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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