6. School Fixtures

I had Miss Casey for math, Mr. Zeitlin for woodworking. Two gym teachers: Mr. Somers and Mr. Morey. And a bunch of others for Spanish, typing, Guidance who left no lasting impression.  But, I learned English grammar and the parts of a sentence from an elderly woman who had the innate ability to make thirty fairly bright kids double over with fear. Our courtyard discussion was deciding whether it was better to have English in the morning and get it over or prolong the agony until after lunch. 

The cowards wanted to prolong it, as did the perennial optimists who hoped that by prolonging what everyone knew to be the inevitable that she might die during lunch, or better yet, a fire drill would be scheduled.

 

Neither of which happened. 

What did happen was that I learned grammar and, you know what? It was logical and it was fun. How many of you can parse a sentence? Find the verb, the subject, the object? How many of you really understand subject-verb agreement? 

Good old Whatshername left her mark on me! And, as an English teacher, I went on to share this joy with countless other students who probably had the same courtyard conversations.

There must have been more to my education, but that’s about all I remember about the two years in Winthrop Junior High School.

Except for the school fixtures – the perennials. The constants that were there when you started school and were still there five, ten years later when you came back to visit. The same constants that your older brother talked about when he went to the school. No changes. I mean the really important things that really matter when you’re growing up.

I mean fixtures like Winthrop’’s version of Ptomaine Joe’s; Tilden's Ralph, the cop; the pretzel guy; the Mr. Softee truck and Pop the hot knish guy. 

Knishes were seven cents; pretzels only a nickel. (Do you split for the extra two cents and get a knish sprinkled liberally with a month’s worth of sodium, or go for the pretzel and ten ounces of mustard?) These are weighty decisions when you’re thirteen.

Pop’s personal hygiene was a topic of much speculation and we agreed that his bathing coincided with major natural events, primarily lunar eclipses. But, one thing about Pop: he was dependable.

Every day, rain or shine, there he was pushing that little cart with four squeaky wheels and his inventory, consisting of only one product – knishes. I mean HOT knishes. Now, we’re talking about simple days before microwaves. It was years later that the topic came up and we wondered how he keep them hot for so long. The consensus was that there was a charcoal or wood fire at the bottom of the cart. 

We’re not talking about crispy two-inch high Mrs. Stahl's things; these were soggy, greasy, ultra hot, flat jobs delivered on a small piece of wax paper that did nothing to protect your fingers from the molten blob of knish. Think lava flowing down a mountainside. And, anything that tasted that good had to be really bad. If only your mother knew what was going into her child's stomach!

Anyway, we thought Pop was unique unto Winthrop. How could there possibly be another hunchbacked ninety-year old with a thick European accent of undetermined origin?

And then it happened. I was in the ninth grade and I seen it wit my own two eyes. Pop had a twin in the business and there the two of them were both pushing their carts up Utica Avenue toward East New York Avenue. I couldn’t believe it. At first I thought I was seeing double. And then, around Rutland Road they were joined by a third. Damn! Pop was one of triplets – all in the same family business. Each hunched over his cart; they looked alike; they walked alike, they dressed alike. Stepford wives of the pushcart cuisine world.

This must be Pop's grandson outside of Tilden High School.  Example of nepotism. Customer asking for a list of ingredients and amount of sodium and country of origin.  Notice the Department of Health license prominently displayed alongside the tip jar, the plastic gloves and hairnet worn by the server and the warning sign that the contents of this hot knish may be hot and not suitable for pregnant women or women who may or want to be pregnant.

You mean EVERY school has a Pop? Say it ain’t so! There can’t be.

That revelation had about the same impact on me as when I learned, years earlier, what my parents were doing behind their closed bedroom door.

(Everyone called him Pop, although the wagon was clearly marked "Mom's") 

On days I didn’t bring my lunch we would go to the corner luncheonette. Winthrop Junior High School was built in 1930 for 3,000 students.  That was probably a little too ambitious. By the early '50's the school had about 1,500 students and half the student body would cram into Pinky’s, a block from the school on Rutland Road for what was possibly the world’s worst hamburgers and french-fries.

Years later, outside the main gate to Brooklyn College was ‘the’ pretzel guy. Sold them, also for a nickel, out of the trunk of his Pontiac – a new Pontiac every year. (Why was I knocking myself out in school when this guy who couldn't say ‘fresh pretzels’ without screwing up one or both words so it sounded like presh fretzels, he had a new car every year.)  

He also had more tenure than most of the instructors. Four years in the school. There he was every day. Went to the same grooming adviser as Pop, the knish man.

I went back for my Masters. There he was, still hawking presh fretzels out of the trunk of a brand new Pontiac.

A regular school fixture.

Posted byEngTchrat8/02/2006 06:07:00 PM