New York Memories: Stories from Another Time and Place

By Dante Santacroce

A collection of short stories about a boy growing up on the streets of New York City in the 1930’s into the 1940’s, and how World War II changed everything. Dante Santacroce was born in 1929 in New York City. Living on 27th street in his youth was a special yet grim experience. Determined to make it out of the city he ignored his counselor’s suggestion to attend trade school, and instead struggled hard to get a high school degree. Despite his average grades, as luck would have it he applied to Georgia Tech University in Atlanta for the winter quarter and because of the many freshman drop-outs, he was accepted. In addition to being an architect, Dante was the director of the Underground Theatre in Atlanta for 44 years. Despite his professional success, deep inside he has continued to be that little boy from the streets of New York City, always wondering why he was lucky enough to make it out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Aug 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781483489087

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New York Memories

Stories From Another Time and Place

DANTE SANTACROCE

Copyright © 2018 Dante Santacroce.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-8909-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-8908-7 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 08/01/2018

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1

NICKY THE ICEMAN

T he day starts out the same as any other weekday morning. I’m driving towards downtown Atlanta, Georgia where I work now as an architect, a world away from the streets of my youth in New York City. My son Eric is in the passenger seat. His high school is near my office, so I usually give him a ride.

The convertible top of the small Fiat Spider is down and as we make the turn onto Courtland Avenue, patches of the morning sun are peeking down through the tree branches and cast shadows across the old red brick buildings with fire escapes that hover above the road.

Just ahead is the spot on our drive where I will gun the accelerator, sending the car speeding over a bump making our stomachs lift and then drop. A feeling that always reminds me of the Cyclone roller coaster at Coney Island. That bump in the road is Eric’s and my special secret.

As we approach, my mind drifts back towards the twinkling sunlight. I can’t put my finger on it, but the reflections on the brick buildings remind me of Twenty-Seventh Street and Second Avenue in Manhattan, where I grew up.

The entire block is gone now, wiped out. Every building has been demolished and removed. Just desolate, bleak, vacant lots all the way up to Second Avenue. All that remains of my street are three faded fire hydrants. Stationary lone sentinels of the past.

Life was so different then. Playing stickball in the street and dodging traffic to catch up with a tiny rubber ball. Being totally oblivious to the dangers that surrounded us, just the fun and excitement of living for a game. At the same time there was so much pain, confusion and great sorrow. I think to myself, how in the world did I make it out? That little boy from New York City, who always felt so uncomfortable in his own skin. I drifted back to that time, that long ago faraway place, hidden so very deep inside of me. I wanted to go home.

Slowly, the colors and images of my old neighborhood began to reappear with such clarity. It’s the late thirties, another summer is beginning, and for me it’s Saturday all week long…

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The morning sun shines through the bare kitchen windows of our tiny apartment. Fragments of white light glitter across the worn linoleum floor, quietly announcing the start of another hot and muggy summer day.

We live on the top floor of a three-story apartment building, four if you count the stoop. There are no doors separating the rooms in our cramped apartment, except for the door that guards the bathroom.

The heat forces me from my bed, and I seek relief by the living room window where I settle down to enjoy the morning ritual of – The airing of the mattresses. It always amazes me how frail, tiny women no bigger than me, can lift bulky mattresses and pound them into submission with the tenacity of a two-hundred-pound man until the mattresses are thoroughly sanitized, and only then are they allowed to return to the sanctity of the bedroom!

It is only eight o’clock, and already the women in black shawls have begun their daily vigil at their windows. Birds of prey waiting patiently for the day’s parade to commence, and as usual it begins with the morning cry, Nicky, twenty-five cents piece of ice!

Nicky is the easiest person to spot on my block. He patrols the street all day long, winter and summer. On the mornings when he appears at our apartment door crying Iceman!, he rattles the door with his large fist making sure we hear him. The door opens and the first thing you recognize is Nicky’s warm smile, then his dark flashing eyes. Mama says his thick, curly hair reminds her of a wheat field.

I love our summer mornings together. Nicky is a devoted baseball fan and loves the New York Yankees. The first thing he does after putting the large block of ice in the ice box, is sit at our kitchen table and tell me all about yesterday’s game, while Mama fills his cup with strong coffee and lots of cream and sugar. I know nothing about baseball, and Nicky is dying to tell me. He wants me to be a Yankee fan.

But before we can visit, I have to empty the water pan under the ice box. I hate sticking my hands under that dark foreboding place where I know a mouse is waiting to get me. I bang the side of the ice box to alert the mouse that I’m coming.

Big man, afraid of a mouse! He loves teasing me.

It is difficult balancing a shallow pan filled to the brim with ice water. It always spills before I can reach the sink, but once the ice is in the box and the pan is empty – it is baseball time!

I get comfortable at the kitchen table, all wide eyed and enthusiastic supporting my head with my arms, a child about to be told a fairy tale. It doesn’t matter to Nicky that I am sitting in my underwear. The important thing is we are talking baseball!

Did ya hear that DiMaggio got three hits! he would begin excitedly.

That’s great. How did his brother Dominick do?

Forget Boston, when we git a hold of dem bums next week, we’ll murder dem! he brags.

How did Dicky do? I have just learned he is the catcher for the Yankees and one of my favorite players.