“Let’s go Mets!”
What a fucking freak.
Walking back to the diner after my first Gebberts encounter, I toyed with the idea that the guy was in fact a ghost and that in reality I had been standing in an empty, abandoned apartment. Perhaps the limboed spirit of Gebberts had created the illusion that I was interacting with a living, breathing human in an actual home. Maybe the sanitary extremis was needed to combat the constant excretion of unholy astral ectoplasm bubbling and erupting out of various ghastly orifices.
I was terrified every time his name appeared on a delivery ticket. And to this day my ghost theory remains a legitimate possibility. Perhaps Gebberts the Cleanly Ghost will forever haunt 301 East 66th Street, eternally ordering BLT on toast, looking at some hapless delivery boy from a sidelong, stiff-necked angle that made his head appear abnormally small.
. . . Let’s go Mets!
eleven
Ciro asked me to work until midnight one Saturday evening. I had to ask permission from my mother. She said it was okay but that she wanted to pick me up when my shift was finished. I understood her concern but it made no sense because I already spent hours up until midnight walking all over the East Side, going in and out of buildings and strangers’ apartments.
At around eleven that night Lorenzo, the weekend manager, gave me a ticket for the building I lived in. The delivery was for apartment 8A, which I figured was one of the penthouses. The name on the order was Jones, which didn’t ring any bells. It was a weird order: two large OJs, two strawberry milkshakes, two double orders of bacon (a total of four orders), and lots of pickles.
Strange, but far from the strangest for sure. That dubious honor went to Miss A. Lundgren, a 400-pound woman who lived on East 68th Street. Miss Lundgren, dubbed “Circus Circus” by Ciro, had a standing order every Saturday and Sunday morning. At nine thirty a.m. she expected to be delivered to her door: half a dozen eggs sunny-side up, twelve sausage links, eight slices of toast with ten small packets of grape jelly, a triple order of home fries, and three large chocolate milks. Included as a courtesy in one of the bags was a full-size glass bottle of Heinz ketchup. The order stood for two years straight until one Saturday she didn’t answer the door and was never heard from again.
When I got to my building with 8A’s order in hand, the new doorman Jeff was on duty. I liked Jeff a lot. He reminded me of a character in an old Western who would play a sheriff or a train conductor. He was a tall, sturdy, healthy-looking guy. A Midwestern oh-my-gosh type with neatly trimmed hair and respectful, old-fashioned manners. He didn’t seem to belong in New York City at all.
But Jeff was far from straitlaced. He had a fetishistic obsession with ballerinas and would often hang around the entrance to the ballet school at Lincoln Center. He would lean against the building and pretend to read the paper but he’d really be watching the young dancers come and go from their classes. He wasn’t at all shy about sharing any of this with me and spoke of his fixation very casually. As if it was something that any normal American male would appreciate.
The girls who took classes there were young: from high school age down to like ten years old. Jeff would get this devilish twinkle in his eye when he described these aspiring dancers “in their little pink leotards and soft satin shoes . . . so small and petite.” He tended to like the girls on the older edge of the spectrum, thank god, and especially got off watching them smoke cigarettes and curse. Jeff claimed that ballerinas had some of the filthiest mouths anywhere.
I didn’t feel the need to be announced, so I didn’t tell Jeff where I was going. I was sure they were expecting me. The door to apartment 8A was about halfway open and I could see into the main room. There was a low wooden table in the middle of the space and not much else in terms of furniture. A reel-to-reel tape recorder sat on top of the table and its wheels were spinning. There were cabinet speakers on both sides of the table, their innards pumping out a loud, distorted drone which I guessed was most likely from an electric guitar—a fact deduced from the sight of two electric guitars that leaned against a wall. One guitar was red, the other black. The red one had holes in it, the black one did not. They looked like a happy couple.
There were lots of books piled on top of lots of big cardboard boxes bearing the name and logo of RCA electronics. Most of the books were paperbacks and were stacked outrageously high into towers that teetered on the verge of collapse. Tons of notebooks and yellow legal pads, scribbled-up sheets of paper, pens and pencils. Some of the cardboard crates had rows of empty bottles sitting on top, neatly arranged like chess pieces and segregated into wine, beer, and liquor sections.
Lo and behold. It was him. The blond man with the Iron Crossed head was crouching beside the low table, manning the tape deck.
Was he Jones?
His lady sat Indian style on an Oriental-looking cushion, her back to the door. I stood at the threshold holding their food. I could feel the heat slowly waning from the bacon as I waited for someone to notice me. For some reason I didn’t feel right knocking or clearing my throat or saying anything at all. I just continued to watch and wait.
There was no rug on the hardwood floor. I thought it looked like a cold surface to sit on even with a cushion. But the pair didn’t seem to mind. He hit a knob on the deck
