New Beginning

Lawmakers thinking clearly managed to get the following tossed from the corona relief bill: mandatory early voting, ballot harvesting, requirements that federal agencies review their usage of minority banks, and provisions curbing airlines’ carbon emissions. Unfortunately, funding for PBS and the Kennedy Center remain. Millions that might do enormous good on the front lines of the current battle will be directed elsewhere. Such is the swamp… Here’s a shout out to the following companies, which are going to manufacture masks: MyPillow, mattress-maker Eclipse International of NJ, The Tablecloth Company of Paterson, NJ, L.A.-based apron-maker Hedley & Bennett… Ford is assisting General Electric Healthcare with ventilator production; Bendt Distilling Company of Dallas County is producing and providing free hand sanitizer to local law enforcement. Kudos to everyone else who has stepped up… Here’s a headline that makes one want to shout with outrage and laugh at human folly at once: “Ole Miss apologizes for fundraising letter reminding donors to revisit their wills.” Impeccable timing, guys.

I may live to regret it, but I’ve started a novel, possibly a novella, that will most likely be a mystery. As of now, I’m not mentioning corona. Since I posted what I thought might be the first paragraph weeks ago, I’ll start with the second:

Since the New York Post had raised its price to two bucks, he bought it only on Sunday, as there were occasionally coupons that allowed him to recoup at least part of his investment. A box fan stood before the radiator. He’d placed a couple of pillows against it and opened the blinds before the middle window that looked out on the courtyard of the co-op. He placed an afghan on the floor. His mom had knitted it long ago. He had another he used for his afternoon nap. Having just turned 70, he needed more sleep each year, especially since he didn’t drink coffee. He’d never married, knowing he’d never be satisfied with just one woman. He hated cheating, although he had done much in his lifetime, almost all of it petty, little of it sexual, as his relationships had all been brief, most very brief. He wondered if he would be able to eliminate it entirely before he left this world. Although people often praised him as a good guy, he did not believe it was true. A good person married, had kids and devoted his life to his family. Then again, he had a natural instinct to beat back a swelled head.
He leaned back and opened the paper, starting from the rear. It usually took him an hour-plus to finish it, scanning most items, reading only a few thoroughly. He nearly bypassed the murder on page three. His eyes spread at the sight of the photograph he assumed was the victim, who was wearing hoop earrings, which had always driven him wild. She looked exactly like a girl from his high school graduating class. He’d been looking at the yearbook just last night, trying to match a Facebook friend request to a guy on the same page. The article listed her as unknown.
After lunch he headed to the 68th Precinct, a ten-minute walk, his cherished copy of The Legend in tow. The June day was glorious, the type that made it seem all was right with the world. He was wearing white shorts and a navy blue polo shirt. He had compared the two photos several times to make sure he wouldn’t be wasting the authorities’ time, even though cops in this neighborhood, Sheepshead Bay, had a fairly easy go of it. Although he was positive it was a match, he was uneasy as he entered the two-story building.
He was greeted by a woman at a desk, to whom he revealed his purpose. She dialed a number and soon a middle age man appeared. He looked familiar.
“This way, sir,” he said. “I’m Detective Marino.”
These days he was surprised whenever he encountered an Italian-American cop. So many ginzos had moved to Jersey and Long Island.
They settled on opposite sides of a desk in a setting that seemed surreal given the hundreds of cop shows and movies he’d viewed through the years. It was quiet, however. He wondered if it had anything to do with it being Sunday.
“Did you play softball?” said Marino.
“Flames league until 1990, when I was 40. Geez, good memory. That was 30 years ago, hard to believe.”
Marino’s eyes spread. “You’re 70? I thought you were my age.”
Nick was surprised. “Really? I thought me foolin’ people with my age was history. It’s good to know.” Hadn’t the doctor who performed the colonoscopy said the same thing? Why was it so hard to believe?
“You have more hair than I do.”
Nick ran a hand over his closely cropped gray mane, which he cut himself the first of each month.
“And you look younger than a lotta cops in this precinct.”
Nick was glad he’d come. “Just don’t ask me to run after somebody. My hips’d fall apart.”
“So what’s on your mind?”
Nick explained. Marino was intrigued.
“Did you know her?”
“I doubt I ever said a word to her. It was the height of the baby boom. There were 5400 kids in the school. I’m positive we never had a class together. I would’ve been starin’ at her all the time.”
Marino chuckled. Nick recalled how shy he’d been. The sexual revolution had rescued him.
“I’ll send a message to the detectives in charge. Thanks for comin’ in. Leave me some contact info just in case.”
He handed Marino one of his old business cards. “I’m retired, but all the stuff’s still the same.”
For 40 years he’d worked the mail-room of a middling publishing company, the last 20 as the supervisor, a good living that enabled him to travel extensively. The firm was swallowed by a conglomerate. He was forced out after a couple of years. Fortunately, he’d saved a lot of money and was able to wait until 65 to maximize his Social Security payments.

Back in the day:

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