SHORT STORIES by Our Own
 COLUMBO COMMERCIALS and JINGLES for our clients:
FADE IN: INT. BY THE JEWELRY COUNTER  [TOTAL TIME OF COMMERCIAL: 60 SECONDS]

 
Inside the shop of Jewelry Creations by Shirley Witt in Colonial Heights, VA a customer meets the lovable Lieutenant Columbo.  
 
 
ANNABELLA
 
Well, do you like it, Lt.?
 
LT.COLUMBO
 
Like it? I love it! Stupendous! Tremendous! Brilliant! Stunning!
 
ANNABELLA
 
Excuse Me, excuse me!
 
LT.COLUMBO
 
That's mine line, Sweetheart!
 
SHIRLIE WITT
 
I'm, Shirley Witt, my line of expertise is jewelry. We offer a wide selection and from scratch we create it to your perfection. Call me at (804) 526-1516
we make romance happen!
 
LT.COLUMBO
 
Beautiful! Bellisimo!
 
SHIRLIE WITT
 
So are you, Lieutenant!
 
LT.COLUMBO
 
Now, that's a funny thing!
 
(Jingle)
 
For all dedications and that perfect fit ...
It's Jewelry Creations by Shirlie Witt;
Quality service ... expert advice ...
The finest jewelry store in Colonial Heights!
Beautiful gems ... a perfect fit ...
Jewelry Creations by Shirlie Witt!
 
Call:(804) 526-1516
 
FADE IN: INT. IN FRONT OF WALL PIECE[TOTAL TIME OF COMMERCIAL: 60 SECONDS]
 
 
Inside Anne's Visual Art Studio
LT.COLUMBO
 
Excuse me! My niece is getting married and I got to make all the preparations. Well, not just me, the wife too, of course. You know our niece is like a daughter to us; the flowers, the food, champagne and, would you happen to know of a good photographer?
 
ANNE HART
 
Do I know a good photographer?
 
LT.COLUMBO
 
Are you asking me? I'm asking you!
You know, my nephew has some fine art paintings he would love to sell on commission.
 
ANNE HART
 
First things first! What did you say your name is?
 
LT.COLUMBO
 
I didn't say, Ma'am. I'm Lt.Columbo and I was asking you aboutgetting a great photographer.
 
ANNE HART
 
I'm Anne, and this is my gallery that promotes fine art; and I'm the expert you want to see for all your family photography!
 
LT.COLUMBO
That's fantastic! You know a picture is worth a thousand words.
 
ANNE HART
 
You know it's a funny thing ...
 
LT.COLUMBO
 
Excuse me! That's my line!
 
(Jingle)
 
She's the owner of a downtown gallery ...
The best in fine art and family photography.
You'll love her smile and work from the start ...
When you need a photo pro, just call on Anne Hart
 
Call (804) 644-1368
 
 
 
 
 
A SHORT STORY BY JULIA B. HEBNER
 
Wes called for the third time this morning, this time asking if Grandma was abusing her invisible parakeet. Verfunny, I told him. He knows it’s not funny at all. Mama worries about Bebe and Baby, her two visible parakeets, so much already that no one is going to even breathe the words “invisible parakeet” in this same room with her. She fusses over those birds: special food, two cages (they’re still in the smaller one, looking at the empty larger one, getting used to it before she transfers them), spray bottle showers at the same time every day, the cage covered and uncovered on a schedule, fresh air if it’s just the right temperature, protected from breezes, etc. Does this woman need an invisible parakeet to worry about? She’s already way too stressed out about the two she can see! So I’ve been trying to find the invisible parakeet on my own, maybe stick it in the cage with the other two. When she’s out, I go upstairs to her apartment with a plastic can of baby powder, fluffing it out on any stir in the air. But the most I’ve caught so far is little bird feet tracks. Mama has noticed a bit of white dust here and there where I didn’t get it cleaned to her standards, but I still haven’t caught the thing. He’s too fast. And how come he doesn’t poop all over the place? I really don’t get that. Every other flying-around-loose parakeet leaves piles of birdie doo-doo in front of mirrors and on the backs of chairs. Now I’ve started setting traps for him. My mom comes down the stairs dressed all so cute, to go somewhere, and before she even has her car out of the driveway I’m sneaking up her stairs. I unfold a small cloth with parsley and millet in front of her mirror and stand and hold the net perfectly still right over it. I’m getting cramped. Damn Wes forever telling me about the invisible parakeet in the first place!
An American Rally
"Parade of American Classics"
        
By Richard C. Burriesci

Calling all cars; Calling all cars from the early and mid 20th Century! Whether they be they a Buick, Cadillac, Checker, Chevrolet, Chrysler or Cord. Whether they be a Desoto, Dodge, Edsel, Ford, Henry J, Hudson or Imperial. Whether they be a Kaiser, Lincoln, Mercury or Nash; or an Oldsmobile, Packard, Plymouth, Pontiac or Rambler and of course, Studebaker and Tucker, too! Let them be big or small, with fins or fastbacks, convertibles and sedans. Gather ye on the highway from Detroit where they were born to our nation’s capital. The trucks and buses should join in as long as these millions of vehicles are all American with toil and talent. Drive these cars of yesteryear down old Route 66, one behind the other stretching an unbroken chain of two-tone metal machines that America fell in love with in a time when the United States was a beacon to the world.
 
Let each of these American classics roll down narrow roads, turnpikes and eight-lane highways, with each having an American flag waving from the tips of their radio antennae. Hoards of cheering crowds from every race and field of endeavor demonstrate our diversity united in pride and honor of being an American citizen. Hopefully, an impressionable percentage of 300 million people that stretch from the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans will be represented. From the borders of Canada and Mexico, also, in Hawaii and Alaska let church bells ring and car horns blare to herald that Americans can and will come together; whether they be waning World War II veterans, senior citizens or our nation’s youth! In spite of this economic crisis and nasty war, we witnessed this same experience numerous times before and always shone our brilliant gold. This is the classic gold within us! We Americans living in the 21st Century should all join in the parade of American classics because God tells us that this is not limited to our incredible inventions; –  it lies in the pit of our passions, to be the Phoenix rising from our ashes and rediscover ourselves. 
THESE CARS ARE POSTED IN THE ORDER WHICH THEY ARE MENTIONED ALPHABETICALLY IN THE ABOVE ARTICLE: 1958 Buick, 1955 Cadillac, 1959 Checker, 1957 Chevrolet, 1934 Chrysler 1953 Cord, 1956 DeSoto, 1956 Dodge, 1958 Edsel, 1967 Ford Mustang, 1952 Henry J, 1953 Hudson, 1959 Imperial, 1955 Kaiser, 1960 Lincoln, 1955 Mercury, 1950 Nash, 1959 Oldsmobile, 1952 Packard, 1948 Plymouth, 1957 Pontiac, 1960 - 1962 Rambler, 1952 Studebaker, 1948 Tucker
This is the kind of car Bill Palminteri owned when I met him in 1970. Bill proof-read and edited this article, ergo I represented FORD with this model in appreciation for the assistance William Leo Palminteri has always given me through the years
IT WAS WORTH THE VISIT JUST TO SEE THIS 1934 CHRYSLER AIRFLOW
When I was eight, my favorite battlefield was in the backyard near a tall elm which was planted the same year our house was built. Although it offered a generous amount of shade during the hot summer months, its roots made it difficult to construct a proper theater of warfare. For this reason I was compelled to move off to the side near the high hedge that served as a shield from our neighbor's yelping rottweiler. Using a teaspoon I carved furrows into the hard-packed dirt. I lined my miniature trenches with small flat pebbles, staggering the joints the way they did with sand bags in the movies. I carefully molded the rolling hillsides and sloping valleys with the dirt I had dug and placed broken branches and larger rocks between the opposing forces. My men were green - good or bad, it didn't matter, they were all green. When not engaged in warfare they existed peacefully together in the cellophane bag that they had arrived in, locking arms, legs - even weapons. Embracing like brothers, which I was convinced they were. But when equally divided into opposing forces and laid out on the battleground, they became bitter enemies. Some knelt, rifle to cheek, elbow twisted outward. Others sat defiantly, legs crossed, rifles raised, gun stock to helmet. There were some who could only stand at attention, their rifles welded to their sides or over their shoulders. A few were too ill to fight, deformed at the factory - a withered arm or leg, a defective base. These I gathered up and tossed back into the bag. This was not a parade, this was combat. My favorite were the prone riflemen. These were compact soldiers that needed no base to support them. They could be placed almost anywhere. They never retreated, they never surrendered. Made for the trenches, they were true warriors. They often died first, sometimes in wholesale numbers as hand grenades and mortar fire tore apart their lines. I often flipped them over, one by one, as phantom bullets tore through their ranks or sent them flying through the air as imaginary bombs fell all around them.. The carnage was massive. The destruction devastating. All died heroes. It was glorious! Over time my network of trenches and craters began to expand. New battles required new battleground. I was running out of room. I tried to fill in some of the deeper holes and even scattered some grass seed left over from last year's attempt to cultivate some sort of lawn. But it was useless. Nothing ever grew. Soon even the small tufts of crabgrass and weeds that spotted our narrow slice of land like bread mold, disappeared too.
 
One day in early summer, after a long and brutal battle, I sat on our front stoop admiring the lawn across the street. Mr. Casey had done an exceptional job that year. His grass was deep green and perfectly cut like the tight nap of an expensive rug. The edges were neatly trimmed and straight. I looked back at my own yard, at the ashen landscape where I fought all my wars and built my many battlefields. Not even a dandelion grew. I went to the basement and found an old garden rake, crusted with cement. I gave it a whack against the oak tree and scales of hardened mortar dropped to the ground. Beginning at the south corner of our backyard I began to rake the dirt as best I could until it took on a freshly tilled texture. I filled in every hole and every crease in the earth. I patted down the dirt and raked again. When this was done I moved on, working in small square girds. Every so often I'd have to stop to move a bicycle or a garden hose, or beat down a stubborn crown of dirt. Sometimes my rake would catch on a root and I'd yank hard until it snapped free. My t-shirt was soon soaked with sweat and caked with dirt. I kept raking. Gradually I made my way to the front of the yard. The sun was now very low and that mysterious nocturnal string-section of crickets and katydids was just tuning up. When I reached the farthest front corner of the yard I had a small pile of rocks, bark, broken toys, marbles, Popsicle sticks, cigarette buds, broken glass and a wooden yo-yo which I tucked into my pocket. I shoveled the rest up and dumped it in the trash. I leaned on the rake and surveyed the job. The ground looked like one broad swatch of gray-black corduroy. I put the tools away and sat down on the front stoop.
 
Twenty minutes later I saw the bus stop at the corner. My father stepped off with two other riders. He lit a cigarette and stared after the bus as it continued its route. He sighed and let a funnel of smoke stream from his nose. He straightened his cap then reached for his nightstick which hung from his wrist on a rawhide cord and gave it a flip. It spun like a pinwheel and slapped his palm. He started down the street, stepping to the cadence of his twirling stick, his polished badge flashing prisms of color like a tiny mirror - the slow, steady pace of an weary beat cop. When he came to our house he stopped at the gate and picked up the paper. He scanned the headlines, refolded the paper and looked down at me.
 
"Where's your mother and sisters?"I shrugged. "I dunno.""What'd you do today. Did you play?"
"Yeah.""What'd you play?""Stuff, but nobody was home, I had to play by myself."
He tucked the paper under his arm. "It's a hot one, today," he said wiping dots of sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. "I guess summer is here to stay."
"Mom says we can go to the beach tomorrow if it don't rain," I offered.
He looked over at the yard, then peeked around the corner of the house. "We'll see," he said. He didn't seem surprised at the expanse of freshly turned soil; at least he didn't say anything. "We'll see," he said again, his voice a half octave higher.I tugged at his leg. "Dad?""Ummhum"
"Can we plant some grass sometime? Everyone else has a nice yard except us."
He pinched the cigarette and flipped it across the yard. It landed with a puff of red ash.
"I don't have time right now son. We tried it last summer, remember. Nothing wants to grow here. Sometimes there's just not much you can do. Ya know?""Yeah, I know Dad. I thought we could have a yard, too."
"We have a yard - .'"I mean a nice one. One you can play in, do things."
He climbed the stoop and tapped the newspaper on my head. "Where'd you say your mother was?"
"In the kitchen I guess.""You coming in for supper?""In a little while."
He tucked the paper under his arm."Dad, ya' see what I did - ."
 
He let the storm door slam behind him. I sat and watched a few cars go by and threw some rocks at the fire hydrant near the street. When I couldn't see where the rocks hit anymore, I went into the house. My father was already settled into the chair next to the TV. His gun belt and cap hung from the hall closet door. My mother was in front of the stove mashing a pot full of potatoes while my little sister played near her feet. She called to me: "wash your hands before dinner, young man, you've been playing in the dirt all day."I went to the bathroom, turned on the faucet and waited for the water to warm up. I stuck my hands under the tepid stream but immediately yanked them back. I examined the broken blisters on my palms and on the inside of one thumb. I waited for the needles of pain to subside then picked up the soap and lathered up. That done I turned the hot water up as far as it would go and shoving my hands under, accepted the sting I knew would come - a real trooper.
 
A week later while I was seated on our overturned milk box tightening the chain on my bike, a long flatbed truck trailering a rusted forklift pulled up in front of our house. Short, dark men, flashing sinister looking machetes and speaking in a language I did not understand, hopped from the truck and swarmed among the pallets of sod which were deposited around the house like stacks of poker chips. The men worked quickly, flipping the mats of grass, kicking them into place, trimming around trees and bushes and along the walkway. My father stood near the front stoop and smoked. When the job was completed he went into the kitchen and returned with cold cans of beer which the men drank in hurried gulps. From where I sat I could see their adam's apples slide up and down their leathery throats like they were swallowing a pouch of marbles. They wiped the foam from their upper lips with the backs of their hands and bowed with gratitude as they placed the empty cans neatly on the walkway. I took my bag of soldiers and went to the back yard where I always played. I sat down near the elm. I dumped the bag onto the grass and began arranging my men. But something was wrong. My battlefield had been buried beneath the sod. Not an inch of ground was left exposed. There was no way my soldiers could stand among the tangled blades of grass. Even my favorite riflemen would not lay flat. I tried jabbing them into the spongy mat of grass but it was useless. As I sat trying to devise an alternated plan a shadow fell across my indolent army. My father crouched down and squeezed my ankle and gave my leg a playful shake.
"How do you like our new lawn, pal?""Good," I said.
"You're going to have to help me take care of it you know.""Yeah, I know dad."
"Wha'cha doing here?""Just playing."
He picked up one of the soldiers and turned it in his hand. "Can I play with you?"
I pitched the soldier I had been holding against the base of the elm.
"They won't stand like before - it’s this stupid grass." "Here -" 
He knelt, and folded back a piece of sod like he was opening the cover of a book, revealing a crust of hard dirt.  "This will be yours, okay? This patch right here. We'll leave it just like this - and we won't tell anyone. Only you and me will know about it.""And we won't tell no one?""No one," he said, his hand on my head, his fingers making tiny circles on my scalp. Then he stood up and snapped a small branch from the tree and sat down next to me. I could smell the beer on his breath mixed with the smoke of countless cigarettes. He began scratching an S-shaped trench in the dirt. "This is what you do," he said, widening the sides with the tip of the stick, scooping out the dirt with the tips of his fingers.
"You need to build your trenches first - see?"I nodded.  He selected three or four of the men lying in the grass and sorted them in his palm. "Then you take your men. You see how they're made? They go on the line, like this ...." I nodded again. "You want these guys in trenches like this - okay? You see the way they hold their rifles? You want the barrels just over the edge ... like this ....""Unhuh."
"Then you take the others, over here ... the ones sitting down ... you watching son?" "Yeah, Dad."
"Once you've got them set ... you want to keep them spread out, you know, to protect your flank. See how I'm doing it?"He was kneeling, sitting on his heels and dropping soldiers in the shallow trenches. He continued with his instructions, pulling more men from the bag. " … Got to protect your high ground. That way the enemy - these men over here - they can't attack you without exposing ...."
 
And on he went. But I wasn't listening anymore. I was on my back, stretched out on a blanket of new grass with my hands locked behind my head and the sweet breath of summer on my neck. Smiling up at the crimson blush of the mild June evening, at the gently nodding treetops and at the low spark of the evening's first fireflies; feeling like I was being held in a wide cozy palm and drawn in tight to a cool, moist breast - the world's own heartbeat steady and gentle across my back. And it wasn't warmth exactly or even love for the man kneeling over me that I felt stirring deep inside my anxious soul, it was something more ... like ... like peace.

In the years to come I would cut the lawn many times. I would spread fertilizer in the spring and pull weeds in the summer. I would set out sprinklers when the days were dry and I would rake leaves in autumn. I would do all these things for all the years I lived at home. And our yard would always be green and well kept.  Yet when I think on it now, I cannot for the life of me recall doing any of these chores,  though I know I did. There's even a home movie where I can be seen dragging our old push-mower from the garage and charging into the tall grass, the handle bouncing just below my chin. But I do not remember it. I only remember that one afternoon in the early summer, earnestly raking our measured plot of earth and waiting for my father to return home from battlefields I could not yet imagine - but are forever reveled by fathers everywhere, one small patch at a time .
"GREEN"
by WES PRUSSING
This is a true story Wes wrote as a tribute to his father Wesley Edward Prussing (1926 - 1981) who died at age 55 just a few years after retiring to South Florida from the New York City Police Force. He built a home for his son Wes and his new daughter-in-law, Lorraine. The senior Prussing died of a heart attack before becoming a grandfather.
CLICK THE MUSTANG TO WATCH VIDEO
WES CALLS AGAIN
CLICK STUDEBAKER AND SCROLL DOWN TO SEE THE WORLD OF STUDEBAKER ON THE INTERMISSION PAGE

DUNKIN DONUTS DINER

THE STUDIO CAFE

HOME OF THE SCREENWRITER SANDWICH

AND FADE IN FRIES AND SLUG LINE SLAW 

TRY OUR FAMOUS COLUMBO CHILI

WE SERVE THE BEST NEW YORK STYLE FRANKFURTERS BOILED IN BEER ONLY $1.50 EACH

Many times my mother and I ate here when I was a boy. She told me her father, Nicolo Rinaldo, would stop and park his Model T Ford at this very diner in the 1930's with my mother Sylvia and her sister on their way to their summer home in Syosset, Long Island

THIS WHITE CASTLE WAS BUILT IN 1936 AND IS NOW A JEWELRY STORE

Rich Burriesci's maternal grandfather, Nick Rinaldo, owned and drove only one car in his entire life. It was a 1916 Tin Lizzie Ford Model T such as this one above. He drove daily  to Belmont Racetrack and Syosset.

FOR THE LADIES ... 1956 Ford Crown Victoria

COURT SQUARE DINER IN LONG ISLAND CITY

on the way into Woodside, L.I., N.Y.

This diner was a watering hole for Rich Burriesci and his friends (scrambled eggs and home fries)

when he lived in Stewart Manor 1965-1974. It was more of a dining car in those years unlike this.

PERLY'S DELI RESTAURANT at 111 E. Grace
Street in Richmond, Virginia is the"unofficial"
headquarters of The Lincoln Studio
RICH BURRIESCI EATS HERE AT UNION STATION WHENEVER HE RIDES TO D.C. BY AMTRAK TRAIN

ONTARIO ROSE

1964 CHRYSLER TURBINE introduced at the 1964 New York World's Fair

1964 CHRYSLER TURBINE (rear view)

The 1955 LINCOLN FUTURA became the inspiration for the Batmobile (TV series)

1953 CHEVROLET Good Humor Ice Cream Truck 

THE LADY IN 1952

A HAUNTING PHOTOGRAPH OF THE BROOKLYN BRIDGE IN 1954
NYC 34TH STREET IN 1954

 

winter dreams from the sub tropics

by wes prussing

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Listen: the soft cadence of muffled footsteps when the snow is new and fine and as soft and feathery as goose down. Late at night a north wind washes over all the land, roaring over everyone and everything like the hysterical rushing of icy waters in some mysterious glacial stream. The sky is swept with vibrant stars. Vast and billowing nebulae rain down silver spears that blink silently and relentlessly in the motionless air. From far out at the galaxy’s edge a delirium of comets, suns and pulsating stars shower even more humming, crackling and hissing lights; painting a single new gray dawn among the millions of heaven’s galleries. Ice is everywhere. It grips the land and chokes the waters; it hangs from bent boughs and twisted branches, and along the lonely gables and eves of  frost-crusted clapboard homes. White erases all color and all texture. Everything is satin-smooth in a slick, elliptical mass of silver-blue.


Then slowly in the east, dawn arrives with a flood of new light. Soon the sun’s pale gold mixes with the earth’s agitated and ascending waves of heat and refraction, wrapping the misty valleys in ribbons of soft pinks, yellows and teal-greens. From north to south a polar rainbow arches high over the mountain peaks.


Winter arrives: virginal, cold, pure and obdurate. Portending not sleep, darkness nor decay… but birth.

CONEY ISLAND IN BROOKLYN circa 1930

BROOKLY BYGONES  

courtesy of Wes Prussing

A PICKLE FOR A NICKLE 

LUNDY'S OF SHEEPSHEAD BAY

HOME OF THE BROOKLYN DODGERS

COMING TO AMERICA

LIFE ON THE STOOPS

CLICK THE ARCHES FOR AN INTERESTING TRAIN RIDE ACROSS THIS BRIDGE IN 1899

youtube courtesy
of Keith Van Allen
CLICK THIS PICTURE TO ENJOY CONEY ISLAND OF THE FORTIES
CLICK PICTURE TO GO FOR A RIDE
ON THE CONEY ISLAND CYCLONE
CLICK THE TURBINE CAR TO ENJOY THE CONCEPT CARS OF THE PAST VIDEO

CLICK CAR FOR TUCKER CLOSEUP

CLICK CADDY TO VIEW THIS CAR AT GRACELAND

WE SERVE CRABS ... WE SERVE EVERYBODY!
COFFEE IS $1.65 AND REFILLS ARE FREE!
I TELL THE WAITRESS TO FORGET THE COFFEE AND GIVE ME A REFILL!
THE SIGN SAYS:  WE SERVE BREAKFAST ANYTIME!
I SAY: GIVE ME FRENCH TOAST IN THE RENAISSANCE
ENJOY OUR DINER HUMOR
DIXIE DINER IN PETERSBURG, VA 11/22/2009
LAUGHTER IS THE BEST MEDICIINE BUT OUR CHICKEN SOUP IS BETTER!

Customer: Give me a hot dog.
Waiter: With pleasure.
Customer: No, with mustard.

Two attorneys went into a diner and ordered two drinks. Then they produced sandwiches from their briefcases and started to eat. The waiter became quite concerned and marched over and told them, "You can't eat your own sandwiches in here!" The attorneys looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders and then exchanged sandwiches.

Two men were in a restaurant and ordered fish. The waiter brought a dish with two fish, one larger than the other. One of the men said to the other, "Please help yourself." The other one said "Okay", and helped himself to the larger fish. After a tense silence, the first one said, "really, now, if you had offered me the first choice, I would have taken the smaller fish!" The other one replied, "What are you complaining for; you have it, don't you?"

This guy goes into a restaurant for a Christmas breakfast while in his hometown for the holidays. After looking over the menu he says, "I'll just have the Eggs Benedict."

His order comes a while later and it's served on a huge fancy chrome plate. He asks the waiter, "What's with the fancy plate?"

The waiter replies, "There's no plate like chrome for the hollandaise!"

 

SILVER DINER @ INNSBROOK GLEN ALLEN, VA
WHERE RICH AND HIS BROTHER DON MEET FOR A BLUE PLATE BREAKFAST. GARY GRUNAU JOINS THEM
El Espanol a dia: leccion uno @ St. Francis Prep (Brooklyn, New York) in 1969. El Espanol al dia: leccion dos in 1970 and El Espanol al dia: leccion tres in 1971.  Three years of intensive Spanish with Irish and German teachers who did their job well but my brain was out for lunch – and it must have been chomping on pasta instead of paella and burritos.  I can remember the above very well, also, muchacho, muchacha bonita, si, no que tal or hola!
I know what these words mean and surprisingly, por favor and gracias too!  You have heard the cliché with regards to mathematics “Why do I need to learn math?  Who needs math when we grow up; we have calculators for that sort of stuff.”  Well, here’s one better – who in the U.S. of A. needs or would actually find themselves needing Spanish?  Maybe Lucille Ball in 1939 when she fell head over heels in love with that Cuban guy named Arnaz.  That was then and this is now.
I work at Greyhound, not for Greyhound, but as a courtesy to their faithful bus washer service a guy like me working on premises might be lucky enough to get a free ride to and fro to wonderful New York City.  This was the case on a beautiful Friday afternoon in the dusk of March time.  Now here is how the deal works:  I am at the mercy of knowing the bus driver; not much of a gamble at my home base in Richmond, Virginia but hitching a ride from Port Authority the following day where hundreds of unfamiliar Greyhound personnel flank the ten tier terminal is a scary matter.  For this reason I brought $400 cash with me.  My trust in not being robbed in New York has certainly increased since the reign of Mayor Rudolph Guiliani.  Then halfway to Baltimore I realize that he’s been out of office over two years now.  With only the clothes I wore minus a jacket since the weather at departure was heavenly, our bus forged on under a black sky arriving in the city lit with neon lights at 10:30 pm.  I was all set for a thirty-two hour marathon.  I knew I could nap on the bus.  Actually, I knew better.  When our bus stopped for a short break at the Baltimore Travel Plaza I flew out of my seat, took two steps on the pavement and belted out screaming “Oh God! Oh my God! Starting a fierce gallop on one leg “the pain, the pain! Of one horrific charley horse.  Needless to say, the look of panic on the faces of fellow passengers and the bus driver from Jamaica in his thick island accent asked “Holy plantinas!  What’s happened with you?”  Did I fail to mention that at times I am high strung when under pressure?
The excursion in my heart of harts was going to be a wonderful experience.  My first stop arriving on the New York sidewalks was to question an approaching native “Which way to the Westway Diner?”  This was the very beginning of discovering I was speaking a foreign language in the land that bore me.  I was speaking English – and with several nods and shrugs they were answering me in a language I recognized but doesn’t understand – El Espanol al dia: 21st Century.
I get to the Westway at 10:45 pm, the menu was on dinner rates.  The breakfast specials started @ 5:00 a.m. so instead, I go to the subway to get the one day Fun Pass for $7.00 that allows you unlimited rides on the subways and transit buses good for one calendar day.  I had to kill 90 minutes before activating my card after midnight ushering in Saturday morning.  On every street corner you can see New York’s finest.  I approach one; a quite husky Irish looking cop wearing his cap.  I am almost 50 years old and I’ve been gray for over ten years.  The close crop hair of this police officer has no gray so I think he’s in his late twenties too young to remember what I remember about New York City and Long Island.  Other than asking him how to get to this and there, he tells me that he can’t be bribed and he’s 47 years old.  He went to school with Jerry Seinfeld in Massapequa.  I told him that I used to go to Massapequa for White Castle Hamburgers and that I’m on my way to Queens to initiate my epic voyage by downing a few belly bombers and a fish and cheese fillet.  He told me to save my tokens because a new White Castle just opened their doors a few weeks ago on 37th Street.  I ordered my usual.  The cashier smiled and took my money; the meal was superb.  I sat looking at the historic White Castle pictures that adorned the walls.  Then, the now familiar jargon between employees behind the counter –Spanish filled the room like a Latin radio station.
To my astonishment Chinatown pulled their wares in and rolled up their sidewalks by midnight.  The adjacent Little Italy was going to sleep as well.  “Am I in the city that never sleeps?”  I pondered.  In Little Italy I found myself sitting on a private park bench across the street from the Luna Restaurant next to the parking lot Cher dropped off Johnny Cammereri’s car in the movie Moonstruck.  I was taking in a cooler but beautiful ambience of the Lower East Side where a hundred years ago my grandparents Cologero and Crucifissa Burriesci lived in this very neighborhood – immigrants from Sicily. A couple obviously in love came out of the restaurant and seeing them embrace from across the street, I started singing, “That’s Amore!” while I was still sitting down.  They wandered over to me and asked me if I was hungry.  I’m always hungry.  They gave me their leftovers in a bag sealed in two aluminum dishes with cardboard tops.  This was like manna from heaven so I decided to investigate and consume the contents against the doors of a closed St. Patrick’s Cathedral.  I opened the lids; in one dish totally untouched was the best gnocchi and mean sauce I ever had.  In the other, the biggest and thickest pork chop covered in hot peppers and onions also untouched.  It’s now 3:30 a.m. and it starts to rain.  I make my way over to the many colorful flags for nations that punctuate the heart of Rockefeller Center.  I saw NBC Security setting up for the morning Today Show with Lester Holt and Campbell Brown.  I asked them what time the “never missed a day” guy with the long white hair and moustache comes by since he’s always up front. “Einstein” they replied “he comes later but Einstein has got pull with us coming faithfully all these years” – and they told me all this is perfect English.  It started raining harder so I sought cover – scrap Today.
I headed for the subway to Woodside, Queens. I got there too early to visit my late mother’s lifelong friend Celeste Nielsen and her daughter Denise.  A couple cups of coffee @ Dunkin Donuts and even though it was still early at 6:30 a.m. I trekked four blocks in a steady rain to their front door.  No answer – back to St. Sebastian’s; even the church was closed until 7:00 for morning Mass.  The school looked the same since it was built in 1924.  I remember the same ugly green trim when I started first grade there in 1960. Now I was determined to wake them up; I have a schedule to keep.  I knocked and rang the bell three times and started walking away when just then I heard a weak voice just awakened.  Celeste, almost 80 years old, came to the door but she did not recognize me.  I was prepared for her to speak Spanish.  I identified myself and she gave me a kiss beckoning me to come inside.  I asked for Denise and she called upstairs on the telephone.  Now get this:  you must call long distance to even call yourself.  A recording comes on and tells you to dial one, the area code and the telephone number (charge is a local call).  By the time we figure this out it’s almost 7:30 a.m. I ask Celeste how come she didn’t know this.  She answered me saying that she never calls her daughter on the phone, she just hollers up the stairs whenever she wants her.  Denise came down and we three talked of old times when my mother was alive.  This was told in English.
The rain stopped and I was on my way to Maspeth via the busy by St. Sebastian’s to visit my Aunt Tudy (Virginia Carione).  I couldn’t find her house at first because somebody stole her donkey in the front yard.  The visit was short but nice.  She did not recognize me either; my hair was so gray and putting on the pounds.  Nobody of course expected me.  I had pictures of my grandfather, Nicolo Rinaldo; I wanted to give to her.  She wanted the one of her father taken in his barbershop in the year 1913.  I was on my way again and my aunt and her friend Charlie were on their way out anyway so they offered me a ride in their car to the train station. It was a very tight squeeze and a long mile and I was grateful to them.
This was going to be my last stop going further east on Long Island.  I was to take the E or F Train to 179th Street and walk upstairs to catch the Q36 Bus to the end of the line – a short visit to see my friend Bill Palminteri in Floral Park.  I know he won’t recognize me.  We spoke in recent times but it has been almost twenty years when I last saw him. Ladies and Gentlemen …
Now commence The Twilight Zone.  My previous visits mentioned earlier were longer than I expected so time was running out.  I had to be at Gate 75 in Port Authority by 2:30 pm to meet with the only bus driver I knew.  He told me Richmond the previous day that the bus he’ll be driving back to Richmond leaves NYC @ 2:45 Saturday afternoon.  All would be well except that in the thirty years I’ve been gone from New York there was a change I was unaware of.
The E train followed a different path – a new subway line drilled into the earth and completed my duration away.  The names of these stations bore some resemblance to what I have known and much later I have learned, that had I taken the F Train I could have spared my quagmire.  The last stop was Jamaica Center not the familiar 179th Street Jamaica Estates.  Now mind you, I am in Jamaica, Long Island not Jamaica The Island.  I started asking questions – “No comprende!” person after person all spoke Spanish;  the signs were even in Spanish.  In my frustration I started asking for Q32, Q32! No one knew.  I was told to walk eight to ten blocks to catch a bus into Nassau County.  No habla Inglesia!  I’m asking bus drivers for almost an hour! Finally, out of desperations I cry out in the middles of the street – Does anybody here speak English?  The crowd once smiling seemed to take offense and smiles turned to sneers.  Some started to approach me from all angles.  I dug very deep into my memory banks and gave one more yell – NUEVA YORK, YO TE AMO! YO TE  AMO!  The crowd smiled again and some cheered.  A bus stopped in the middle of the street and the driver stuck her head out the window.  She looked very Spanish but in perfect English she said “Where do you want to go?”  I said there used to be a bus you can catch on Hillside Avenue @ 179th Street and turn onto Jamaica Avenue and go all the way into Floral Park @ the Nassau line.  She said “Yeah, that’s the Q36 – you can catch that bus on that corner over there”.  Then I remembered there never was a Q32, it was the Q36!  Within a half hour I was knocking on Bill’s door.  He still looked just about the same at age 56 as when I met him thirty-five years ago. “It’s me, Bill” the voice he recognized. “Richie, Richie Burriesci? How the heck are you?”  I replied “It’s good to see you Bill, but I got to go now, I have a bus to catch – I’ll tell ya all about it.”  We talked a bit:  I talked a lot, like old times. It was a wonderful but short visit.  We’re both Sicilian – it’s all about “Familia.”
I was off and running and I knew my way back to New York City.  I got there in time but no one ever heard of the bus driver by the name of Walt Smith.  Nobody there knew me and in frustration I told the dispatcher this story and halfway through it I was on a bus-heading south to Richmond.  We stopped in Newark, New Jersey to discharge some passengers and pick up some others. We hit the road again;  I was very tired by now – missed all the stops, even Washington D.C. The next call I heard was “ We are now approaching the Richmond Terminal – please stay seated until we come to a complete stop” again all in perfect English.  ........................................................................THE END
"I'd Tell Ya All About It ... But I Can't Speak Spanish!"

 a true short story by Richard Christopher Burriesci

Copyright May 2003

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MS. SHEILA GOODMAN WITH ROSWELL

ROSWELL AND SHEILA GOODMAN AT MILLIE'S DINER MAY 22, 2010

"ME, MYSELF AND I"(A poem by Richard Christopher Burriesci circa 1990)

 

I'm just an ordinary fellow, a plain and simple guy.
The three best friends I have are me, myself and I.
This may sound egotistical but this is always true ... that the one person who will never leave your side is certainly always you!
So you better get to find yourself and like what you see, and then, only then can you truly be happy.

 
 
 
 

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