Just Standing On

They didn’t have a round table.

Nor a board room.,

Not even a club house.

But they met daily, rain or shine and shared their wisdom, humor and opinions.

Their point of rendezvous was a stoop, four stone steps leading into the tenement they each shared with growing families.

Nightly, their hats were tipped when a woman passed by, and packages were gently removed from anyone who needed assistance. Refreshments were never served. There was never a can of beer or soda seen on the four dark brown weathered concrete steps. Of course, cigarette butts occasionally dropped, but always retrieved once the meeting ended.

Jim G, the sole owner of a car on the block, kept the keys in his pocket in the event anyone needed a ride almost anywhere. I still remember the August summer night he drove me to the local pizzeria on 54th Street for my first slice of Abeetz. Years later he was the Good Samaritan who drove Bill D, his best friend, to New Jersey for a final visit to a new Granddaughter.

Bill was the voice of calm, that was never raised unless he saw someone being attacked down the block. He laughed a lot when he was with his three friends, but not so much when he was home. If his voice was ever raised, it was only in jest, never to reprimand friends or family.

Mr. V and Mr. F were unique; the only two Hispanics living in the thick midst of Irish families. I don’t believe Mr. V was Catholic. Yet neither religion or politics ever interfered in the close friendship the four men shared until fate intervened.

I believe politics were discussed because everything else was during the hour or forty five minutes the four men routinely shared nightly despite weather.

No one ever suggested going indoors from the elements into one of their apartments. That never happened in the neighborhood. Tenements weren’t designed for hospitality or an open door policy between residents.

I thought of them yesterday when telling a Granddaughter about my sudden wedding, and how Mr. F offered to help my Dad find a venue for the wedding breakfast. He was a waiter in one of the major hotels, and was willing to speak to the catering manager. I doubt if he had any influence, and I am also certain he was highly aware of that, but was eager to help out his friend’s daughter.

Mrs. V never learned to speak English. However, that didn’t deter her husband’s three friends from treating her with the same respect they showed their own wives. She would watch quietly from her first floor window while the three men held their nightly meeting.

Conversation always slowed to a virtual whisper when any of the other tenants approached. It was simply their method of keeping friendship private. Gossip was never introduced into the 60 minutes or so of conversation, camaraderie and any advice they may have shared. Neither minutes or reports of theur time spent together were ever written or distributed. Theirs was a closed door conversation.

None owned TV’s, or even had telephones. Still until the neighborhood changed and cultural improvements destroyed a community, four men shared a unique and lasting friendship.

None had initials after their names, nor did any work on Wall Street. None of them wore white shirts and dark suits or uniforms when they left for work in the early morning. Still almost a century later, the presence, inspiration and example they presented nightly has not been forgotten. Dignity was their cloak from the terrors of the night, and taught many of us not to fear.

And all just standing on a stoop.