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    A Clean Street's a Happy Street: A Bronx Memoir
    A Clean Street's a Happy Street: A Bronx Memoir
    A Clean Street's a Happy Street: A Bronx Memoir
    Ebook203 pages2 hours

    A Clean Street's a Happy Street: A Bronx Memoir

    By James McSherry

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    About this ebook

    "Eschewing sappiness in favor of sparse but vivid prose, McSherry documents his first few decades with four siblings, very little money, and two parents whose respective mental illnesses intensified as the years progress Although his story is certainly unique, McSherry's book has much to say about the nobility and struggle that characterize every individual life. A deeply affecting, surprisingly unsentimental description of surviving-and transcending-a tumultuous upbringing."
    -Kirkus Discoveries

    "To say McSherry has lived a 'hard knock' life is an understatement, but the Lehman High School teacher and Brio Award winner has crafted a Bronx version of Angela's Ashes that resonates with hope, wit, and perseverance."
    -Derek Woods, host of the television program, Bronx Magazine
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisheriUniverse
    Release dateJul 26, 2007
    ISBN9780595884407
    A Clean Street's a Happy Street: A Bronx Memoir
    Author

    James McSherry

    James McSherry is a graduate of Columbia University?s Writing Program. He is an award-winning playwright and screenwriter and is the author of Bronx Astronomy, a collection of short stories, and Crime Scene Reporter, an autobiographical one-man show. McSherry teaches creative writing to high school students in the Bronx. He is currently adapting his memoir for the screen.

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      Book preview

      A Clean Street's a Happy Street - James McSherry

      Image6329.PNG

      A CLEAN STREET’S

      A HAPPY STREET

      Image6336.PNG

      A BRONX MEMOIR

      by James McSherry

      iUniverse Star

      New York Lincoln Shanghai

      A CLEAN STREET’S A HAPPY STREET

      A BRONX MEMOIR

      Copyright © 2004, 2007 by James McSherry

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

      iUniverse Star

      an iUniverse, Inc. imprint

      iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

      iUniverse

      2021 Pine Lake Road, Suite 100

      Lincoln, NE 68512

      www.iuniverse.com

      1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

      Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid.

      The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

      ISBN: 978-1-58348-863-8 (pbk)

      ISBN: 978-0-595-68484-7 (cloth)

      ISBN: 978-0-595-88440-7 (ebk)

      Printed in the United States of America

      Contents

      I

      Prologue: A New Life

      Promises

      Holy Communion

      Holiday

      Free Lunch

      Soul Makoosa

      Spot of Blue

      Count the Stars

      Cadillac

      Faith and Hope

      Horror Movie

      Eyewitness

      II

      Static

      He’s Johnny Ray

      Goodbye, Florence Nightingale

      Fire

      Poets Wanted

      Noise

      III

      A Clean Street’s a Happy Street

      When the Lights Go Out

      Electric Bill

      Ghosts

      Christmas Eve

      God’s Birdcage

      Prologue Revisited: A New Life

      Epilogue: Anniversary

      About the Author

      For my family

      Especially my mother

      And the memory of my father

      The author wishes to acknowledge those individuals whose help and encouragement made this book possible: three wonderful teachers, Frank MacShane, Susan Minot, and Richard Locke, for their advice and pointing out that it wasn’t a matter of fiction or nonfiction, but of truth. My fellow writers, Rene Bacher, Ann Darby, and Denise Dailey, for listening and much more. Joe Demas, a second father, for the use of his apartment, which became my workplace. Mario Romeo for his valued friendship and unwavering support. Billy Lappe for his tireless efforts, the cover design, and most importantly, for being there. Virginia Aponte, the mother of my child, who heard the stories first, and prompted me to believe. The friends of my youth. My brothers and sisters: Susan, Thomas, Joseph, and Sheila. Our parents: Dolores and Thomas Patrick. And to my daughter Paige Meaghan McSherry, who reminds me constantly of what it means to be a child.

      Ah! Happy Years! Once more who would not be a boy!

      —Lord Byron

      Prologue: A New Life

      C’mon kids, get up, my mother’s raspy voice challenged us from the kitchen. Even trying to whisper, her voice echoed throughout the bungalow like a condemned prisoner saying his good-byes while making that long walk to the electric chair, like in the old movies she made us stay up late and watch. Even though she was whispering for us to get up, it was almost like she would really die, if she had to be alone for one minute more. When that didn’t work, she put her cold hands on Susan’s feet, smoked a cigarette near Tommy until he would cough, turned the light on above Joseph’s bed, or pulled the sheets off of me. She wouldn’t bother Sheila though.

      Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Are you kids on drugs or something? I’ve never seen anybody sleep like you.

      That’s because it’s five in the morning, ma, Tommy said. Normal people sleep at five in the morning. Tommy was the oldest boy, and he could get away with talking to my mother like that. Right or wrong we had to listen. With our father gone, she was the captain of our ship. That’s what she would say. I am the captain! And Susan, the oldest, would reply, Ahab. My mother said that Susan was a smart-ass. She always had her head in a book and made me read too, and always had an answer for my mother—always the wrong answer, my mother would say.

      Why do I have to do it? Susan would complain when my mother dragged her to the Welfare office, made her charge food at the butcher’s, sent her to the landlord for an extension on the rent, or made her babysit for hours that seemed like days.

      Because you’re the oldest!

      No, I’m not, Susan would reply. You’ve got me beat by at least thirty years.

      Twenty-two you snotty bitch, my mother would shoot back. In twenty-two years, you’ll need plastic surgery on your ass and those tits, forget about it.

      Where are we going at five in the morning anyway? Joseph asked. Joe was two years older than I was, but he hadn’t learned one thing that I already had. Never ask my mother a question when she was like this. It only led to more questions and never any solid answers.

      Mom is like religion, Susan would tell me. You never really know where she is coming from, but you stay on her good side anyway so you don’t go to hell.

      Well, since you asked, my mother shot back, we’re going to Mr. Clarence’s house. It’s his birthday.

      I thought he died last year, Tommy said.

      He did not die! my mother yelled. He was in a home for awhile, that’s all. He had a minor memory lapse. And he wets himself once in awhile now.

      They should’ve kept him there, Susan said. He probably doesn’t even remember his own name.

      Oh, thank you Florence Nightingale, my mother sneered at Susan. I hope somebody waters you when you become a vegetable.

      Can’t we celebrate later? Joe asked innocently.

      No, my mother explained. Mr. Clarence gets up early.

      So what? Susan said. Act normal. Mail him a birthday card.

      Picture this, Susan, my mother said.

      I know already, Susan answered. Your hands around my neck, right?

      No. Poor Mr. Clarence waking up, having a soft-boiled egg, staring at the clock, waiting all day for someone to show up and wish him a happy birthday. Wouldn’t it be better if we were there when he woke up? Wouldn’t that be a great surprise?

      It would give the poor bastard a stroke, Susan answered back.

      Well, at least he’ll die happy. Now get dressed, all of you. You’ve got fifteen minutes.

      A collective groan went up, and my mother got happy. Susan said that making people do things that they didn’t want to do always made her happy. Susan said she should’ve been a nun or a dietician.

      I looked through the cracked window, and the sun was trying to wake up, too. It was the time of morning that was not yet dawn but not night either. It was the in-between light that promised something dark and mysterious—a strange sound tapping at the window, or determined footsteps across a sidewalk, or rain splashing through the leaky gutters of the bungalow. I looked around the bungalow and thought about what my mother had said when we moved there, before she kicked my father out, before things around the house were in repair and not just broken.

      This is the start of our new life, she had said. And we took pictures of the process. My mother said that we would make a before and after album. Some of those pictures were scattered around the house, too—crammed in places that we just didn’t get to yet. There’s one of my father on the wooden stoop with a can of beer in his hand.

      He’s sitting on the stoop now telling my brothers and me stories of the war and how he ran like a deer when he was my age. And my brothers wander away. I stay behind, fetching his beers, and he throws a football out over my head. He starts to get angry, and drunk, and then angrier—until he won’t let me into the house unless I catch every pass. They sail out over my head with momentum, and I run with momentum, too, but not fast enough—until he grows too tired or too drunk to throw anymore. Then I sneak past my father into the bungalow and stop on the last step. I spy him for awhile waiting to see if he wakes up but he does not. In the morning he is gone.

      1583488634b_V4.pdf

      I guess this ship is sunk, Susan said to me.

      We’re leaving now, my mother said, and no complaining when we get there. Who knows, maybe he’ll put us in his will.

      He’s on Social Security, ma, Susan said. There is no will.

      Well, you never know, my mother answered. I have heard stories where these lonely men with a hundred cats and one pair of underwear are eccentric millionaires. It does happen you know.

      Oh, so you’re a gold digger now? Susan asked. Are you going to marry him and then poison him with arsenic, or are we all moving into his one-bedroom apartment in the projects?

      Aren’t you married to Daddy, still? Sheila asked innocently.

      Technically, honey, my mother answered. T-e-c-h-n-i-c-a-l-l-y. Sheila looked confused. Susan explained what technically meant.

      So you and Daddy are getting back together? Joe asked stupidly.

      Oh boy, Tommy said.

      I have to say I agree with Mae West, my mother said. Always give discarded lovers a second chance—with somebody else.

      Who’s Mae West? Sheila asked.

      She’s an actress, I told her.

      Is she marrying Daddy? Sheila asked.

      Look, my mother said, the important thing is we’re all together, right? And we’re doing a good deed, and God looks down on people who do good deeds.

      Are we going to cut a cake? I asked stupidly.

      It’s six o’clock in the morning, James, she answered. Sweets this early. You want to develop diabetes, do you?

      But I’m hungry, I said.

      Yeah, Tommy piped in, and then Joseph and Sheila, too. Susan stayed quiet and walked on ahead, up the hill toward the projects.

      I’ll tell you what, my mother said cheerfully. We’ll raid the old man’s fridge and whip us up a good breakfast.

      A dog barked at the sound of my mother’s voice. And Sheila barked back.

      Nice doggie, my mother joked, petting Sheila’s head. Tommy turned and punched Joe playfully in the arm, and Joe turned and passed it onto me.

      We laughed. We started to feel good, and then Susan’s voice broke in.

      What are you going to make us, ma? Prune juice and oatmeal—breakfast of champions?

      Why do you always have to spoil everything? my mother asked Susan. Look on the bright side.

      What’s that ma? Susan asked. Why don’t you tell them the truth. They’re coming to serve us eviction papers. They want us out of the bungalow. You can’t go to Nanny’s house, so we’re hiding at Mr. Clarence’s house all day. We can’t hide there forever you know. My mother grew quiet and stopped. We all stopped, too.

      Are we going back home? Joe asked. My mother didn’t answer.

      No! Susan said, pulling us along. Let’s go. Then she instructed us.

      Don’t yell happy birthday when we get there. Just sit down and shut up.

      My mother walked on ahead, holding Sheila’s hand.

      And look on the bright side, Susan continued, we’re all together, right?

      I wanted to tell her that we weren’t all together. I wanted to remind her of our father out there, afloat—circling our lives like that great white whale in one of my favorite stories, you know the one. But it wouldn’t make a difference now. My mother was the captain of our ship and I, together with the rest of my brothers and sisters, along for the ride.

      Promises

      James, get up, my father shakes me awake. I want you to see this.

      What are you doing, Mickey? my mother pleads.

      I can smell the liquor on my father’s breath as Tommy and Joe kneel on the bed peering out the window with my father. He sits me up, sleep still in my eyes, and holds me so that I can see. I am only seven. The two-story window seems high to me and even though my father has a tight grip, I am afraid of falling.

      Please, Mickey, my mother says, let them alone.

      My mother’s eyes still have hope that my father will listen. This is years before his murder, before my mother’s beauty becomes memory, and her sanity disappears and reappears, like a bad magic trick. This is when even I can see it, at seven, the love that she has for my father. It is stronger than her fear. It is my mother.

      They have to learn, he snaps back.

      They’re supposed to be learning from a fistfight? she scolds, and stands out of my father’s reach in the doorway, the light leaking in from the kitchen.

      Across the street from our apartment on Tremont Avenue is a bar, and there are two men getting ready to fight. Both have their shirts off. One is tall and skinny. The other one has muscles and is tattooed on his chest and arms.

      Wow! Tommy says. Look at his arms, Dad.

      Yeah, Joe agrees. I’ll take that one.

      What do you think, James? my father asks.

      Why are they fighting? I ask.

      Who cares? Tommy says.

      How are we supposed to know? Joe pipes in.

      My father nudges me with his elbow.

      There’s your first lesson, James. When someone is going to hit you, don’t ask why. Just hit the fucker!

      I don’t want to be

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