Outside Jolly’s

by Merick Humbert

There was much about Howard’s own life that he did not know, but he was a happy boy. His parents loved him. He received top marks in academics, and he excelled on the baseball field. After their ballgames on Saturdays, Howard and some of his teammates would ride their bikes down to Canterbury Street for a chocolate malt and pizza. They would get their malts from Jolly’s, Mr. Duncan’s sweets shop, and walk next door to Salvatore’s Pizzeria, sit outside in the sun, and have a few slices of pie. Usually Mr. Duncan would come out with his signature Diet Coke and the boys would tell him about their day. Sometimes they would listen to the Dodgers’ game on the radio.

“Can you believe they are moving to Los Angeles next year, Mr. Duncan?” Howard asked.

“It’s pretty hard to surprise me these days.”

“Ain’t that a bite,” Charlie said.

“Benedict Arnolds, that’s what they are.”

“We still got the Yankees at least,” Tommy chimed in.

“Big deal,” Howard replied.

“Mickey Mantle’s a big deal, that’s for sure. He’s already got thirty-four home runs. He might get sixty.”

“Mickey Mantle’s a schmo.”

“Like the Yankees or not, Mickey ain’t no schmo.”

At this moment Howard’s little brother, Ron, came riding up on his bicycle. Mr. Duncan was sitting on a stool outside his shop and the three boys, uniforms still covered in grass-stains and dirt, were sitting at the table next to him.

“What do you say, Mr. Duncan?”

            “Hey there, Ron,” he replied.

            “What do you want, ankle-biter?” Howard said.

            “Mom said you was down here. Say, can I get one of those chocolate malts, Mr. Duncan?’

            “Sure thing, kid.” Mr. Duncan grabbed his cane that was resting on the side of the building, slid off his stool and limped his way back into his store—the little bell ringing as he opened the door—to make Ron his malt.

            “Can I get one of those?”

            “Hands off.”

            “Mom said…”

            “Alright, alright. Go in there to Sal’s and get yourself a plate.”

            “I don’t need a plate,” he said grabbing himself a slice. “How was the game? Mom said you guys won.”

            “8-6. It was a good one. Charlie here got the game winning RBIs. Where was you anyway? You’re usually always there.”

            “Artie got himself a guinea pig. I went over there to check it out.”

            “Artie! Poor thing will be dead in a week.”

            “Why anyone would want a guinea pig beats me.”

            “Here’s your malt, Ron,” Mr. Duncan said coming back out of the shop. “That’s two dimes.”

            “Here you go, Mr. Duncan.”

            At this moment, an angry looking woman, followed closely by a boy being dragged by the ear, came walking up to Mr. Duncan.

            “Jonathan has something to say to you, Mr. Duncan,” she said. “Well go on.”

            The boy stood there for a moment looking down in shame and embarrassment.

            “I…I…I…took a chocolate-caramel bar when I was in here earlier, Mr. Duncan.”

            “Took it?” his mother said. “Stole it, that’s what you did. Never thought I’d live to see the day that I raised a thief. Go on…”

            “I’m sorry, Mr. Duncan. Really, I am.”

            “There’s places in this world, they’ll cut your hand off for stealing,” his mother said. “Is that what you want?”

            “No, ma’am.” His head was still pointed to the sidewalk.

            “You feel bad, Jonathan?” Mr. Duncan asked.

            “Yes, sir.”

            “You regret what you did?” he went on.

            “I sure do.”

            “You ever gonna’ do it again.”

            “Never, sir.” He was starting to cry.

            “Alright, then I think we can forgive you. And I’ll forget about this little mess, but don’t you go doing it again.”

            “No, sir.”

            “Now cut on out of here. You’ll be alright.”

            “Thank you, Mr. Duncan. So sorry about all this. Here.” She handed him a quarter for the chocolate bar.

            “No sweat, Mrs. Ellis. Thank you. You take care now.”

            As Mrs. Ellis and Jonathan were leaving, Mr. Duncan turned to see the boys giggling at their table.

            “What a goof,” Tommy said, and they all broke out laughing.

“Alright, alright, you little monsters—cut the gas. I’m sure you’ve all done something you wish you hadn’t. Everybody does.”

            “Not me,” said Charlie.

            “How about you, Mr. Duncan?” Howard asked. “You ever done somethin’ you regret?”

            “Well, sure. I suppose I got the biggest of them all.”

            “It was over a doll, I bet,” Charlie said. The boys laughed.

            “It that true, Mr. Duncan? Was it over a doll?”

            “Actually, it was boys. A truly spectacular woman. And I was very much in love. I think we both were.”

            “Well, what happened?”

            “Yeah, tell us about it, Mr. Duncan.”

            “Well, alright. I suppose I can. We met during the war.”

            “Was she killed in the war?” Ron quickly interrupted.

            “No, stupid,” Howard said. “Women didn’t fight in the war.”

            “No, they didn’t,” Mr. Duncan went on. “But there were a lot of important things to be done right here, back at home—to help with the war effort an’ all. We couldn’t have beat the Germans without our women, no sir. I wanted to help, too. But there wasn’t really much I could do, on account of my leg an’ all.”

            “Whatever did happen to your leg, Mr. Duncan?”

            “That’s rude, Ron.”

            “Don’t mind. No, my leg was on account of a case of polio I had as a child. Anyhow, I couldn’t go overseas to fight, couldn’t even work in the Brooklyn Shipyard, helping to build them ships to take our boys over there.”

            “You didn’t have Jolly’s to run?”

“No, every able body was needed to help with the war effort, you see. I wanted to do my part. And on account of the sugar ration, I wouldn’t have been able to keep Jolly’s open if I wanted to.”

            “Why was there a sugar ration?”

            “Stop asking so many questions, hair-brain. Let him tell the story.”

            “These are good questions,” Mr. Duncan said. “You see, we got about a third of our sugar supply from the Philippines. And when the Japs took them over, that cut off that supply. Then there was the German U-boats sinking cargo ships left and right, all over the place. It was hard to get. So, we rationed. In the meantime, I closed up Jolly’s and worked in the Garment District making uniforms for our boys. That’s where I met Helen.”

            “Skippyyyyy,” Charlie said.

            “One day, I was sewing on a pocket of a coat, and the needle went right through my pointer finger. Right there,” he said showing it to them. “You can still see the scar through the nail.”

            The boys each got close so they could see.

            “AAAAAHHHHH, I yelled,” the boys jumped at the surprise. Mr. Duncan laughed. “Helen was a couple work stations away. But she came right over and helped clean me up. And that’s how we met. Pretty soon we were thick as thieves.”

            “So, what went wrong, Mr. Duncan?”

            “Well, the problem was, she was married.”

            “You bird-dogged ‘em, Mr. Duncan?”

            “No, not exactly. That wasn’t my intention at least. I wanted to respect the fact that she was married. Respect her, respect him. We was just gonna’ be friends, see. But some things are more powerful than you, me, anybody. Her husband was over there fighting in the war. They married just before he left. She was lonely, I suppose. Over there in a little flat on Lovington, all by her lonesome. Well, we started having lunch together almost every day. Something just clicked between us. Both couldn’t stand our boss. This short balding fat man named Wallgrass with a bit of Napoleon complex if you ask me.

“What’s a Napoleon complex?”

            “Oh, it’s when little guys try to act big and tough to make up for their short-comings. He was a mean guy—not very happy, I don’t think. Anyways, we griped about him together. Sometimes she would bring lunch for us to share, and some days I’d make something and bring it for the both of us. We’d talk about music and about the pictures. Pretty soon we’d be meeting up, on our days off, to spend the day together. She loved jazz, see. I had never really listened to it. I might have heard a bit on the radio from time to time, but I’d didn’t pay much mind. I was a classics guy myself. She just loved it, so one day she invited me over for some tea and cake and to show me her records. I must listen, I must, she said. She made herself a beautiful little home. Best anyone could have done with such a place, I should say. Warm and cozy. She had made a nice little coffee cake for us out of that month’s rations. Sweetest woman. And best damn coffee cake I ever did try.”

            “What records did you listen to, Mr. Duncan?”

            “Billie Holiday was her favorite.”

            “I heard my Pa say she was a blues singer.”

            “I’d say your Pa’s right. Jazz, blues, it’s all kind of intertwined, I would say. She showed me Louis Armstrong and Miles Davis. Charlie Parker and John Coltrane. I was just blown away, honestly. And you could just see how the music touched her. I watched her as we listened, and it seemed as if she just slipped away to another world all together. When she came back, she could talk and talk—knew all the history. And, boy, I could just listen to her for hours.”

            “That’s swell, Mr. Duncan.”

            “Doesn’t seem right to me.”

            “What’s that, Charlie?”

            “Bird-doggin’ a man’s wife while he’s out fighting for our freedom.”

“They was just listening to music and talking,” Howard said. “What’s she supposed to do, stay locked in closet till the man comes back from war?”

            “Find herself a dame friend.”

            “In some respects, there’s no doubt you’re right,” Mr. Duncan said. “Perhaps it was wrong, but only the big man knows for sure. I think you’ll find that this life is full of complexity. Opposing forces colliding at full speed like a couple of locomotives. Right and wrong are human creations, you see. Love don’t pay no mind.”

            “Sounds like malarkey to me.”

            “Fair enough, I suppose.”

            “He don’t know nothin’, Mr. Duncan. What happened next?”

            “From that moment, I fell in love with jazz. And I was over the moon with Ms. Helen.”

            “I’m an Elvis man, myself,” Tommy said. “That’s some music you can dance to.”

            “The girls in our class go bonkers for him.” Charlie said. “He’s as big as Coca Cola.”

            “Past my time. Give me a minute, boys.” Just at this moment a woman with her two little children came walking up to the shop. Mr. Duncan slipped down off his stool, limped over and met them at the door. He opened it for them—the little bell ringing—and then followed in behind. A few moments later, Mr. Duncan came out—little bell ringing—and held the door for the woman and her children, brown paper bag of chocolates in hand.

            “What happened next, Mr. Duncan?”

            “Let’s see. On another day, we went to the movies. Meet Me in St. Louis was the big one then. With Judy Garland. We went over to The Variant to catch it. Helen just loved it. Afterwards we went for hamburgers. Then we talked about pictures. His Girl Friday was her favorite. Loved Cary Grant… Bogart was my guy. The Petrified Forest is the best picture ever made if you ask me.”

“Never heard of it,” Charlie said.

“We just saw Angels With Dirty Faces over at Clacsico, didn’t we Tommy.” Howard said.

            “Sure did.”

            “Great picture,” Mr. Duncan said.

            “They was doin’ Cagney gangster pictures all day. We saw that, and White Heat, and Roaring Twenties. Nothing like the pictures on a hot day.”

            “Ain’t that the truth.”

            “What else did you all do, Mr. Duncan?”    

“Another day we went to Coney Island.”

            “Did you ride the Cyclone?”

            “You bet’cha.”

            “And the Wonder Wheel?”

            “We did it all.”

            “Oh boy!”

            “Popcorn and hot dogs. And the best company. I was truly smitten, boys.”

            “So, what’s this big regret, Mr. Duncan?”

            “Husband came home, I bet. Caught you, didn’t he?” Charlie said.

            “Not exactly. Well, one day she invited me over for dinner. End of February, I think. Cold day. Wind was howling like no other. Anyway, we have a wonderful dinner. She made a beef stew. We have some wine. Listen to some records. All the while it had begun to snow. Well, it was getting late, and I’m getting ready to leave. I got my coat on, gloves, hat, scarf. I open the door and snow’s coming down and wind’s blowing like mad. And she tells me to stay. Says I can sleep on the sofa couch. Wait for the storm to pass. So, I do. We open some more wine, listen to more records, and the next thing I know we share this big, beautiful kiss.”

“Gross!”

“Mr. Duncan, you didn’t?”

            “It was one the loveliest nights of my life, boys.”

            “So, what’d you do after?”

            “Well, after that she seemed a little distant. Feeling bad on account of her husband an’ all. That’s what I think. And I was feeling lousy myself. But at the same time full of joy like I never felt before. But I didn’t know what to do. So, I let her have some space. We still had lunch together at work, but things seemed just a little different. I wish I would’ve talked about it. Anyway, about a month later her husband came home. Then the war ended. Not too long after she had a little boy.”

            “You still see her around?”

            “From time to time.”

            “Who’s the boy? I bet we know him.”

            “I can’t say.”

            “Anyway, that’s my big regret.”

            “Sorry you got all mixed up in that, are you?”

            “Not at all. I’m sorry I didn’t fight for her. I’m sorry that’s not my boy I’m raising. I’m sorry I gave up. She was a wonderful woman, boys. The likes of which I have never seen or hope to see again in this lifetime.”

            “Don’t give up, Mr. Duncan. I’m sure there’s a broad out there for you somewhere.”

            “Not like Helen…my sweet, sweet Helen.”

“She never tried your chocolates, Mr. Duncan?”

“One time. I made a batch of my truffles one day and brought ´em into work. Boy did she love my chocolate truffles. Still comes in to get some from time to time.”     

“My mom likes chocolate truffles,” Howard said.

“A lot of people like chocolate truffles.”