A My Private Coney project Flash non-fiction, brief moments and old memories of a city and mother's emotional and physical real estate disappearing at the speed of heartbreak.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
The Secret Of The Fruit Man
For the first time ever the Fruit Man by the Avenue A bus stop on Clinton and Grand was closed. Well, the first time not a Jewish holiday. I knew he couldn't have been evicted because the building was a city building sold to the tenants so that everyone could stay there without being kicked out because they weren't rich.
I said to Irene, "Where's the Fruit Man?"
His stand, basic and built on old boxes, a beat-up space inside for the stuff that couldn't stand the heat or the rain or the snow, was like all the fruit and vegetable stands in the neighborhood, but his remained while the rest dissolved into fancy supermarkets or gourmet coffee shops or Chinatown where fresh fruit sold from their shipping boxes still meant something.
Everyone in the neighborhood went to him. Even Florence who hated him. Irene loved his cantaloupe.
"He retired," Irene said.
"Really? Why? Was he sick?"
"No. He was 90."
"He was mean."
"No. He wasn't.
"He yelled at everyone."
And Irene said, "All his customers were old and hard of hearing. That's why he yelled."
MY PRIVATE CONEY presents IT WAS HER NEW YORK, the short stories that accompany the work-in-progress video and photo collection of the same name (myprivateconey.com - media link - IT WAS HER NEW YORK). The stories and the media explore the tender rubble that holds both my mother, Florence's and New York's soul as one disappears into old age and the other into gentrification. All are real observations and/or experiences with very little tall-tale telling.
Except when it makes the story better.
Please visit myprivateconey.com for additional information and sample works.