___________________________________
Mr. Goombats,
He lives in a box.
Westfield, New Jersey, 1993
Pretty stupid poem, right?
We were so stupid as kids, we didn't realize (or care, maybe) that it
didn't even rhyme. Somebody said it,
we all laughed and it became a classic poem.
Stupid kids.
Hello, everybody! I'm Tony Carlino, and I'm talking into a microphone my grandson has cause he wants me to tell stories about when I was young on the Lower East
Side. But I told him not to bother
me. But he begged me, so anyway, I'll tell him the story of Mr. Goombazza. That's pronounced Goombats, with a
"ts," at the end.
G-O-O-M-B-AH-T-S. His real name
was Carlo Goombazza, but nobody said it like that that I ever heard.
So, Mr. Carlo Goombats.
That was a long time ago, but not really. Well, I suppose for you it's a long time ago but not for me. When you get older time is different, the
years all compress into one big, uh. . . it's all the same, almost. Twenty years doesn't mean the same thing now
as it did when I was forty. But why am
I talking about this? Sorry.
Anyway, the story is like this: Mr. Goombats came to 5th Street around 1925 he was about forty
years old by then. He got checks every
month from the government because of something that happened to him during the
war. But he also worked, small jobs
here and there, off the books when he could.
One day, he was unpacking a new bureau or dresser or something that came
in a huge cardboard box. He liked the
box more than the dresser. He was
trying to put the box on top of the closet shelf so he took a ladder and
climbed up. Now, I'm not sure, exactly
how this happened, I wasn't there, but they say he fell and was knocked
unconscious and the box fell on top of him.
When he woke up he started screaming because he thought he had been buried
alive and was in his coffin or something.
My mother came running in and saw him furiously trying to untangle
himself from the box, still screaming.
All she could see were legs and arms flailing about. She screamed, "Mr. Goombats! What are you doing?"
"Hah? Who's that? Who's there?" he shouted, like a lunatic.
"It's Mrs. Carlino, Mr. Goombats! Please, calm-a yourself down!" My mother slipped into a thick Italian
accent or even into Sicilian when under stress.
"Signore Goombats! Dio mio!"
"Help me!" he shouted, as if were about to be eaten by a wild
animal. "It's killing me! I can't breathe!"
"Oh! Dio!" My mother ran to
get my father, who came in and picked the box up off Mr. Goombats. After he calmed down, everybody had a good
laugh. Including me who had run in
with my father. Except for a small
wound on Mr. Goombats forehead, there didn't seem to be any damage. So, we went home and, Mr. Goombats left the
box right where it was and went out to Vidool's Cafe for a nice espresso.
I don't know what happened after that, but, little by
little, more and more, Mr. Goombats would be inside the upside down box,
napping, reading, or listening to the radio.
My father would say, "Mr. Goombats, what are you doing in there all
the time?" He'd come out of the
box and say, "I don't know, it's nice in there." Then they'd have a normal conversation.
Most of the time was spent reading. He set himself up nicely with a pillow and a thick blanket under him for the hard floor. He had a kerosene lantern which gave him plenty of light for night reading. During the day he read and napped in the box. He cut open two small "windows" in two sides of the boxes for ventilation and to enable him to see the rest of his apartment, in case someone came in. In those days people were always going in and out, visiting, borrowing things, or just passing by to say hello. During the hot summer months he would put the box out on the fire escape. No one bothered him. Most people didn't even notice him up there.
That was the thing about Mr. Goombats. He was so normal and nice, sometimes he did
such great things, but then. . . well, he liked to spend time in that box. And, as time passed he spent more and more
time in it. But he, himself, changed
very little. He remained kind, jovial,
and always there when you needed him.
And by, "there," I mean generally, in that box.
"It's nice! I
feel cozy and safe! Johnny, come
in!"
He would invite all the kids (and grown-ups) to visit him in his box. Some kids were afraid to go in, but Vinnie
"Peanuts" and me, (how Vinnie got the nick-name is a long story) we weren't afraid. We liked and trusted Mr. Goombats.
At first, inside the box was fun, me and Vinnie played all
kinds of games in there. Like boys
do. But after a while it got
boring. Plus, Mr. Goombats started to fix it up in
there. Like, he added a rug, hung a
couple of pictures, and things like that.
It was like a dog house for a grown-up, if that makes sense. In the winter, he covered it with a thick blanket
and slept in there at night. All
night. It was kind of smart because in
those old tenements there was no heat most of the time and those apartments
were drafty and freezing cold. I hate
to think how many babies did not survive their first winter. A lot.
That was the saddest thing about life at that time.
* * *
Mr. Goombats, as I said,
enjoyed reading. More than that you
could say, how they say, he was an avid reader. He read a lot of books about history and philosophy, but he
also read novels and biographies.
Sometimes, he get these books from Reader's Digest, "condensed books." There would be four novels in one
book! He thought that was the greatest
thing ever.
Most of what he read was in English so
he really improved his vocabulary. He
was always using words that nobody understood. That was okay. But
sometimes he invented words. Well, I
don't know if he invented them, like, he knew they were not real words, but I
think it just misused real words and turned them into fake words. There's a comedian that does that but I
don't remember his name right now.
So, he would say things
like this: "Oh, that Mr.
Garrity! He's a drunk. And very punctious." What he meant by that, nobody knew, and
nobody wanted to ask. But after I
while, I started asking. Part of the
reason I think he used these words was to improve our vocabulary that is, the kids
of the neighborhood. Other times I
really believe he just wanted to make us laugh. He loved that. But he
was always teaching us new words. We
didn't really learn those new words, but the words he made up, those were
sometimes hilarious, so we always remembered those.
He took me to the tobacco store with him one day to see how they make the
cigars. Mr. Pontevechhio, the cigar
man, always had a cigar in his mouth, of course, was a short, gray-haired man,
and really skinny.
"Hey, Signor Pontevecchio! How do
you stay so skinny?" Mr. Goombats asked.
"I just eat right! Vegetables,
fruit, you know."
"Very perspacious of
you!"
"Wha?"
"You're diet is witsome and very healthtious."
"Ah. Yes, it sure is," said a befuddled Mr.
Pontevecchio. "It sure
is."
Fortunately, he did not do this too often, and then he stopped trying to
impress everyone because no one understood him half the time! Ming!
What a nut!
* * *
What else? Oh, the guy loved
animals. He was always taking in stray
cats or taking care of the cats and dogs that wouldn't come into his house, and
he'd find good homes for them. He
would go 7th Street park and feed the sparrows and other birds little bits of
crumbs. In the winter when food was
scarce, especially after a snowstorm, he would tramp through the heavy snow
with a big bag of crumbs and toss it out onto the snow. The birds loved it. I think they actually got to know him. Not the pigeons, however. He hated pigeons with a passion. He'd be sitting there, so peaceful, so
kind, feeding the sparrows and starlings and robins but if a pigeon landed he'd
jump up off the bench about five feet in the air and start screaming, "Bah!
You son-of-a-bitch! Get outta
here! Gaah!" like they were
criminals or vermin, scaring away all the other birds at the same time.
But for the most part, there was no animal he didn't really love. And if you had a pet, he would always come
by and visit it. One of our friends, Nick the Greek kid, had a little dog, I
don't know what it was. When it got
sick, Mr. Goombats paid the vet to come to the house to see him. Made him all better. That dog loved Mr. Goombats, whenever he
was sitting on a bench in the playground and the dog came by, oh, Maddona! The dog would go crazy, unless he was allowed
to run to Mr. Goombats. Oh! One day, Mr. Goombats is coming home from
the store, he's about to cross Second Avenue and what do you think? Nick and his dog is crossing in the
opposite direction. The dog sees Mr.
Goombats, gets loose and darts into the Avenue. This big truck is coming and Mr. Goombats, he was crazy, he runs
into the street, grabs the dog, throws him to the sidewalk and bang! What do you think, he gets hit by the
truck. Well, everybody started
screaming. When I came running out of
my building I thought he was dead, I started crying like a little baby. I was screaming, "Don't die, Mr. Goombats! Please don't die!" Madonna, I was so scared. Not just me but Vinnie Peanuts, too, Nick
and I think the dog was crying, too. But
the cops came and took care of him and took him to Bellevue, they said he was
okay, but I just couldn't stop crying.
Me and Vinnie and Nick wanted to go in the ambulance with him but they
wouldn't let us. and he lived. That was the first time he was in the
newspaper.
* * *
In 1931, I was ten years old.
Same as
Vinnie Peanuts.
It was Christmas time
and me and Vinnie, you see, really wanted bicycles for Christmas.
Some of the other kids on our block had
bikes.
We were so jealous.
They would let us ride them, but you know,
it's not the same as your own bike.
But Vinnie and I were smart for our age, we knew that the
way things were going with both our Pops out of work so often, bikes were not
going to happen. So we settled on
other things, things we knew we'd never get either but it was fun and we
couldn't help it. Last Christmas we got
socks and a couple of warm shirts and believe me, that was great. But a bike. . oh.
One day, Mr. Goombats said, "Hey
boys! Let's go to Heshey's (a toy
store on Clinton Street) and see what Santa's gonna bring you!" My mother objected but good Mr. Goombats he
insisted. So we snuck off to Clinton
Street without my mom's knowing it.
Heshey's was a great store, big and just crammed with all kinds of
stuff, not just toys, he had everything.
But lots of toys and games. We
walked through the store and Mr. Goombats kept saying, "So, what should I
tell Santa to bring you?" He
thought we still believed in Santa and we let him believe it.
"How about those skates?" he suggested. We had skates, that is, we shared a
pair.
"Hey, there's a nice
baseball glove like Tony Lazzeri uses!"
I had a glove and Vinnie had two. We
found them in the garbage good as new.
(Vinnie and I didn't want to think about why there were three gloves in
the garbage pail in front of a tenement on 4th street. We knew it had been a rough winter).
Suddenly my eye was fixed on a model sailing ship, you know,
like from the old days, the days of the pirates.
"Mr. Goombats!
Tell Santa I would really like one of those model pirate ships!"
"Oh, yes, very good choice, very educational, very beautiful, too! My dad was a sailor you know. I love the sea myself. Never been on it but I read about it a lot,
and. .."
"Thank you Mr. Goombats!"
Vinnie Peanuts chose six-shooter cap gun.
These were really nice but nothing could have compared to a
bike. But I was happy about the pirate
ship. Really.
Christmas morning came and what to you think? Out in the hallway, (there wasn't room in
the house) Mr. Goombats starts yelling,
"Oh, my God, I don't believe it!
Look at this!"
Well me and Vinnie Peanuts, he lived right above me, we knew what was up. We were supposed to go out and see the
Pirate ship and the gun and jump up and down and yell, "Yay! Santa!" or something like that. So, out to the hall I went and my lower
jaw dropped to the floor.
"Vinnie!!" I screamed, "Vinnie Peanuts! Come and look! Come and look!
Vinnieeeeeeeee!" Well,
poor Vinnie practically rolled down the flight of stairs and then he saw
them: two beautiful, new, bright blue bicycles! We started jumping up and down and hugging each other,
screaming, "Yeah!!! I don't
believe it! Oh, boy!!"
And Mr. Goombats, he stood there holding his head in his hands, and yelling,
"That stupid Santa brought you the wrong gifts! I'm so sorry!"
Well, neither of us knew what he was talking about, but my mother did,
and she started to cry. Pop came out
and he cried too. Never, I don't
think, had they ever seen their son more happy than at that moment, or since
that moment. I don't think I've ever
been that happy since. Thank you, Mr.
Goombats. Boy, did we enjoy those bikes.
* * *
I mentioned that Mr. Goombats' father was a sailor. He worked on a tug for a few years in New
York harbor, then he joined the Navy during the Spanish-American War. He was killed in some kind of battle just
off the coast of Cuba, near Havana.
He was listed, I think he still is, as "missing in
action." Mr. Goombats was only
about 10 years old and although he didn't see his dad much he loved him a
lot. He still had a picture of him, on
the wall in his kitchen. It was of his
dad in his Navy uniform. It was his
prized possession.
His mother, still a young woman, re-married a few years
later to Enrico Bollino, a prosperous butcher on Grand Street. They lived pretty good for a long
time, I mean the butcher shop made a lot of money, and the husband and wife really got along well. Mr. Bollino seemed to have been very
generous with Mr. Goombats, but after a couple of years Mr. Goombats moved out. He was becoming an adult now and he knew that both he and his mother needed privacy. He lived in various parts of the city, working odd jobs here and there, then he moved to the 3rd Street and worked part time for Mr. Goldenschantz, at his metal shop on Great Jones. He lived there a long time, then he came to my building on 5th Street, which was one of the best blocks in the whole Lower East Side. Really. Or, maybe it just seemed that way to me. You see, we were very happy there. My happiest years, in fact. And even though we were poor at times, we were never, how do you say, poverty stricken. There was always good food on the table and I always had good clothes to wear. Neighbors were friendly, you knew everyone, and we all looked out for each other. There were lots of other kids my age, there were always children playing in the street, (until late at night in the summer) and we always felt safe, any time of the day or night. We were safe. I mean, good Christ in heaven, what else could you ask for?
Anyway, wow, once I get started. . . eh, Mr. Goombats he moved in when I was very little, like 4, so I always remember him being there. He, and other neighbors, were really like members of an extended family. Like uncles and aunts and cousins. And some, in fact, no joke, we acutally called "aunt" or "uncle," out of respect, especially if my folks knew them from their town in the Sicily. There was Uncle Calogero, (there's a name you don't here anymore) and Aunt Rosa, like that, they weren't really related but they were so close as friends that they were better than a lot of real aunts or uncles. Oh, Christ what great times we had with them and their kids!
Oh, my God, Mr. Goombats, I was talking about Mr. Goombats! So he moves in he's about forty years old. I asked him one day why he didn't have any children, any
wife. He said that he was too busy
learning about the world and trying figure out what he was going to do, to
be. Then, the war came. He volunteered for the Navy, but they
rejected him for some reason. Then he
volunteered for the Army, and they took him.
He didn't see a lot of "action," he said, but enough to make
him hate war forever.
"War is evil," he used to say, "Don't let anybody tell you
different."
So, anyway, he had no wife and no kids, but seemed
happy. Not that he didn't go out with
a woman every once in a while. He was
actually a pretty good-looking man my mother seemed to think, and always hoped
that he would get married. She was
always "setting him up," so to speak, with friends, or even her own
sister. Oh, my God, what a disaster
that was. Her big, fat, disgusting,
sister Grace. Oh my God.
My mom invited Grace for a Sunday dinner.
She was, at the time, about thirty-eight years old and unmarried. She also invited Mr. Goombats without
telling him about her sister, whom he already knew quite well. She was always around. So it was really kind of silly to do this
surprise thing like it was a "blind" date, as they say.
Anyway, I remember that day like it was yesterday. My mother was a nervous wreck.
"Paolo!" she yelled at my father. "Put on a clean shirt!"
"What's wrong with this shirt?"
"That's not a shirt, it's an undershirt!
What's wrong with you?" he practically shrieked, her voices going
up several octaves.
"But it's clean!"
"Oh, Dio, I'm gonna explode, my head, it's gonna explode!" My mother's head was always about to
explode. "Put on a real
shirt! Like people wear for Sunday
dinner!"
"What's so special about today?"
"Oh, Dio mio, I told you Grace was coming over."
"So what? She
comes over all the time."
"Yes, but so is Mr. Goombats."
"Oh, know. . . you didn't. . . you aren't. . ."
The doorbell rang.
"There she is!!
There she is!" my mother repeated over and over shaking her hands
like they were on fire. "Go put
a shirt on!!" My father got a
nice clean white shirt and red tie.
"Come in Grace, how are you?" They kissed. "Johnny! Come an
kiss your Aunt Grace."
Grace handed me a box of pastries. I
put them in the icebox, and went and sat at the kitchen table.
"Mmm . . .they sauce smells good!" said Grace leaning over the stove. She took a loaf of bread off the shelf and
broke off a piece that would have choked a horse.
"You know I can't resists your sauce." She dipped in this huge piece of bread,
practically up to her elbows and started eating it.
Grace was sort of given the wrong name, if you know what I
mean.
"Don't spoil your appetite!" my mother warned.
My dad entered with his shirt and tie on.
"Grace, hello!" he couldn't help notice the bread soaking with sauce
and the sauce that was now all over Grace's face. "You sure you got enough sauce there?" Pop said.
I snickered at the table, and my mother shot me a look. She handed Grace a napkin.
"Here Gracie, there's a little sauce on your. . ."
"So, who's coming?" asked Gracie, her mouth filled with food.
"Mr. Goombats." My mother was so excited.
"Oh," said Grace.
"He's so good looking."
"Yes he is!
Can you imagine, a man like him, not married and so good looking, and
they say he's got a lot of money, too."
Grace shoved the last of the bread in her fat ugly face as the doorbell rang.
"There he is, there he is!"
"What are you getting so excited about?
He was here this morning."
"I know but now. . ."
Mom opened the door and became Loretta Young.
"Oh, dear Mr. Goombats, do enter."
Mr. Goombats had a shopping bag filled with stuff including
a large bottle of Chianti.
"Hey!
Grazie! Grazie tanto!"
shouted my dad, who loved Chianti.
"Benedica tutto in casa!" Goombats said, offering
a blessing.
My mother, still acting weird, said, "Mr. Goombats, I believe you've met
my sister, Grace."
"Ma, certo! How you been
Grace. Haven't seen you since, what,
Wednesday, at the church?"
"Oh, yeah!" said Grace,
"I think. . . " she
interrupted herself with a loud belch. "Oh, excuse me!"
Mom laughed awkwardly.
"Okay, let's open the wine," mom said, "and have a toast!"
"Oh, I don't know," said Grace, "wine gives me such gas!"
she said, laughing. But it was true,
believe me.
Dad obliged and filled some glasses, even mine, which he
then mixed with water.
"Salute!" my father said.
"A salute!" everyone else
said, drinking a bit of the grape.
"I'd like to make a toast! I'd
like to make a toast!" my mother said.
"To new beginnings!" she said with all the seriousness of
Eleanor Roosevelt.
Well, we really didn't know what to make of it, so we toasted anyway.
Dinner was going well enough although Grace started to
get a bit sloshed during the roast chicken.
She was telling us about her foot problem, when she started hiccuping,
badly and loudly. We couldn't help it,
but it was really funny and we all had to laugh,. She laughed too. But
then, she dropped her napkin on the
floor and bent over to pick it up. She
let out the loudest fart I've ever heard.
It could have been a gunshot, for all I knew."
"Oopsie!" mom said, practically passing out.
"Oh, my. . .excuse me," said Grace, belching and
hiccuping at the same time. Then, for
her grand finale, she let out tremendous volley of anal gas, even louder, than
the last one, at the same time as she belched and hiccuped. It was a feat of incalculable proportion. I couldn't take it. I was going to pass out trying to stifle my
laughter so I ran out of the room. My
mother died a little at that moment.
I don't recall how we got through the rest of the dinner,
with her continued bombing and her ridiculous, "Oopsie," comments. But we
did. Finally, we got to the coffee and
anisette. I think we all said a silent
prayer that Grace would not touch a piece of pastry, but no, she ate half the
cheesecake herself. It was a gruesome
sight.
Mr. Goombats thanked us, and made a quick exit. Grace was already asleep her head on the
table, still bombing away.
My mother never had Grace over again. I'm not sure she ever spoke to her
again.
* * *
Mr. Goombats did well with the ladies, it appeared. He could often be seen with a woman on his arm of a Saturday
night, walking on Second Avenue. But
none of them ever lasted. We wondered
if it had anything to do with the box.
One day Vinnie and I saw Mr. Goombats coming with a really nice looking woman,
walking toward the house.
"Vinnie!" I said, "Let's hide in Mr. Goombats
house and see what happens when they get inside. He'll never know that we're in there. Then we sneak out when they leave!"
"Let's go!" shouted Vinnie Peanuts.
Nobody locked their doors back in those days so we just walked
into Mr. Goombats house and ran to his box.
What we saw in there we couldn't believe. It was beautiful. Like
a little house. Pictures on the wall,
tiny pieces of furniture, a tiny vase with a couple tiny flowers in it. No wonder he liked it so much in there.
"Here they are!" Vinnie whispered.
In came Mr. Goombats and Mrs. Glassberg from Tenth Street. She was a widowed dressmaker. Very lovely.
"You have a lovely place here, Signore
Goombazza."
"Please, call me Carl."
They sat in the living room. He served blackberry liquor and cheese and crackers on the coffee
table. I think they must have just had
dinner.
They talked a bit, about many things. Then, he said it. It was unbelievable.
"Would you like to come in my box?"
Mrs. Glassberg's face had an expression on it that I had never seen on a
person, before or since: a bizarre mix of bewilderment, fear, confusion and
doubt of what she just heard. It was
amazing.
"Excuse me."
"Would you like to see my box?
You must be curious, no? I think
you'll like what I've done with the interior."
"Of your box?"
"Yes."
She began to swoon. "Oh. . . oh..
."
"Mrs. Glassberg, are you all right?"
"I. . . I think I need some air. . ." she
whispered.
"Yes, yes of course," he helped her stand and they
walked out together.
Well, that was the last anyone had seen of Mrs.
Glassberg. We heard that she moved to
the Bronx.
* * *
One day, Vinnie Peanuts and I were talking to Mr.
Goombats. We were in his kitchen and he
was just off the kitchen--in his box.
He said, "Why don't you kids go outside and play? It's a beautiful day, you should be
outside."
"Well, we like it in here, you got so many interesting things."
And he did, all kinds of pictures and postcards on his wall. All of them from either the old country,
that is Sicily, friends and relatives he hadn't seen in many years, or,
mementos of his step-father, Mr. Bollino, the butcher and his family.
"I know, I know,
you like the pictures, but you're only young once, and it's not healthy
to spend the whole day inside!"
"But you are inside and it's a beautiful
day."
"Oh, no! I'm
going to play bocce later."
"Can we come with you?"
"Sure, let's go now."
So, off we were to the bocce courts on Houston Street, where
we met all of Mr. Goombats' friends.
They all called each other by name but in an funny way: they were all,
"Mr." followed by their first names. So, there was Mr. Patsy, Mr. Sam, Mr. Nyats. Oh, yeah, that last one. Seems his real name was Ignacio (pronounced,
"een-nyats-eeo") but very quickly.
Ignacio got butchered into 'nacio (nyatsio) and then, simply,
Nyats. And it was said very very fast,
so, if you listened very carefully you might hear the actual name slip through,
Ignacio.
"Hello Mr. Nyats!"
"Signor Carlo, come sta?"
"Mr. Patsy," with the accent on the second
syllable.
"Mr. Benny!
What time we gonna play?"
"Hey, Mr. Carlo, you still sleeping in-a da box?" And so on.
We watched the old men toss the ball, some with great accuracy and some with
great inaccuracy. But every throw was
accompanied by some sarcastic comment
usually in Italian, and usually quite funny.
I wish I understood them all.
After a particularly bad toss by Mr. Nyats, a particularly good player, Mr. Goombats
said, "Aye! Che fare? Ma, che fare? Voglio vicere questa gioco!
Ha capite? Ma, cosa
pazzo!" And, of course, everyone
laughed. ["What are you
doing? What are you doing? I want to win this game. Do you understand. What a nut!"]
Then, it was Goombats toss, one of the worst tosses ever
seen.
"Dats it! I
give up! Here, Mr. Patsy here's your
fifty cents, how can I win this crazy person as a team mate? Eh?"
And everyone laughed.
Mr. Goombats had the last laugh when the team had a chance
to win and Mr. Nyats made another especially bad toss to end the game.
"Ma perche non gioco la calcio? E perfetto per te! Va! Va giocare la
calcio!"
["Why don't you go play soccer? It's perfect for you? Go ahead, go play soccer."]
An excellent taunt showing no sportsmanship whatsoever.
And we wonder why Sicily was never a world power.
But I'll tell you this: the most important thing for these
guys was fun. Most of them had had
miserably difficult lives to this point, coming from desperate situations in
the old country. Some faced near
starvation, some of them actually saw members of their families starve to death. Some worked in fields all day and slept in
the stables with the horses at night.
Some left loved ones behind for several years before saving enough money
working for pennies a day, digging
ditches in the snow, rain, and searing heat.
So making a bad toss in bocce?
There was nothing to do but laugh.
Life was too good now. They
were in America. In New York. On Houston Street. Life was good. And nothing would bring them down again.
* * *
* * *
One day, he came banging on the door of our apartment.
"Mr. Carlino!
Did you hear? The president
wants to go to war with Germany!
War! Can you believe it? What for?
What did Hitler ever do to anyone?"
"Mr. Goombats, sit down."
They discussed the situation. It
became obvious, even to Mr. Goombats, that war was inevitable. It was the first time I ever saw Goombats
cry. It would not be the last. But what could he do? Hitler had to be stopped. That much was clear.
And so, we all did our best. I was about to join the Army Air Corps, when I was stopped by Mr.
Goombats, who was sobbing.
"Johnny," he said, "don't do it. Don't go.
You're like a favorite nephew to me, if anything happened, I couldn't
survive. Please, find another way.
Please."
"Mr. Goombats, you know I have to go. Vinnie and I are going together. I'll be alright. I promise. Flying in a
plane is not so dangerous as being in the infantry. Don't worry about me, please.
Just say a prayer, and it will all be taken care of."
We embraced. He held me tight. I think I just realized now, sitting here
today, talking into this stupid microphone, how much that man loved me. That crazy old guy, I loved him to.
* * *
The war ended, and Vinnie and I returned, remarkably, on the same day. There was a party on the block. Mr. Goombats hired a small band, lots of
food, and plenty of wine. He danced with everyone. I danced with Maria Cellino.
It was the first time we met but
we both knew we were meant for each other.
I guess I have Mr. Goombats to thank for that, for forty-seven years of
a beautiful marriage, three kids and six grandchildren. I wish Mr. Goombats could have lived to see
all of that. But he saw a lot.
* * *
As the years went on word began to spread about Mr. Goombats and his box, it even got mentioned in the Daily News.
They had a reporter come down to photograph Mr. Goombats and his box who, by
that time brought a small typewriter and had begun writing. He must have written to the paper, who
knows?
He starting writing more and more. He wrote a lot of letter, hundreds of letters to just about anyone and everyone, presidents, royalty, and celebrities of every kind. He wrote to Babe Ruth, from whom he received an autographed picture. "The Babe," promised to come visit him one day, but never did. He wrote to philosophers, statesmen, poets and writers around the world. And he received many responses.
Letters to and from everyone from Ghandi to Joe DiMaggio. He had a heated debate with Albert Einstein over a
ten year period about the nature of God, spiced with filthy jokes. He also took Casey Stengal to task for his "platoon," system. "Either the kid can play or he can't," Goombats wrote. Casey wrote back, "I agree but not when you're not in the wrong but not in the right or the ballplayer has enough hits against right-handers. Sincerely, Casey."
Many were curious about this man who lived in a box inside another "box," so to speak. The military expressed interest in the box for it's possible application for troops. One day, a member of General Patton's staff arrived to visit Mr. Goombats. Mr. Goombats promptly threw him out onto the street, screaming, "Fascist!" as the guy ran down Second Avenue. This incident was also mentioned in the newspaper and made Mr. Goombats even more well known. He had become a kind of celebrity. He was even quoted by a Senator during a session of Congress. Something about two boxes in every home, or something. It was not a very good paraphrase, and Mr. Goombats never actually said it.
* * *
Unbeknown to Mr. Goombats, Pop and I purchased a big TV for him. It was 1954 and everybody was
getting one. And Mr. Goombats, spending
more and more time alone in his apartment, we thought it would be good for him
to have a television. While he was
out, we pushed it in and arranged it so that he could watch it from inside his
box.
Oh, what a great feeling it was the first time we heard Mr.
Goombats laughing out loud at what he saw on the television. He watched all the comedy shows, his
favorite was Jackie Gleason. But
during the day, he wrote. He wrote
stories, essays and letters to just about every newspaper around the
world. He had a phone now, too, so he
could call and talk to anyone anywhere.
One day, a limousine pulled up in front of the apartment house. This was in about 1959. A tall, thin man came out of the limo. He looked familiar but I wasn't sure who he
was. I was standing in front of the
building, and he walked right up to me.
"Is this the home of a Mr. Carlo Goombazza?"
"Yes, it is."
"Would you know where can I find him?"
"Apartment 9, second floor." I said, "Excuse me, sir, but who
are you?"
"Arthur Miller," he said.
"The playwright?"
"Yeah."
"Oh my God. I don't believe
it. You're here to see Mr.
Goombats?"
He started laughing. "Is that how
you pronounce it?"
"Oh, yes, we often leave off the last syllable. An Italian thing."
"Yes, I know."
Suddenly, the window of the limo lowered and a high pitched voice called out
rather meekly.
"Honey, this is not going to take long, is it?"
"No. I'll be
right back." He ran up the
stairs. In the meantime I was staring
at the window thinking, "No. It
couldn't be. Stay calm, boy. Stay calm." Then the window came rolling down again and Marilyn Monroe's
head stuck out.
"Excuse me sir!" she said. Oh, God in heaven she was talking to me!
"Yom-a, ye, yes-sha! Yes," I think I said.
"Would you mind telling Mr. Miller that I'll be back in
about an hour."
"Shu...sha... yee-ha, ye, yes, oh courso! Ya ho.
Holm!"
"Are you alright, sir?" Marilyn asked.
"Hockma!" I ran inside. I acted retarded in front of Marilyn
Monroe! I acted like a freakin' retard
in front of Marilyn, I repeated to myself, as I pounded my forehead with my fist. Marilyn!
At any rate, Miller and Goombats laughed and talked for
about 45 minutes. Apparently, Mr.
Goombats had written to Miller about one of his plays and Miller was so
intrigued by what he wrote that he felt compelled to come down to a tenement on
the Lower East Side to meet him.
That was Goombats.
* * *
It was the 1960's and the neighborhood was changing quickly. Most of the old friends were gone, moved to
Brooklyn or Jersey, or Long Island. The
city was becoming very dirty and unsafe.
Maria and I, and Mom and Pop decided it was time for us to go too.
Mr. Goombats was, by now, closing in on eighty years
old. We were worried about him, even
though he was still spry and took care of himself. One night he was mugged and left bleeding on 4th street. We begged him to come with us. We were moving to New Jersey, and we could
have purchased a house with an attached apartment just for him.
But he refused. He
didn't want to be a burden on anyone. I
tried to tell him he would be relieving a burden. I wouldn't have to worry about him. But it was no use. He
wasn't leaving his apartment. The
apartment that he had lived in for so many years; that held so many memories; that was his home.
* * *
So, for the next ten years, we would drive into the city once a month without fail and
visit. It was always great to see
him. And he always looked well. He kept busy, he said, with his writing, and
watching TV and he claimed, there were still women. Who could doubt him?
* * *
The phone rang late one night in 1981.
I knew what it was before I answered it. In fact, I couldn't answer it.
I just started to cry. My wife
picked it up. It was as I feared. He took a bad fall and had a brain hemorrhage. I thank God I wasn't there. He died right away, they said. No pain. Thank God. I wanted to.. . . to hold on. . . oh, God, deep breath, Johnny. I always meant to . . . to. . . turn this thing off.
* * *
My wife and I went through Mr. Goombats' belongings.
He had no family or relatives.
What we found was astonishing. All the letters he had received over the years, from all those famous, some now historical, figures! They are now in the archives at the NYU library. Anyone can go read them.
We also found the autographed photos of Jean Arthur, Bette Davis,
Errol Flynn, John Garfield, Gene Tierney, Marlon Brando, Gregory Peck, Barbara Sreisand, Bing Crosby, and many more. Those we kept ourselves.
We also found a will. Most of his possessions and money, which were not small, were left to me and Vinnie Peanuts, who never forgot Mr. Goombats either. He also left our children several bicycles.
As for Mr. Goombats' earthy remains, he did not wish to be buried. His wishes were to be cremated and his ashes
scattered from an airplane over the waters just off the coast of Cuba, near
Havana. I took care of that personally.
As for his box, well, we had a nice ceremony for that.
I just couldn't stop crying during it.
* * *
* * *
Seems that nobody remembers Mr. Goombats anymore, or very few at least. When those of us who do remember meet, usually at weddings or funerals, we can't help but talk about the old days and laugh, and talk about Mr. Goombats and his beloved box. But soon, there will be no one left who knew him at all or has any memory of him at all. It will be like he never existed. Can that really be? Can it be that no one will remember his sweet nature, his intelligence, his kindness, his generosity, and all the strange things did?
Eh, soon, it will all be gone. |
What can you do? It makes me sad.
* * *
Oh, one really great, great thing happened. A bunch of us who knew Mr. Goombats got together, each putting in some money and we had a plaque made and put on the front of the old tenement on 5th Street. It says something like,
HERE LIVED CARLO GOOMBAZZA
From 1925 to 1981
WRITER, PHILOSOPHER,
INVENTOR, PHILANTHROPIST
LOVED ANIMALS
LIVED IN A BOX
WAS A FRIEND TO ALL
It's still there. You can go see it. I tell you, it's the thing I did that I'm most proud. How do you like that, Mr. Goombats!
* * *
I rarely drive to the old neighborhood anymore. There is no one there to see, nobody from the old days, and it's much too depressing. The city has changed so much. It's so sad: no kids playing in the streets, no one hanging out on their fire escapes, nobody nowhere. Are there any families still living in the city? It seems not. Everything has changed. Mr. Goombats would not recognize it. I don't think he would recognize the whole world. I don't want to live in a world that Mr. Goombats would not recognize.
But, what else can I say? Nothing. I've talked enough and I'm tired. That's it.
I'll see you soon, Mr. Goombats! And we'll sit and talk about the old days, eh?
