the truck for the holiday season. The kid was a stand-up guy, as far as Bianco was concerned. And Bianco had had some winners in his twelve years at United Parcel. Old men who couldn’t lift themselves, let alone a box. College boys who smelled like pot and gave you tips on how to do your job better. Even women, some who could haul boxes out of the truck like halfbacks. This guy James, he could lift, followed directions, and didn’t smell. So he was no ballerina. Fine. And he didn’t like to be called Jimmy. He once took a whole lunch break to make that clear. Whatever.
The kid seemed a little nervous today. Funny. Not like he drank all his coffee. Well, as long as he didn’t get in the way today, that was all right.
Bianco delivered in his old neighborhood of Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Getting there through traffic was a toothache on top of a hangover on top of a kick in the balls. The Brooklyn-Queens Expressway was a string of red lights; Metropolitan Avenue, no better. The holiday season made everything worse.
“I just think it’s stupid,” James said. He stood in the narrow doorway leading to the back of the truck and tapped his fingers on the wall. His left knee bopped like he had the palsy. “How come you can’t just pick me up at my house?”
“Rules is rules,” Bianco said.
“Like, do I have to go through their Homeland Security shit at the garage every day? They should know by now I’m not coming in with a bomb.”
Bianco laughed. “Homeland Security. Jeez.”
“I have to go all the way to Queens, which takes forever, and then they pass the wand over me, and then you drive me all the way back to Brooklyn, right near where I live. It’s just stupid.”
Bianco pointed out a Toyota in front of them. “This asswipe doesn’t know how to drive,” he said. “Use your signals!”
“I live, literally, like two blocks from here,” James went on, still tapping, still bopping.
Steel-gray clouds hung low in the sky. The weatherman called for icy rain later, and Bianco hated the idea of running back and forth under it, making this long day even longer.
“Right here,” James said. “I live on Lorimer Street, right there.”
“On Lorimer?”
“Yeah, two blocks in.”
“That’s funny. What number?” Bianco said.
“252. Why is that funny?”
“I grew up on Lorimer, right across from 252. Small frikkin’ world.”
“Wow, yeah,” James said.
“Well, it’s funny,” Bianco said. “As a matter of fact, I knew the family that lived at 252. Mr. Pannunzio, God rest his soul, he used to go crazy for Christmas. He would string lights from the two sides to his roof—you’d see him every year, hanging off his roof, I swear, it’s a wonder he never fell off and broke his ass—and it’d come out to this huge Christmas tree, you know. Beautiful thing. He’d have the Christmas music playing, wreaths, frikking dancing Santa, the whole nine.”
“Wow.”
“I wonder who lives there now? His daughter probably. She was gorgeous. She still do the lights?”
“I haven’t seen any Christmas lights over there.”
“No?”
“Yeah, I know people who live there. But not the owners.”
“That’s a shame.”
* * *
The Toyota finally turned on Union Avenue. Bianco continued on Metropolitan, under the overpass of the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, where James could see homeless people camping out, and moved toward the river.
James kept drumming the doorway, bopping his knee. “We’re going to see the Hasidim?” James said. “Or what I like to call ‘the Amish of Brooklyn.’”
“‘Amish.’ That’s funny. Yeah,” Bianco said.
They got to Berry Street then turned onto Division Avenue. They would deliver around the old Navy Yard first, where the Hasidim, in their long beards and dark clothes, lived.
James had come to Brooklyn from Seattle for a girl he’d met at a friend’s wedding. Open bar, slow dance, coatcheck room. He followed her to New York then lived with
The kid seemed a little nervous today. Funny. Not like he drank all his coffee. Well, as long as he didn’t get in the way today, that was all right.
Bianco delivered in his old neighborhood of Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Getting there through traffic was a toothache on top of a hangover on top of a kick in the balls. The Brooklyn-Queens Expressway was a string of red lights; Metropolitan Avenue, no better. The holiday season made everything worse.
“I just think it’s stupid,” James said. He stood in the narrow doorway leading to the back of the truck and tapped his fingers on the wall. His left knee bopped like he had the palsy. “How come you can’t just pick me up at my house?”
“Rules is rules,” Bianco said.
“Like, do I have to go through their Homeland Security shit at the garage every day? They should know by now I’m not coming in with a bomb.”
Bianco laughed. “Homeland Security. Jeez.”
“I have to go all the way to Queens, which takes forever, and then they pass the wand over me, and then you drive me all the way back to Brooklyn, right near where I live. It’s just stupid.”
Bianco pointed out a Toyota in front of them. “This asswipe doesn’t know how to drive,” he said. “Use your signals!”
“I live, literally, like two blocks from here,” James went on, still tapping, still bopping.
Steel-gray clouds hung low in the sky. The weatherman called for icy rain later, and Bianco hated the idea of running back and forth under it, making this long day even longer.
“Right here,” James said. “I live on Lorimer Street, right there.”
“On Lorimer?”
“Yeah, two blocks in.”
“That’s funny. What number?” Bianco said.
“252. Why is that funny?”
“I grew up on Lorimer, right across from 252. Small frikkin’ world.”
“Wow, yeah,” James said.
“Well, it’s funny,” Bianco said. “As a matter of fact, I knew the family that lived at 252. Mr. Pannunzio, God rest his soul, he used to go crazy for Christmas. He would string lights from the two sides to his roof—you’d see him every year, hanging off his roof, I swear, it’s a wonder he never fell off and broke his ass—and it’d come out to this huge Christmas tree, you know. Beautiful thing. He’d have the Christmas music playing, wreaths, frikking dancing Santa, the whole nine.”
“Wow.”
“I wonder who lives there now? His daughter probably. She was gorgeous. She still do the lights?”
“I haven’t seen any Christmas lights over there.”
“No?”
“Yeah, I know people who live there. But not the owners.”
“That’s a shame.”
* * *
The Toyota finally turned on Union Avenue. Bianco continued on Metropolitan, under the overpass of the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, where James could see homeless people camping out, and moved toward the river.
James kept drumming the doorway, bopping his knee. “We’re going to see the Hasidim?” James said. “Or what I like to call ‘the Amish of Brooklyn.’”
“‘Amish.’ That’s funny. Yeah,” Bianco said.
They got to Berry Street then turned onto Division Avenue. They would deliver around the old Navy Yard first, where the Hasidim, in their long beards and dark clothes, lived.
James had come to Brooklyn from Seattle for a girl he’d met at a friend’s wedding. Open bar, slow dance, coatcheck room. He followed her to New York then lived with
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