Frank Georgalis – Writer

To the Victors Belong the Spoils (Article II)

 

 

The Johns of New York City

“Of all the problems in New York City,” William continued. “Of all the homeless and all the uncountable ills by which the city is stricken, one of the mayors picked on the men who solicited prostitutes, commonly known as Johns. He ordered his police to arrest all the Johns, put them in jail, confiscate their car, suspend their driver’s privileges and notify their wives, as if those men who looked for some harmless and artificial temporary love, were the cause of the city’s problems. Understand that the mayor did not have to make a new law, the law was there, sleeping on the shelves of justice, and he simply told them to wake up the law. And one dark night a large number of New York’s finest hid like coyotes in the doorways and corners and started their mission with zeal. That ruthless act, that executioner of privacy did not last very long, because some of those captured Johns turned out to be the mayor’s backers and members of his administration. Many of them winded up above the law, but others, not being politically connected or not having the big funds to defend themselves, were ruined for life, while the city still remained in its filth with some of those Johns fattened the number of the homeless. One of those Johns was a friend of mine, who being six feet four inches tall weighing over 290 lbs, when he was approached by two cops and ordered to hit the ground, he refused. The cops, having the law on their side, guns on their belts and clubs in their hands, did not lose anytime; they hit my friend on the head and he, defending himself against brutality, and blinded by the injustice and anger, broke on of the cop’s arm and the other’s the collar bone. He was finally brought down by other cops, beaten up, tied up like an animal, taken to court and not having big money to buy a good lawyer, was convicted of attempted murder charge and the cops were given a medal of bravery and my friend was sentenced twelve years to jail. It’s needless to say that he lost his two children and his wife. These are the dormant and un-enforced laws, you talking about. These are the bullies who were elected by hook or by crook, more by crook, and were given a pen and turned it into a sword, becoming the foes of the people.

There is another law most of the states have passed. The law of DWA, which is, driving with attitude. If a driver doesn’t show the utmost fear and respect to his Majesty the cop, is guilty of DWA. Another law has been passed in some states. Repeating offenders act. If a diver receives more than three moving citations, I think, within three years, he is a felon and goes to jail for a long time. This is a free country. Free for the bullies to roam. If these politicians had a tender cord left going to their heart, even rusted, they should pass a law for the cops not to drive DWE; driving with an evil eye, looking for their prey. The traffic police should be unarmed. There are not many people who are looking to shoot down cops. The cops should be peace officers not intimidators. It is not a sign of peace when a cop stops a vehicle and proceeds with a shown club and half-drawn pistol, ready to fire at a moment’s notice, as if he is living in the Old West. How long do you think that this bully ridden society will remain calm without rebelling.” These people should not be policemen they should be clam diggers for they don’t have other skills. The government should try to make people content, not contained.

“Of what I have said up till now, I shall change something. Those arrogant politicians and those brutal and obnoxious cops, are not the bullies, they are the true and obedient sons of Mother Nature.

 

 

Look what Mother Nature does. She creates earthquakes where hundreds of thousands get smashed under the rumbles and die, and some of them die slowly, then if that is not enough, she comes down with millions of tons of snow covering the roads, so help cannot get to the survivors and they die from hunger or freeze to death. Was the mayor of New York City more cruel, than nature? No. Hell no.” If mother nature is God why must we love him?

“People say that I am ill-tempered and I growl, I have news for them, I, William Haggerty found a new way of fighting nature; I shall be the opposite for my sake and piece of mind. I shall have mercy, I shall feel remorse and I shall ask for repentance.”

I will say that when he was expressing his thoughts, which were above and beyond my power of thinking, he made no sense to me. Not alone he made no sense, but he sounded crazy. I shall now lean on the old phrase and say that he could have been a genius. Geniuses are walking the fine line that divides sanity from insanity.

Is it necessary for the reader to know whether my friend William Haggerty was a common man or genius, sane or insane? I think yes, if the reader wishes to understand what my friend was thinking and saying, the reader has to know, “Where Haggerty is coming from”.

His friend listened to him the whole afternoon sitting in a quite bar. The friend realized bitterly that was all a lie, a horrible lie of a man who had reached the end of his rope. All those repentances, all those emotional outbursts, all those promises that came down with rivers of invisible tears to turn a new leaf, he believed none. The lie got fatter when the friend heard him saying he was going to Switzerland to repent. His friend did not tell him that if a man wishes to repent, if he is stricken with pure remorse, he should return to the scene of the crime. He did not tell him that in order for him to repent would be to go to the doorsteps of all the women he had fooled and made promises, which he didn’t keep, to fall down on his knees reverently in front of them, who lost hope and lust for life, waiting for him to make them honest, and ask for forgiveness. But he failed to understand that Haggerty’s sins were not confined to women only, but it is not necessary to mention anything else at this point.

 

 

He did not uproot himself from his native town Deal, New Jersey, although it had entered his mind to uproot, he was heard saying that he was taking a sentimental journey to Switzerland. It was a sentimental journey, which means “getting in touch with his inner feelings” it was the right time to repent. Although he was an ill-tempered and a growling man all through his life, he knew the true meaning of sentimental, and he was not one of those men whose false pride is bigger than a football field, who think and compare sentimental to sappy, sloppy, syrupy, schmaltzy corny and gushy. Oh, no, he was not one of them, he had feelings of love and that was one of his problems. This time, he went alone to Switzerland, leaving his ill-tempered self behind

It was not his first visit to Geneva Switzerland, but everything looked different to him, because he left his ill-tempered self behind. There he stood all alone looking at the lake that he heard so much about. It was calm and clear and many flying species, some looking for a handout from the two legged creatures  humble gulls, whose gluttony was stronger than their fear of danger or death, would eat from peoples’ hands. He sat on the wooden bench and finding nothing else to think about, he followed with his eyes the people around, hoping to place his finger on a connection with their world and his. He was one more anonymous man in the city of illustrious anonymous people. He tried to judge the people by examining them from top to bottom, but the final verdict was full of loopholes. Being a man of women, William immediately noticed that the ladies for hire, or the ladies of the night, one would refer to them, except it was afternoon, were more in numbers, than the ones one can fall in love and take home to mama. Even though his attire was proper for the place and time, wearing a black suit with white stripes, abundant brown hair with some romantic waves, a pianists hands and joyful eyes, he was still anonymous; more anonymous than mysterious for no one had taken the slightest notice of him to see any mystery behind his true blue eyes. Even though close to the age of fifty, his elegance was still notable.

He was there for more than hour, observing more than thinking. Suddenly, the lake, as most big lakes do, stirred up, like a scorn woman, and a runaway gust of wind blew like a rebel, frightening the seagulls by throwing some leaves at them.

William Haggerty, who was a man of little tolerance, would had stayed there and endure and challenge nature’s madness, but having turned the new leaf in life, walked away with rapid strides. On the way out of the pier, instead of buying flowers from the local pretty flower girl, he picked one from the public garden. The pretty vendor caught him in the act and said softly and sweetly, even though she felt the other way, “those flowers don’t belong too you, Monsieur, why did you pick them?”

“They belong to God, and I am one of God’s children,” he replied emphatically.

“They belong to the city, Monsieur,” she returned with a touch of sneer. “And you are not a child of this city.”

He stopped gazed at her with calm features and a vague smile, “Two things I admire about you Mademoiselle;” said Haggerty, “One is that you are not a street girl and the other is you are street smart.”

He walked on alone with aim without staying around for a response. While walking, he noticed on the Pont du Mont-Blanc the flags Confederacy, because of the wind, were taken down speedily and a café was open for business. He walked in and sat at the most isolated table. Almost immediately the waitress, long dark hair and olive skin, brought him a glass of water and asked him in perfect English what he wished.

“The doctor mentioned to me that, passing a long night next to a beautiful woman and a cup of coffee in the morning would kill me. Obeying my doctor, I haven’t drunk any coffee for three years now. I shall eventually die and it will be very unfortunate not to know if coffee would have killed me sooner. Now I must find out if the doctor was right, before nature restricts me only to the thrill of drinking coffee,” he concluded almost with a sigh.

“I see,” said the girl, after a brief pose. “I noticed something peculiar about you, Monsieur; you are great bragger or lucky at love and you believe in God and the hereafter, for willing to take a chance like this,” she remarked.

“Aren’t you?”

“Bragger?”

“No!” said William, smiling lightly, “Aren’t you a believer of the hereafter.”

“I have my beliefs and my doubts. My doubts are keeping me alive.”

“Because if I were certain that there is life after death I would stop eating to die, so In can go to a better life,”

“Excuse me, mademoiselle, why are your doubts about God keeping you alive?”

Because if I were certain that there is life after death I would stop eating to die, so In can go to a better life,” she replied smiling. “ I watch what I eat and drink and with whom, but I never drink coffee regardless how the night was passed. As you see, I am still alive.”

“I shall overlook my doubts and follow my beliefs. There may be a better world, so let me go against the doctor’s advice; bring me a cup of strong Greek coffee, Mademoiselle.”

“I am sorry we have no Greek coffee, but will Turkish coffee do?”

“Coming from a Greek mother, knowing the connection between Turks and Greeks, I will take Turkish coffee so I can read my destiny afterwards,” he said.

“Monsieur, I shall help you to read your destiny.”

“Are you Greek?” he asked.

“Better yet; my name is Penelope, my mother is a Gypsy and my father is Greek and he owns this restaurant, but I can read the cup better than my mother. In fact I was so accurate, my mother forbade me to read any more; she thought that I was a sort of a freak. But I do it sometimes free of charge, so people won’t take me serious. I believe that being a coffee cup reader is part of God’s wish.  God sends down many signs indicating the future, for us to be prepared for the good and the opposite of the good.”                                                                                 “Why are you saying the opposite of the good instead of saying the bad?”                                                                                                                                          ”I am superstitious;  I never use the “B” word, besides there is no such word, the word “B” comes from the exaggeration of the good.”

“My lord! I never thought that I would enter Delphi, the Greek oracle of Apollo, here in the middle of Geneva Switzerland.”

“No, this is only a café and I am just a waitress, the daughter of the restaurant owner,’ she replied modestly.

“Let me bring you the coffee.”

Haggerty, as soon as the waitress glided away to her mission, made an attempt to survey the restaurant as any new comer with love for life would do, but it was interrupted by the waitress’ return carrying the coffee.

“My mother died when I was very young,” began William, making room for the coffee in front of him. “And my father married an Italian woman from whom I learned why Italians make gestures with their hands while they talk, particularly when in angry mood, but I never learned from my real mother why most Greeks are involved in restaurants; not only here, but in America and around the world?” William was saying, while Penelope placed the coffee with a great dexterity on the table.

“In ancient times, they were involved in philosophy, once they realized that philosophizing does not make any money, they abandoned philosophy and took up cooking,” she returned with a wide smile. She then made about face and headed for her post. She suddenly stopped, turned and asked, “Why do the Italians make hand gestures while talking?’

“That’s their way of bragging about themselves,” he replied without the slightest hesitation. Penelope, being the daughter of a Greek father, was not street smart, but she blushed with some embarrassment as she followed her way back to the kitchen.

He drank, in the customary habit of the Turkish coffee drinkers, romancing it in slow sips. Once it was finished, he turned the cup counter-clock wise, shook it gently to stir the remains and placed it up side down on the saucer so the coffee grounds would have sometime to write his destiny. While waiting for his destiny to be written he sensed somebody looking at him. With a casual gesture of his head saw a man with half his face covered with the lapels of his rain coat, pretending to protect him from the strong wind that was blowing outside behind him and his head was covered with a sport cap. At that time William did not elaborate on the sighting, in fact he discounted, placing the blame on his being tired from the airplane trip and thought of it as a mild paranoiac imagination. Before he had time to turn the cup and read hid future in the coffee grounds, the waitress’ hand picked it up and brought close to her eyes as if she had suffered with myopia.

William watched her with eager eyes once he saw a slight degree of astonishment on her face. As he kept his attention on her, he noticed the astonishment slowly turned to bewilderment.

“I must tell you that coffee cup readers are a dime a dozen, like psychics. Very few of us are good,” said Penelope, holding and reading the cup. “Even the good ones sometimes are wrong, so whatever I tell you don’t take it seriously.”

“Go on, surprise me! I promise, I won’t,” he said, indicating with his hand to proceed.

“I see a pleasant event, like wedding to take place very soon,” she read slowly. “You are the groom.”

“I?” he asked astonishingly, “I don’t even have a girlfriend.”

Penelope raised her eyes looked at him with an ironic smile. “It maybe the one you spent last night with.”

“Oh, her. She left and went back where she came from,”

“Where did she go?”

“She went back to Shangri-La. You know.”

“Yes I know. That is the place on the Himalayan Mountains of Tibet, where the inhabitants live long and harmonious lives, but when they leave Shangri –La, they get old and die. I don’t blame her for going back”

You, Monsieur,” she replied calmly. “I also see an unpleasant event that takes place on a boat and will result in death.”

“I thought I was going to die drinking coffee,” replied William almost seriously.

“I did not say your death. I cannot tell,” she replied, putting the cup right side up on the saucer. “There will be more than three people involved, but only one death.”

Her reading and the manner, which was delivered impressed him—or rather made him pause and think. The sense of the absurdity that he felt up till now was beginning to exercise its well-known fascination into a sort of nervousness. What seemed to worry him at this point, the waitress remained a strangely sympathetic creature as if what she was saying she believed.

“May I see what you see?” William asked, without making a physical attempt to reach for the cup.

“No, Monsieur, you cannot read what is written. Here is the human instinct that comes into play.”

He listened gravely to her every word she uttered, and made no answer. Penelope, seeing the worrisome look on his face, sat down on the nearest chair to him, laying her hand on his knee amicably, begged him with a fixed smile not to take everything seriously.

“The death; do you see it as accidental or intentional?” asked Haggerty, holding back a degree of sudden anxiety. “You see, Mademoiselle, I have a boat back in New Jersey…”

“I see a big boat, but nothing else,” she replied in voice, as if she regretted her utterance of her findings.

That last comment sustained him and brought him back to reality and out of the river of silly and imaginary complications.

“However, sometimes I do go out fishing…Out to sea. The sea which looks pure, safe and friendly, suddenly, turns into an angry beast and I have to fight my way back to shore,” he said.

And again she pleaded with him to forget what she had said. She stood up bid him goodbye with a slight bow, walked away swiftly and entered the kitchen door a little distance from him.

“I am your mother, Penelope, and due to my age I see things you do not see. I told you not to read cups again,” said a middle age beautiful Gypsy, standing by the long table, which was laden with all kinds of food, and had evidently monitored Penelope’s reading of Haggerty’s cup.

“Mom….”

“Shh!” said the woman, indicating silence with her hand. “Readings are predictions of events of the future. Many of times these events shall never see the light of day and many times, I noticed that your predictions are not just that, because of you and your celestial skills, do come true, in other words your predictions are the awakening of the events whereby they would remain dormant and eventually die if they were left untold. So, my stern advice to you is to stop the awaking of events.”

“Are you claiming that I am a witch, mother?”

“I could imagine no claim that would be stronger and more absorbing that the claim of the unpleasant awakening of unpleasant events. It sounds merely bizarre. You are not the first one or the only one whose predictions come to pass; this has been done before by amateurs and laypersons, unintentionally and unaware. You must have heard, “Bite your tongue” or “Knock on wood”. That goes to show you that predictions were made, some times, in a matter of fact style and came to pass.”

“Okay, mother you made your point,” replied Penelope in a apologetic — or retreating way.

Feeling some uncertainty about the man who was watching him and the readings, William stood up, left enough money for the coffee, the reading, and a nifty tip, collected his thoughts—at least he seemed to, and walked out onto the street without looking at the man who stood a little ways from the entrance door, still staring at William.

The wind had died down and everything became as silent as the dance hall after the music stopped. He moved on with lingering strides, stepping around the beds of flowers, thinking of nothing specially. But then he heard steps behind him and came to a halt when he rounded the corner, making a partial turn. The man following him stop short at the corner but, William kept on the sidewalk, stopping in front of a hardware store looked at the display behind the plate glass with no special interest, turning his head to the man who was following him that precise moment a young lady appeared from nowhere and collided with the strange follower. The follower looked at her savagely, without uttering a word of apology, which was something uncommon in a civilized city like Geneva, went on his way with hurried steps. Haggerty turned towards the window to continue his boring observation. There were a dozen of pedestrians; some walking between him and the display and some slipped around him.

Seeing some unusual tools in the showcase, with prices on paper signs, neatly inserted in each item, Haggerty became more involved, not knowing the value of the Swiss Frank in comparison to the dollar. Suddenly his eyes encountered a reflection in the glass of the young woman who had collided with the strange follower. With a closer and more interesting look at her, he realized that she was a real beautiful, young and healthy girl, holding a white bag of evidently groceries and a loaf of bread was poking out. Staring at him in an obvious manner, her eyes revealed intent and sincerity, accompanied with faint and controlled smile.

“Are you passing the time or are you lost?’ He heard the girl saying.

Her voice rang in his ear as unintentional birth of a thought in his head, having nothing to do with what he was thinking not knowing it was directed to him.

He suddenly saw her coming closer behind him and asked the same question.

“Why are you asking me that question?” he inquired, turning around rather slowly.

She changed the bag from the left hand to the right and she pulled her hair back with the hand she had just freed for that purpose as if she were searching for a response.

“You are looking at the carpenter’s tools and you don’t look like a carpenter to me,” she replied with a French accent.

That peculiar question, coming from a dream girl, knowing his limitations, did not affect him or taken seriously and he didn’t bother to answer. For indeed what answer could he make? He just turned around and continued his observation. In that process, finding it himself rude he went on with the surveying hoping to locate something not related to carpenter’s selection of tools.

“This is the first time that I see these many left handed hammers. You must have many left handed people in this country,” he replied, as he turned and faced the young woman.

“I am not. You saw I changed the bag to the left hand to brush my hair with the right,’ she replied without displaying any hint of a smile; that he liked.

After that remark and a few other of the same kind of light humor, the young girl bid him good buy and left.      She swaggered away with so much elegance and gentility, he bestowed lengthy admiring glance at her long shapely legs, and her alluring body motion, which seemed to be habitual with her, till she was out of sight. Haggerty walked away, and headed on the opposite direction, still thinking of her.

He suddenly heard quicksteps approaching. That sound of steps was followed by a girl’s calling,

“Monsieur!”

Turning around quickly, he saw the young girl rushing towards him, holding onto her bag with both hands.

“Monsieur! Wait a moment. Are you American?”

“Yes, I am,” replied Haggerty, waiting for her.

“Then, I would like to invite you to my house for lunch if you haven’t had lunch yet,” she said breathlessly.

“Why? Have you taken pity on me for being an American?”

“No. I have taken pity on me for having no one to cook for.”

“That sounds impossible. Are all the men blind in this city? Even if I did have lunch, I would lie to you just to take you up on the offer. Besides if you can cook half as good as you look, you must be the best cook in town if not the country,” he said.

“Ah!’ returned the young woman triumphantly, “Let’s go

continued the young woman, handing him the bag which he accepted eagerly, “Lets not waist any more time. It’s almost two o’clock, and I want to get home and cook for us before my land lady closes up the kitchen for the day.”

“I don’t understand,” he said, walking rather quickly along side of her.

“That’s simple. I live in a small rooming house. I have a room all to myself and I have the kitchen privileges up till two o’clock. As you see I am in a hurry because I am running late. I wasn’t going to cook for noon for just myself, but than I thought of having lunch with you, I have decided to cook.”

“No reason for that; we can have lunch out. I am buying,” he said.

“No! I want to impress you with my cooking. They say in France a la femme ‘Entre le couer d’un homme avec sa bonne bonne cuisine.’” she declared.

“What does than mean?”

“The way into a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

“Oh, you want to get into my heart?” he asked almost breathlessly, from rushing right next to her.

“Monsieur, all men deserve a break, even from an insignificant creature as me. Yes, of course; if I can accept you in mine.”