I Can't Sleep

“I can’t sleep.” I roll over and tell my wife Mona who is pretending to be asleep. Once again I struggled to get to sleep, but to no avail.  My eyes were wide open.  

“Take one of your pills, Morry.” She yawns. 

“I already took one.” I sit up in bed. 

“Alright. Should I make you some tea?” She suggests.

“No dear, I want to take a walk.” I put my feet into my walking shoes at the side of the bed.

“I wish you wouldn’t.  You never know what kind of rift-raft you’re going to run into.” She shakes her head full of rollers. “Morry, it just isn’t safe anymore since them colored folks started rioting.  Every night there’s new trouble.” 

“Mona, I can take care of myself.” I wave my hand as I walk out of the bedroom.  She’s always hysterical about something going on in our Sedgwick neighborhood. 

“Celia told me they burned down the marketplace near the underpass.” She called out as I put on my coat. 

“I’ll be fine.” I tell her as I walk out our front door.  Once outside standing on my stoop, I feel the frigid air fill my lungs.  The night is unusually quiet as I step onto the sidewalk where I will walk a few blocks to the Washington Bridge.  I have this place where I like to stand and watch the Harlem River drift on by.  There is something very soothing about it.  I feel restless as I climb the walkway onto the bridge.  There is no one else anywhere to be seen. 

I guess I am a night owl by nature, but Mona and I have been talking about retirement.  She wants to move to Miami, Florida near his sister Hazel where it will instantly become two against one.  In our thirty three years of marriage, Mona’s sister Hazel has always been a sore spot between us with her loud grating voice, her overly exaggerated vivacious mannerisms and her unending criticisms of me.  

I could do without any of it, to tell the truth.  A few hundred feet from the crest of the bridge, there is a small nook with a bench.  This bench has become my refuge as I take a squat, reach into the pocket of my jacket and pull out a pack of cigarettes I keep hidden from Mona.  Removing one smoke from the pack, I put it to my lips and light it with my butane lighter.  Closing my eyes, I take a deep drag. The chill of the air is chased away from my lungs and I begin to feel the uplifting sense of rising above my anxieties of the past few days when Mona mentioned retirement. 

“Morry, isn’t it about time we thought about letting the kids take over the bakery?”  She ladles some matzo ball soup into a bowl. Her nonchalant tone does not match the weight of the question she has just asked. 

“The kids?” I nearly choke on the mouthful of soup I have just put into my mouth.  

“You know your sons Aaron and Levi.” She says with a definite edge to her voice. “Aren’t you ready to retire?” 

“I had not given the matter any consideration.” I answer as I cough into my napkin. 

“We aren’t getting any younger.” She sits down at our small table across from me, setting her bowl of soup in front of her.

“I have owned Zarcoff’s Bakery for thirty years.” I counter, “Ever since I came back from the war.” 

“I know.” She smiled, “We got married the day you were discharged from the army.”

“That’s right.” I snapped my fingers, “And we've been there ever since.” 

“Wouldn’t it be nice not to have to shovel the driveway every winter?” She looked at me with those deep brown eyes I fell in love with at the U.S.O. dance before I shipped out to Belgium in 1943. I lied about my age when I enlisted, because high school taught me very little I didn’t already know.  

“I don’t mind.  The snow here does not add up to much like it does upstate.” I shrugged.

Both Aaron and Levi had expressed to me that they were  eager to take over Zarkoff Bakery on 17th and Popham, an institution I had been running for over forty years.  

Best Jewish soul food, the best lox and bagels, canoles and blintzes in the Beachwood Sedgwick area.  Forty years of my blood, sweat and tears now poured onto my sons.  Don’t get me wrong, I love my boys as a father should, but I must admit I had reservations about their abilities to handle the daily business of the bakery. Both had proven to be inept at business matters. 

The night air seemed to revive me as I tossed my cigarette into the river.  As I stood there staring at the black water flowing beneath the bridge,  I remembered our vacation in Florida a couple years ago.  Hazel and her goy husband Rex were insufferable as they did as much as they could think of to sell me on the idea that Miami was the new Bronx paradise.  Never once had they mentioned that I never once thought of the Bronx as the Promised Land to begin with. 

The thick muggy air was hard for me to breathe and the constant lathering of suntan lotion made things even worse for my sweat soaked skin. To make matters even worse, Hazel wore a bathing suit that revealed far too much of her lumpy celloise body even though Rex kept grabbing at her whenever she passed him.  It was just too much for me to swallow.  

At first I saw him moving toward me with the grace of a ghostly shadow. Even as he seemed propelled by the wind, his gait had an intense purpose and resolution.  As he drew near, I could see he was wearing a long coat that reached down below his calf.  Unbuttoned, his hands shoved in his coat pockets, I could see he was wearing a pinstripe double breasted suit that was tailored to his exact proportions of his slender, but muscular build.  His skin was a darker shade of olive and his black eyes gleamed in the streetlights.  

I stood up as he drew near since I had no idea what his intentions were, but his expressionless face did not seem to bear any ill intent.  

“Mr. Zarkoff.” He stopped a few paces from where I stood.

“Yes, and who might you be?” I felt a bit bewildered that this stranger would know my name.

“My name is Julio. Julio Salazar.” He held his hand out for me to shake.  I gave him a tentative dead fish shake. 

“What can I do for you, Mr. Salazar?” I asked, tilting my head.

“You have sent for me.” His half smile revealed his humor at my question.

“I have?” I was beginning to feel uneasy at his sudden appearance. 

“Yes, perhaps not conscientiously, but there was a desire to have a conversation about things that keep you awake at night.” He leaned on the railing and stared into the river. 

“I can’t sleep.” I shook my head. 

“What is troubling you, then?” His eyes seemed to melt into  me. 

“My wife wants me to retire.” I pulled out my pack of cigarettes.

“I see.” He nodded, “Could I trouble you for one of those?” 

“A cancer stick?  Sure.” I pulled out an extra one from the pack and handed it to him. Much to my amazement, he lit the cigarette with the tip of his index finger.

“Thanks.” He inhaled.

“No problem.” I nodded, quite disturbed by what I had just witnessed. 

We both sat on the benches and a far off expression overtook his face. 

“You remember the 1932 New York Yankees?” He turned his head to look at me.

“It was a long time ago.” I chuckled.

“I will never forget it.” He nodded. “Gehrig, Ruth, Lazzeri, Dickey, Gomez.  What a team, eh?” 

“They were the best.” I smiled.  My father had taken me to some of their games that year.  

“I was there when they won it in game four of the World Series that year.” He closed his eyes and leaned back with his cigarette still lit at the corner of his mouth.  

“You were there?” I was astounded. 

“Sure as shootin.’” He chuckled.  “Wilcy Moore was the winning pitcher and Tony Lazzeri hit two homers.”

“How do you remember all that?” I asked.

“I was there selling popcorn.” He shrugged.

“I was just six years old then.” I tossed my cigarette into the river. I looked at Salazar closely, noting that he appeared to be a much younger man than I. Things were not adding up again, it seemed. “So how old were you then?”

“How old do I look now?” He asked as another half smile flashed across his face.

“Thirty or so.” I answered with some caution. 

“Thirty is correct.” He nodded.

“That was over forty years ago.” I sat down slowly.

“Forty three years to be exact.” He replied.  If I was doing the math right, Julio Salazar would be almost eighty years old, but he did not look a day over thirty. 

“How come…how come…” I could not seem to get the words out. 

“How come I look as I do?” He completed my question. “Simple, some people never change and stay the same.” 

“Not if they are living.” I put my hands between my knees.

“Ah, now we have arrived at the crux of the matter.” He flashed his smile again.  It was then I noticed his pencil thin mustache. “So this is a secret we will share.”

“Are you a ghost?” I asked.

“Not in so many words, but if we stretch the definition a bit.” He paused, “It is true, I am a ghost.” 

“What…How?” I could not form the words.

“I came from Cuba with my father who had hoped to make the Yankee team.” He leaned back and stared into the twinkling stars overhead. “He was very good at pitching for a semi pro team in Havana, but since they already had quite a few good arms, they told him he would have to go to the farm team.  He was not that young.  It seemed his chances were not good at making it to the Yankees since they had just traded for a Boston pitching ace by the name of George Herman Ruth. It made my father angry that they did not even use him as one of their pitchers. They had Lefty Gomez and Red Ruffing.”

Not wishing to take my eyes off this strange man, I stared at Salazar with suspicion.  Something about him  was beginning to make me feel quite uncomfortable in his presence. “My father, Ernesto, had to scrub toilets while he waited for a call from the Yankees that never came. He passed away three years later from what I knew was a broken heart.  After he was buried, I hitchhiked to New York.  It took me over a month to get there.”

With a nod and chuckle, he continued his story.  “So I wound up running numbers up in Harlem as a teenager.  The coloreds didn’t have much money, but they were willing to spend it on a chance to become rich. It was like taking candy from a baby.”

His smile widened as he continued, “After running numbers, I got into bootlegging.  Bathtub gin and homemade hootch.  Speakeasies.  It was all fun.  The mayor sent his best men to hunt down lawbreakers like me.  It became even more risky when we’d have some disputes with our rival gangs.  We weren’t too shy about using guns to settle our disputes. So, in my attempt to stay out of the spotlight, I took a summer job with the concessions at Yankee Stadium in 1932.  I got to talk to some of the team from time to time.  Babe Ruth was a mean drunk, but Lou Gehrig was a true gentleman.  Some of the others were rowdy at times, but overall it was one of the best summers of my life.  I wished sometimes my father had lived to see this, but he didn't.”  His face reflected his sorrow and regret. “It seems good things in life aren’t meant to last.  Funny when we look back on things, what seemed to be normal at the time turns out to be the pearl you were looking for when you start shucking oysters. Water under the bridge, I suppose.”   

I watched him turn his head so I would not see the tears glimmering in his eyes. 

“So what happened next?”  

He crushed his cigarette beneath the soles of his shoes, “When the season ended, me and a couple of my buddies were on a delivery when the Feds ambushed us.  I pulled out my Tommy gun, but one of the agents got the drop on me and filled me full of lead.  I ended up dying on the way to the hospital.” 

“Sorry.” Escaped from my mouth.

“S’okay kid.” He patted me on the shoulder with a hand that felt solid. 

With another dry chuckle, he said, “I was like you.  I was a night owl.  I loved walking these streets at night.  There’s something about taking a stroll when you can’t sleep that fills you full of life and spunk.”

“My wife wants us to move to Florida.” I admitted.

“Yeah, so I heard.” He shook his head, “I’m not fond of the place myself.  When we came over on the boat, they treated us like we weren’t welcome in the Miami port.”

“Have you ever heard of the Battle of the Bulge?” I asked.

“Heard about it, read about it, heard people talk about it.” He shrugged.

“I was there in that winter of 1944 when they sent every available troop they had left in Germany to stop our advance.” I swallowed hard, “I watched some of my buddies get blown away by the Krauts, but when I came home, they treated me like Julius Caesar.  I found Mona still working at the USO center and we got married a month later.  I am one lucky man.”

“I’ll say you are.” Salazar smiled.

“I’m just not ready to move on.” I sighed.

“Sometimes we have no choice in these matters.” He consoled me. 

“I remember when I used to take a fifty pound bag of flour off the shelf with one yank, but now I have to ease it down.  It takes me twice as long.  I’m not sure I will be able to do that much longer.” I leaned on the railing and looked down into the black water of the Harlem River. “When I asked Aaron and Levi to order supplies, they over-ordered which cost me most of my revue.  If they continue to do those types of things, they will run the bakery out of business. I spent my life making that baker what it is today.  It keeps me up at night.”

“Yes, I have seen you walking this way many times.” Salazar nodded in agreement.

“How come I’ve never seen you before?” I asked, looking up at him.

“You have never seen me, but I have seen you every night you go out on one of your walks.” He nodded. 

“Why tonight?” I asked.

“Why not?  You seemed so lost in your own thoughts, I figured you needed someone to talk to.” He chuckled. “I was more than happy to be that person.” 

“But you’re just a ghost.” I shook my head.

“Is that all I am to you?” He seemed hurt by my comment, “Ghosts are just visions of what was and are no more. I am here.  I am not just a vision, am I?”

“But you were killed in 1932.” 

“And yet here I am.” He bowed his head. “Some of us cannot sleep either.  We walk the night as you.” 

Then it came to me in a horrible realization.

I remember standing in the kitchen.

I remember the pain.  I could not catch my breath.  

The bag of flour was crushing me. 

The stars no longer seemed like twinkling lights on a velvet covering. They became eyes looking down on me.

“Maybe Morry, it’s time to go to sleep.  Rest.  Rest.” His voice washed over me like the slow moving river below. 

“I can’t sleep.” I saw aloud.

“You must. It is your time.” There was a soft flicker in his eyes. 

“But this can’t be.”  I shook my head. 

“Ah but it is.  Like me I did not want to lay down and rest, but I had no choice.  They drove me to the hospital, but I did not make it.  So they took me out of the car and threw my body off this bridge into the river.” Salazar’s image began to fade.

I heard weeping and sobbing.

Mona was standing between Aaron and Levi drying her eyes with a tissue.  Aaron put his hand on her shoulders.   

Someone was lying on a table.

Who was it? 

I could not see a face.

The room began to fade just like Julio Salazar had moments ago.  

I did not need to see the person’s face.  

I knew.

I most certainly knew.