I
I’ve been going to Jake’s Deli most mornings for years. It’s one of many
neighborhood delicatessens in New York City, and it has all kinds of
great-looking things to eat and drink, even though there is little variation in
what I order—black coffee and either a sesame-seed bagel with cream cheese or a
cherry Danish.
The Deli’s décor
consists of tables and chairs, with an old-fashioned cash register perched on a
service counter. Next to the service counter, a glass case with several shelves
displays a variety of pastries, breakfast rolls, and bagels. On the back wall,
a counter supports equipment for preparing coffee, fresh-squeezed orange juice,
and other drinks. A large chalkboard above the counter lists available items
for sale and their prices. An open doorway leads to a back room for baking and
food preparation.
There’s always a line of
people waiting to order. Some order to eat inside, while others order takeout.
I always eat inside, relax, and read the Times.
Nothing ever happens in
the Deli. It’s quiet, except for the woman behind the service counter calling
out orders to Jake, the owner, and a couple of people who bake and prepare food
in the back room. The customers order, eat, and drink, and keep to themselves.
It’s like a collective ritual without variation, practiced every morning, day
in and day out.
But it was different one
morning in the late spring of last year. When I arrived, people at the tables
were exchanging remarks, and Jake stood watch at the cash register with a scowl
on his face instead of busying himself in the back room.
After I had picked up my
order at the service counter, I noticed there wasn't a vacant table, so I asked
a man and a woman if I could sit at their table. They said okay, so I sat down
and made myself comfortable.
‘The place seems
different this morning,’ I said. ‘People seem stirred up, on edge, maybe a
little more vulnerable than usual. Did I just miss something?’
‘You better believe it,’
the man said with a nervous chuckle.
The woman, who I assumed
was the man’s wife, started to explain, but the man told her to let him do it.
‘Me and my wife Bea here
came from our hotel around the corner. We was standin’ in line just inside the
door over there,’ the man said, pointing toward the Deli entrance. ‘We hadn’t
been waitin’ long when this guy jerked open the door and rushed inside. He had
an A-rab look about him. He wasn’t wearin’ one of those nightgowns that those
people wear with a sheet draped over their head, but he had dark skin,
jet-black hair, and a wooly beard. And he had a cold, crazy look in his eyes
like he just came over here from I-raq or one of those other A-rab countries.
He didn’t get in line. He just stomped over to the counter and demanded
service. He had one of those foreign accents that a lot of people have here in
New York City.’
I wanted to hear the
rest of his story, so I put up with the man’s provincial, bordering-on-bigoted
view of people who looked different from him, even though I knew I shouldn’t
have.
The man took a deep
breath, leaned forward, and continued to explain. ‘The woman behind the
counter, who was just finishin’ up waitin’ on a customer, told the guy he had
to get in line. But he insisted on bein’ waited on right now. When the woman
ignored him, he yelled at her and gave her a tongue-lashing like he was talkin’
to some low-class piece of trash. Glaring at him, she told him to get away from
the counter and leave. But he leaned forward and yelled, ‘You fuckin’ bitch, I’m
in a hurry and in no mood for your garbage!’’
Increasingly, the man
explained with his hands and eyes as much as he did with his mouth. ‘I gotta
hand it to that woman,’ he said. ‘She stood her ground. With her hands firmly
planted on her hips, she yelled, ‘And I’m in no mood for YOUR garbage! Now get
the hell away from the counter and leave!’’
‘Me and Bea couldn’t
believe our eyes and ears, and no one in line—not a single person—seemed to
give a damn about what was goin’ on. Everybody just stepped back from it and
let it happen.’
The man paused, caught
his breath, and said, ‘No sooner had the woman yelled at the crazy guy than a
big, burly man, dressed in a white outfit and cap, came out of the back room
with a ball bat. My guess is he had been listenin’ to what had been goin’ on.
Anyway, without hesitation, he stuck the big end of the bat in the crazy guy’s
chest, shoved him back from the counter, and yelled, ‘The lady said leave! And
if you don’t, I’ll come over this counter and beat the hell out of you!’’
Again, the man paused,
caught his breath, and added, ‘Well sir, let me tell you! The crazy guy gave
the big, burly man the finger, turned, and ran out of the place faster than you
can say Jack Robinson, slamming the front door behind him.’
‘That’s quite a story,’
I said, wondering how much of it was embellishment.
‘Well, it’s the
honest-to-God’s truth, and if you don’ believe me, you just asked Bea,’ the man
said, glancing at his wife. ‘Ever’body back home will tell you she don’t lie.’
‘That’s not necessary. I
believe you,’ I said with a grin.
When the brief chitchat that followed had run its course, the man and
woman wished me well, said their goodbyes, and left me alone at the table to
enjoy my second cup of coffee.
* * * *
Leaning back in my chair,
I thought for a moment. It dawned on me that it might be interesting to hear
the reactions of other onlookers to what had happened in the Deli. They might
make for interesting anecdotal material for use in the cultural anthropology
course I teach at Fordham two nights a week. In the next class, I planned to
raise the question: Is there a typical New Yorker?
And so, I decided to
attempt some table-hopping with the pocket recorder I always carried with me.
That’s not an easy undertaking in New York City. Most New Yorkers view
strangers who approach them with suspicion, especially if you announce that you
want to record what they say.
Nevertheless, I decided
to give it a try. Of course, I would introduce myself and explain to the people
at each table what I wanted and why I wanted it. And when I left a table, I
would thank them for their time and for helping me better understand the
incident from their perspective.
* * * *
A girl of about
seventeen sat at the first table I approached. She had dyed black hair,
powder-white skin, and facial piercings, and she was dressed in black leather
from her studded neckband to her boots. After she had agreed to give me her
reaction, I sat down across the table from her.
She began her reaction
without hesitation. ‘I was fifth in the fucking line,’ she said. ‘I was
sandwiched between an old buzzard with boobs and a belly and that hick couple
you were just talking to. The couple was obviously tourists—fucking
out-of-towners from somewhere like Kansas or one of those other nowhere places
on the other side of Jersey. I got a kick outa the shocked and awe looks on
their faces when that Looney Tunes guy was doing his thing at the service
counter. Big deal! That kind of shit happens in New York all the time. What can
I say? You get used to it. Besides, Big Jake handled it. He don’t take shit
from nobody.’
Scooting her chair back
from the table, the girl crossed her legs and let her arms dangle at her sides.
‘I was more focused on the old buzzard with the boobs and a belly in front of
me,’ she said. ‘Several times, it sounded like either his fucking stomach was
growling or he was squeezing out a fart. One time, I knew it was a fart for
sure because of the smell. Christ Almighty! The commotion with the Looney Tunes
guy and Big Jake, the owner, didn’t bother me, but it pissed me off that I had
some old buzzard blowing farts up my nose.’
I laughed, thanked the
girl, and headed for table number two, where a man and a woman waved me off
after I explained what I wanted and why.
* * * *
A young man in his late
teens or early twenties sat at the third table. He wasn’t eating or drinking
anything—just sitting there. He agreed to let me record his reaction to the
incident but told me it had to be quick because he was waiting for his girlfriend,
who would arrive shortly. There wasn’t an extra chair at the table or nearby,
so I remained standing.
Straddling his chair,
the young man looked up at me. ‘I was the next person in line to be waited on
when the crazy guy stomped up to the service counter and stirred up all the
crap,’ he said. ‘We New Yorkers get kinda crazy sometimes, you know, but that
guy was something else. And if it hadn’t been for his nasty behavior toward the
woman behind the counter, his theatrics would’ve cracked me up.’
The young man paused. ‘Funny
how some guys let their shit get in the way of what they want. Real dumb, I
say. It would have made my day, though, to watch big-ass Jake come over the
counter, beat the crap out of the guy, and toss him out on the concrete. Shame
on me, but that would have been a hoot and a half.’
Suddenly, the young man
jumped up, excused himself, and rushed over to a young woman who had come into
the Deli and motioned for him to join her at the service counter.
* * * *
Two middle-aged women
sat at the fourth table I approached. When I explained what I wanted and why,
the redhead with a small scar on her forehead spoke up and said, ‘We don’t want
to get involved.’
‘How is telling me what
you saw getting involved?’ I asked.
The other woman, a
blonde with frizzy hair, spoke up sharply. ‘That guy is one of the street
people. And some of those people have weapons—guns and knives. If the guy found
out somehow that we were talking about him, he might come after us one morning
here in the Deli or on our way back home.’
‘That seems a bit
farfetched, don’t you think?’ I said.
‘It’s not farfetched!’
the redhead said, raising her voice. ‘So get away from here, and leave us
alone!’
I smiled and thanked the
women for their time.
* * * *
An older woman sat alone
at the fifth table, sipping her coffee and nibbling on a piece of rye toast and
jam. I approached her with more care than the others, not just because she was
older but also because she seemed a bit nervous. After my introductory spiel,
she invited me to sit down across the table from her.
‘I was second in line,
and that crazy guy brushed up against me on his way to the service counter,’
she said. ‘I was scared to death. And that poor woman behind the counter!
My-o-my! I was scared for her too. I shudder to think what would’ve happened if
that guy had had a gun. He was so angry he would’ve shot her for sure when she
talked back to him. He might’ve shot some of the rest of us too. There’s a lot
of that kind of thing going on all over the country these days.’
The woman paused and
took a sip of her coffee. ‘I should have run for the door, but I was so scared,
I froze,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t move. The thing that gets me is that none of
the men in line did anything to restrain the guy. I guess they were scared too,
but you’d think at least one of them would’ve had the courage to do something
other than just stand there.’
‘I’m not sure I would’ve
had the courage to get involved,’ I said, forgetting for a moment that I wanted
the woman’s reaction, untainted by my opinions.
Without responding to my
remark, the woman went on to say, ‘The big man who came from the back room with
that baseball bat is the owner, I think. Anyway, he saved the day. Thank God!
But I don’t know what I would have done, though, if the guy had not left. I’m
sixty-seven years old last May with a bad heart, and it was racing like all
get-out. It’s still racing—not as much, but racing nonetheless. My-o-my! I hope
I never experience anything like that again.’
I thanked the woman for her
time and got up to leave.
‘I have to leave too,
but maybe I’ll see you in here again sometime,’ she said. ‘It was nice having a
strong-looking man at my table. It made me feel safer, and I appreciate that
very much. God bless you.’
* * * *
A man dressed in slacks
and a sport shirt sat at the sixth table. He was staring out the window at
passersby on the sidewalk. I guessed he was in his forties. At first, he was
reluctant to talk with me, but after I sat down and explained more carefully
what I wanted and why, he started talking.
‘I’m a native New
Yorker, originally from Queens—Jamaica, and I don’t like to get involved in
things that are not directly related to me,’ he said. ‘But that crazy guy’s
behavior pissed me off. And I mean it really pissed me off. I come in here to
the Deli at least three times a week, and the woman behind the service
counter—the one on the receiving end of that guy’s crap—is a very nice lady.
And she didn’t deserve all that.’
He hesitated and then
added, ‘And another thing: It pisses me off that I didn’t do something the
minute that son of a bitch opened his mouth. When you get a chance to do the
right thing, you should do it. And dammit to hell, I missed my chance that
time. It makes me feel like a damn coward—a real candy-ass.’
The man didn’t strike me
as a coward—only cautious. But be that as it may, I stood, thanked him, and
headed for table number seven.
* * * *
I had seen the man
seated at the table once or twice before. He dressed a bit like an English
gentleman—tweed jacket, vest, and bow tie.
‘The woman behind the
service counter should have called the police immediately,’ the man declared at
the outset. ‘She did not do it, so she must bear responsibility for most of the
confrontation.’
The man took a sip of
his tea and wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘And as for the onlookers who
stood nearby, their reaction, or should I say their lack of it, was
commendable. Why should they become involved? It’s the owner’s job to take care
of people who get out of line in the place.’
The man placed his
elbows on the table, and then, realizing the impropriety of it, he quickly
removed them. ‘The way the owner handled the situation, however, left much to
be desired,’ he said. ‘He didn’t even bother to find out the details of what had
transpired before going into a violent rage with that ball bat.’
The man chased down the
last bite of his croissant with the tea left in his cup. Then he wiped his
mouth and hands with his napkin, stood, straightened his vest, and buttoned his
jacket. Before leaving, he said, ‘All in all, however, I did learn something as
a result of what happened, namely, go someplace else from now on for my pot of
tea and croissant. Melodrama in a public place is simply unacceptable.’
After the pompous man
had gone, I continued my table-hopping but soon discovered I had exhausted the
supply of people who had been in the Deli earlier and had observed the
incident. The place had returned to normal—everyone ordering, eating and
drinking, and keeping to themselves. So I turned off my recorder, left the
Deli, and returned to my apartment three blocks away.
* * * *
The following evening in
class, my students listened intently to my retelling of the out-of-towner’s
account of what had happened in the Deli the previous morning. Afterward, I
played my recordings of the reactions of the other people who had witnessed the
incident.
When I raised the
question of whether the reactions of everyone taken collectively provided a set
of characteristics that defined a typical New Yorker, the students objected.
They insisted that a typical New Yorker doesn’t exist, even though they granted
that New Yorkers share some behavioral characteristics because of their shared
environment.
Several students argued
that because of the City’s gigantic size, population density, ethnic diversity,
and daily inflow of tourists and other visitors from all over the world, New
Yorkers feel more vulnerable, and therefore more defensive, than people in the
smaller cities, towns, and rural areas of the country.
One student spoke up and
said, ‘Mind you, New Yorkers know how to be bold, defiant, assertive, and even
aggressive when they think it’s necessary. Most people probably consider that
offensive behavior. But like someone once said, ‘The best defense is a good
offense.’ And it sounds like the Deli owner and the woman behind the service
counter were doing just that—defending themselves with a good offense.’
That said, however, the
students agreed that the immediate reactions, and not the after-the-fact reactions,
of the onlookers in the Deli supported the argument that New Yorkers tend to
choose their own terms of engagement. That is, when they are not directly
affected by something that happens, they tend to avoid getting involved, even
though most of them are quick to react verbally afterward. Several of the
students argued that such behavior was probably much the same as that of most
Americans, especially those who live in large cities, where people tend to be
more suspicious of others and perhaps more offensively defensive.
The students also
acknowledged, albeit reluctantly, that New Yorkers, especially native New
Yorkers, are generally as provincial, bordering on bigotry, in their view of
people different from themselves as the out-of-town couple in the Deli. I
agreed, realizing that a talk with people who live in any one of the
much-romanticized ‘old neighborhoods’ of the City would support that
assessment.
Moreover, the students
acknowledged that New Yorkers often come off as though they feel superior to
the ‘hicks and yahoos’ who live in and beyond the strip of land across the
Hudson River that they more often than not refer to as Jersey. One student
said, ‘Yeah, and some New Yorkers are like the last person recorded in the
Deli—the pompous man in the tweed jacket. But I think they are few and far
between, and certainly less prissy than he sounded.’
My students’ interest in
my anecdotal material and the discussion of it as it related to the
characteristics of an alleged typical New Yorker were more than I expected. But
their insistence that there is no such thing as a typical New Yorker, while
acknowledging that New Yorkers share some common characteristics, puzzled me.
Perhaps their seemingly
contradictory comments make sense if summarized by saying they believe New
Yorkers are alike, or typical, as indicated by the immediate reactions of the
people in the Deli during the incident, but not alike, or typical, as indicated
by their reactions afterward. In short, New Yorkers react similarly in efforts
to avoid involvement in incidents that do not directly concern them, but
differently, or individualistically, when reacting afterward. So does this
belief support the allegation that the behavior of New Yorkers is unique—that
is, distinct from that of people elsewhere in the country? Probably not. People
faced with a similar environment and set of circumstances would probably behave
similarly.
About the author
Frank
Zahn writes nonfiction, fiction, and poetry about people navigating loss,
memory, injustice, work, relationships, aging, and the quiet reckonings that
arrive when life refuses to simplify itself. His publications include nonfiction
books, articles, and essays; novels; short stories; and poetry. Currently, he
writes and enjoys life at his home among the beautiful evergreens in Vancouver,
Washington, USA. For details, visit his website, www.frankzahn.com..........Frank
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