The Old Homestead

© Copyright 2011 Mark A. Nechoda.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Printed in the United States of America.

isbn: 978-1-4251-8131-4 (sc)

isbn: 978-1-4251-8132-1 (hc)

isbn: 978-1-4251-8133-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number:

Trafford rev.05/13/2011

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North America & International

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This book is lovingly dedicated to…

God, King of the Universe

And to my Mother,

Rosemary Therese Shamiram Elia Bouboulina Nechoda Ganatos

And to Sy Guth,

Publisher, whose gentle guidance is

forever appreciated

The Old Homestead

"I run to death, and death meets me as fast,

And all my pleasures are like yesterday."

-John Donne

Contents

Gregg

Krys

The Old Homestead

Gregg

"God’s finger touched

him, and he slept."

-Alfred Lord Tennyson

Step lively and watch the closing doors, blared the conductor’s voice throughout the train’s public address system.

Quite oblivious to the announcement, Gregg Hoskins, your quintessential New York commuter, unconsciously shuffled aboard the downtown I.R.T. Broadway local. He looked around the car for an empty seat, but even at 9 a.m., considered by most, the dregs of the morning rush hour, there wasn’t one to be had. Therefore, Gregg assumed the so-called ‘pole position,’ standing in the middle of the car and holding onto one of the vertical stainless steel supports.

Mentally taking an inventory, he reckoned there were about one dozen other persons standing throughout the car, all of whom were staring at the row of advertisements above the windows in order to avoid making eye contact with any of the other passengers. The doors closed abruptly, and the train departed Eighty-Sixth Street in a great lurch.

It was just one month and several days ago that Gregg had turned thirty-seven-years-old, an event which was celebrated with drinks, dinner, and a fracas at the Old Homestead in West Chelsea. The attendees that evening were the usual group of suspects: Gregg, Kathy, Krys, and Krys’ husband, Sam. A trio of those persons, Gregg, Kathy, and Krys had first met each other as frosh attending a small, upstate New York college. Immediately, the three had become extraordinarily close and best of friends, which gave reason for the faculty and other students to refer to them as the ‘Three Musketeers.’

During their senior year, the threesome tri-habitated in an apartment on West State Street. It was that particular living arrangement which gave rise to the epithet ‘the unholy three’ by the loathing, pious townsfolk.

The fourth person at Gregg’s birthday was Krys’ husband, Sam, who thought himself to be the outsider. At least, that’s how Sam perceived his relationship to the others. In reality, that thought could not be further from the truth. Both Gregg and Kathy loved Sam dearly, almost as much as Krys did. They all considered Sam to be their ‘Fourth Musketeer’.

Gregg was a real ‘looker’ as they say in the Upper West Side, or in the Village. Elsewhere, he would merely be described as ‘handsome’ or ‘attractive.’ Many considered his eyes hypnotically alluring as they were an unusual and startling deep cobalt-blue. His hair was raven black and combed like Rudolph Valentino’s, and he still used Brylcreem, a hair dressing considered passé by most men.

Gregg’s complexion, although an indoor ‘barroom pallor’, was clear and bright, and every facial feature was perfectly shaped and symmetrically balanced. Gregg’s was the perfect face, if there was ever such a thing.

Godblessit! Gregg looked so damn good, it didn’t matter what the current style was. Gregg created his own style… wardrobe, hair, et cetera. FACT: Gregg could sport a burlap wheat sack and make it look sexy. With his boyishly handsome face and those deep cobalt-blue eyes, Gregg could have easily been a highly-paid male model… he could have been a contender. Alas, that wasn’t the case. He was blissfully content in the highly creative role as a producer for NBC Radio’s Monitor, a title Gregg has held for the past ten years, commencing his rise through Monitor’s ranks from a lowly ‘go-fer’.

Gregg was standing by his pole when he felt someone from the seat behind him tugging his Burberry trench coat. Gregg looked over his shoulder to see a toothless old man, who had a very concerned look upon his weatherworn, wrinkled face. The old man pointed at Gregg, "I wouldn’t stand there."

Gregg immediately took a small hop backward to look up where the stainless steel pole was riveted to the car’s ceiling. Seeing nothing unusual he asked, Why not?

"’Cause I don’t want to! Ha, boy! The old man was laughing, if one could call it that. Actually, it was more of a laugh-wheeze. He was wheeze-laughing and slapping his knee. Hee hee, yessiree, Bob" The old man was guffawing as he sucked heavily upon the air, elbowing the persons who sat on either side of him. He also winked at those two people to make sure they ‘got’ his joke. They did. They were giggling quietly in their seats as were several other passengers in the vicinity.

Their tittering made Gregg a trifle angry and he could feel his face flush with embarrassment. He rolled his eyes and sighed heavily, C’mon Buddy, don’t bust my chops.

A brief explanation is required here: If one doesn’t know the man one is talking to in the subway, or in fact, anywhere in New York, he is referred to as ‘Buddy,’ ‘Mack,’ or ‘Pal.’ Women don’t have such luxury. They are simply addressed ‘Lady.’

The old man’s wheeze-laugh had subsided into a rasping snigger. He gently tapped Gregg’s right forearm with the back of his hand and toothlessly smiled, shrugged, and winked at Gregg to silently convey that he was only teasing and it was okay for Gregg to laugh too.

Gregg was having none of it, though. Gregg looked at his watch, then at the ceiling, then at his watch again…and again at his watch, and again at the ceiling, hoping the old man would leave him alone.

A reprieve for Gregg crackled over the train’s P.A. system. Seventy-Ninth Street. Next stop is Seventy-Ninth.

Thank God, Gregg blurted. At this time of day, the next downtown local is only five minutes behind Gregg’s train. He resolved he would ditch the old man by alighting at the Seventy-Ninth Street station and wait for the next local.

As his train began braking, Gregg was thrown off-balance for a split second, causing Gregg to feel a skosh embarrassed by his lack of a firm stance.

You see, in New York, trains do not merely stop or start. The trains accelerate like hell and they brake like hell, and New Yorkers are steadfast in the belief that only they know how to perfectly ride the subway. They become embarrassed if they totter because people might think they are the tourists.

By contrast, the tourists don’t give a damn. They reel wildly and laugh loudly because they’re truly having fun. To those tourists, the subway is just like one, big, wild, jouncing ride on the Coney Island Cyclone for a lousy fifty-cent subway token.

The train eventually stopped and the doors sprang open. Gregg coyly delayed his egress and remained standing at his ‘pole position’ for at least five seconds, then stepped very lively from the train. He darted around to hide behind one of the I-beams at the station, and leaned over a tad to ‘watch the closing doors.’ Immediately, the train heaved downtown and after it had jolted a dozen feet or so, Gregg could clearly see the pole where he had just been standing… and an empty seat behind it, which another standee was claiming for herself.

Someone tapped Gregg’s shoulder. Furget somethin’, Bub? Gregg immediately knew whose voice was asking the question.

He shut his eyes tightly before pivoting around on the ball of his right foot then slowly opened his eyes, becoming disgruntled to see, once again, the old man’s toothless grin. Who, me? Forget something?

Gregg had neither carried a bag nor a briefcase that morning, so he began patting himself to take an inventory of his other possessions. He could feel his wallet, then his keys and the money in his trouser’s front pockets and finally the Watermark pen in his breast pocket. Noooo, you must be mistaken, Gregg said rather firmly. "I haven’t forgotten anything."

"Not true! You furgot me! exclaimed the old man, who began to wheeze-laugh again while he slapped Gregg’s shoulder blade with his left hand. He clutched and held onto Gregg’s right arm for support while he bent over slightly and shook his guffawing head. Hoo boy, that’s a (cough) good one (wheeze, chortle). I got you that time (sputter, gasp, laugh)."

Gregg was appalled by the old man’s confrontational behavior and looked upon the man with utter disgust. He took several steps backward in order to create more space between him and the old man. Look, I gotta get to work. Why are you doing this to me?

"To you?" The old man denied the allegation, "What do you mean ‘to you’? You’re the one who got on that train and you’re the one who got off."

Don’t act stupid with me, Gregg ordered. "You know exactly what I am talking about."

The old man’s face imploded into deep thought. He stroked his chin with his right hand and his skyward eyes darted about. Nope. Can’t say that I do. His eyes came to a rest when he looked at Gregg with a rather serious expression and shook his head in affirmation. "No, that’s right, I don’t. I don’t know exactly what you’re talking about."

Gregg was noticeably irritated with the old man’s odd behavior and loudly exhaled an exasperated sigh. He walked to the platform edge, leaned over, and while he silently prayed, looked uptown to see if the next train was on its way to rescue him.

In the distant darkness, Gregg could see the faint set of headlights of the next downtown local waiting to connect with the express at Ninety-Sixth