” he says. “This is the only house on the block we're checking.” “Wait a second!” I yell. “That's bullshit. You're going to Mapes, then Silver or I'm calling my congressman. Discrimination's a crime, pal!” His eyes finally light up. “You mean Mr. Silver? Hell of a nice guy. His brother is my boss. Goodbye, Mr. DiMaria. Have a nice day.”
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I don't want to give the impression I didn't fight back. I did, because if there's one thing I know about Levittown it's this. People are scared about blacks moving in, only nowadays it isn't blacks, it's drug treatment centers. It terrifies everyone. It terrifies them because all they think about when they're not shopping is property values. So what does DiMaria do? I wait until the next time these sweet Seventh Day whatever ladies come around selling their little pamphlets. I always give them a dime, no one else on the street ever gives them a penny…they think the world of me. They're always very polite, a bit crazy. What I did when they rang the doorbell was invite them into the house for some coffee. That was probably enough to give most of the sheepherders a good scare. It's Saturday, they're all out waxing their Camaros, here's two black ladies inside DiMaria's talking about God knows what, maybe thinking to buy it. But what I do is take them outside around back saying I wanted to show them my peach tree. These ladies are so sweet and polite, they're a bit deaf, besides they'll do anything I want.
I point to the side of the house. “This is where we'll put the rehabilitation room!” I say really loud. “Over here we'll have the methadone clinic!” The ladies are nodding, smiling, handing me new pamphlets, I'm slipping them fresh dimes. “AND OVER HERE'S THE ABORTION WING!” I see Mapes and Silver staring at us all upset; if they had a gun they would have shot me.
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What really kept me going, though, was Hank Zimmer. He was the last cowboy left besides me. Every once in a while I'd get discouraged, he'd cheer me up, then he'd get discouraged, I'd cheer him up…we'd both get discouraged, we'd take it out working on my new den, maybe his. What we used to talk about was how there were no hedges on Lindbergh in the old days, no fences, no locked doors. Everyone's home was your home; we all walked back and forth like it was one big yard.
That was long since done with now. You think the sheepherders would have anything to do with the other sheepherders? It was like the hedges we'd planted, the bushes and trees, had grown up so high they'd cut people off from each other. The only thing they wanted anymore was to pretend their neighbors weren't there.
I remember the last time he came over because it was just after I finished wallpapering the den. Ginger was whining to go out so I let her…that crap about leashes didn't bother me at all. Hank's telling me about school taxes going up again, how he didn't think he could pay his on social security, nothing else. “What we should do,” he says, “is find other people in our position to organize a senior citizens' group to see if something can't be done.” “Hank,” I tell him, “no offense or anything, but all of that what you just said is pure phooey. You join one of those senior citizens' groups, women's groups, queer groups, right away you put yourself in a minority, you're stuck there. All these people running around wanting to be in a minority just so they can feel all nice and persecuted. Forget it! We're humans, that puts us in the majority! We're humans, we should demand to be treated like it.”
Hank runs his hands up and down the wallpaper, admires the job. “Yeah, you're probably right,” he says. Humans. He never thought of it that way before. We go into the kitchen for some coffee. “Now what my idea is, we find out where Big Bill Levitt is these days, we get a petition together telling him how things have gone wrong here, all these young people moving in, taxes going up, forcing us out. He'll find some way to make things right for us. I'd stake my life on it.”
Hank nods, reaches for the cream. “By the way,” he says. “You hear about Johnny Holmes over on Hillcrest? The guy who once broke his chin on the high board at the pool?” “What about him?” “He's moving to Fort Lauderdale, him and his wife. They bought this old house there. They're going to fix it up nice. Have a garden and all. He made it sound very appealing.” “Oh, yeah?” I say. Then I remember myself. “Appealing, my ass. It'll collapse on him, he'll be back in a month. If you don't mind my saying so, Hank, change the subject before I throw up.”
All of a sudden we hear this godawful roar from out front like a car accelerating at a drag strip, then brakes squealing, only I knew right away it wasn't brakes. “Ginger!” I jump up, knock the coffee over, run outside…There's this car fishtailing away up the street. In the middle of the pavement in a circle from the streetlight is poor Ginger. I run over, put her head in my lap, pet her, but it's too late, she's crying, kicking her legs up and down. Behind her head's nothing but blood. Hank's next to me nearly screaming himself…There's nothing to do but put her out of her pain with my bare hands because there's no other way. Then Hank's got his arm around me, I'm shivering, crying, cursing, all at the same time. He takes me back to the house, his wife comes over, they have me swallow something…the next thing I know it's morning, Hank's buried Ginger in the back near the birch tree she always liked to curl up against in the sun.
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It was a while before I found out who did it. I kept on taking my walk around the block same as before, except I didn't have Ginger with me anymore. Maybe a month later I'm walking along past Silver's house, I see him out in his driveway with Mapes, a few other sheepherders. Silver is giggling. Mapes is standing to one side acting half-ashamed, but smirking, too. “Hey, DiMaria!” Silver yells. “How's your dog?”
I didn't do anything right away. We had a tradition in the old days, you had a score to settle you took your time. I waited for the first stormy night, went over there with two buckets of the cheapest red paint money could buy.
It was pretty late. I shined a flashlight at the lamppost which if you ever want to try it is enough to put one of those mercury vapor jobs out of commission for a while. Then I propped my ladder against the side of his house facing Mapes, went to work. The first cross stroke on the left was pretty easy, the upper right-hand one was tougher because I had to paint across a bay window O'Brien had put in years before. I was being careful not to drip any on the bushes. No matter what I thought of Silver I had a certain amount of respect for his shrubbery which had been planted by Big Bill Levitt back in the forties. It must have taken me two hours all told. I'm painting away humming to myself like it was something I did every night. When it was morning I woke up early, took my usual stroll past Silver's house, there on the side looking wet and shiny in the sun is the biggest, ugliest, coarsest swastika you ever saw, painted right across the side of his house big as life, the only thing bothered me was the upper right stroke was a bit crooked after all.
There were pictures of it in the paper, editorials saying Levittown had gone to hell which was true but for the wrong reasons. The entire Island's gone sour if you ask me. The Sound's gone sour, the ocean's gone sour, the dirt's gone sour. We used to grow enough tomatoes to last the winter, these great big red ones, now you're lucky if you get enough to feed the worms. Great South Bay? Sick clams, dead scallops, that's it. I remember it wasn't that long ago we used to catch stripers bigger than a man's arm, me and Scotty, right off Fire Island a twenty-minute drive away. I remember going there before dawn, cooking ourselves breakfast over a fire we made from driftwood, not seeing another soul on the beach…just Scotty, me, the sun, the stripers. Nowadays? Nowadays you can't even fish without getting your reel gummed up in oil; you're lucky to take one crap-choked blowfish let alone stripers.
Looking back what I think happened was that guys like Scotty, Buzz, Mike, and me had the right dream in the wrong place. Long Island's gone sour. Sometimes I remember the first day I came out here, a know-nothing kid, watching that farmer, that
last old farmer up there on that overloaded Chevy looking around saying good-bye at the same time cursing it once for all. Other times I walk around the house looking for something to do. What I usually end up doing is put the record player on. Mitch Miller doing “Exodus.” I put it on real loud. When they sing, “This land is mine, God gave this land to me,” I start singing, too. Listening to it makes me feel stronger, so I keep turning it up, playing it again. After that I fix lunch for myself. Tuna fish, a cup of soup. After lunch I end up staring out the front window trying to figure out who lived where in the old days. Know something? It gets harder every year. O'Brien's and Scotty's are easy, but sometimes I get confused on the others.
It's like this morning I'm looking out across the street trying to remember if Buzz or Rich Ammons lived where this sheepherder name of Diaz lives now, when who do I see over on Zimmer's lawn but the same real estate bastard I chased off my place, Mr. Charles, with two young kids showing them around. This time I was really mad. I ran outside without even a coat, started screaming at them, telling them I'd call the cops, break every bone in his miserable little body if he didn't clear out and leave poor Hank alone. But what happened next was that Hank was outside, too. He was pleading with me to stop, but by then it was too late. Real estate man and kids are running into their car, locking the doors, racing away.