No Name

Nobody really knew much about Jacobson. Most people even wondered if that was his real name. And that’s where the rumors started. You had a camp who thought Jacobson was the name they gave him on Ellis Island. The man was allegedly Sicilian and there weren’t many Jacobsons living in Sicily as far as I knew. I knew that couldn’t be the case because no one’s names were ever changed at Ellis Island. It’s one of those things people kept saying and that made it true after it was said for long enough. Another camp said Jacobson was a goyish sounding name he used on the books for the “funeral home” as a front. He didn’t want anyone to know he was actually Jewish. But I never really believed that either. Despite Jacobson’s reserved demeanor anyone who spoke to him always said that he was one of the most up-front men they’d ever met. His sentences were brief but loaded. He didn’t mince words and he didn’t pull punches.

Another of the alleged stories about Jacobson and his explicit nature involved him going to Kurtiz’s Restaurant on 43^rd and 10^th. Kurtiz was a Hungarian chef, a portly fellow. He cooked as if his mission during the day was not only to make the finest meals on Manhattan’s West Side but to make his apron dirtier than the bottom of the accompanying Hudson River. Kurtiz only changed out of his filthy apron and into the clean and pristine white chef’s outfit you would see in the movies when he came around to tables around nine. Kurtiz like all chefs would come out to ask the guests how their food was. The question was always asked honestly, but good manners taught people to never answer honestly. The answers were always the same, good or fine. Just about any variation of content is all Kurtiz ever heard. Until one night when Jacobson came.

Jacobson was seated at a booth against the wall. He was seated in the half moon table with then Congressmen Fiorella LaGuardia. This detail to some was used as further evidence to support their theory of his Sicilian heritage. Why else would anyone sit with a boisterous, blowhard like Fiorella? A man despised by those in my circles. They liked his attack dog tactics and stunts around Prohibition which everyone in New York knew was a joke. They didn’t like that he was Italian or that he represented an area of New York filled with Italian immigrants.

“Scum.” My boss and the head of the branch of Chase Manhattan Bank where I worked would say. “They look as bad as they smell. And we keep letting them come here to dirty our streets and fill our ears with the ghastliest noises. If it were up to me, I’d have the police force them off into the river so they can drown, like the rats they are.”

I stayed silent, nodding, and hoping the conversation could turn towards lighter fare but once my boss got rolling about what he felt were the immigration problems, there was no stopping him. His sentiments were carried by many of the wealthy elites in New York which is part of the reason they let Prohibition go as far as it had. They were never concerned they would ever lose the right to drink ardent spirits freely and that maybe this would be a way to discourage Italians and other Europeans from emigrating here. They never expected for the law that would be passed to ban the sale of any and all alcohol. Heck, if you asked any of their Congressmen, they would have said they same. But the sad truth was many Congressmen didn’t read some or read all of the Volstead Act. Which is how we found ourselves in that footnote to American History.

I digress.

So allegedly Jacobson and LaGuardia are at Kurtiz’s restaurant one night. They had never been there before. Jacobson ordered a Lemon Roasted Chicken with Rosemary and Thyme and a Baked Potato. As Jacobson and LaGuardia finished their meal Kurtiz came to their table and asked them how they enjoyed their meal. LaGuardia nodded, mouth still full. Jacobson without looking up said:

“What did you to this poor bird to make it so tough? Did you tell it to go out and find job to support its family?”

Kurtiz’s pupils shrank. The blood dropped out of face so that his skin was as white as his outfit. He’d never heard such dissatisfaction before from a guest.

“Would you like something else? I could prepare you -” But before Kurtiz could say anything further, Jacobson waved his hand cutting him off.

“If you can’t roast a chicken, I’d hate to think what you would do to some poor piece of perfectly pure beef.” Jacobson said.

Kurtiz did not take the comments in stride. He gripped the wood on the exterior of the booth so tightly that they say you can still see the indents of his fingertips on the wood if you go to the restaurant today. Kurtiz then offered Jacobson to come with him to the kitchen. He said maybe Jacobson could help him improve his cooking methods. Jacobson flicked his eyebrows but reluctantly agreed to go with Kurtiz.

Upon entering the kitchen, Kurtiz guided Jacobson over to a boiling pot of water where he said he made his pasta. Jacobson looked in and only saw the boiling water. Kurtiz grabbed Jacobson’s head from behind and tried to force him into the boiling pot. Jacobson apparently grabbed the onto the counter and the oven top, lightly burning his left hand. Kurtiz was supposedly so enraged he was screaming curse words in Hungarian that even his Hungarian servers weren’t entirely sure what he was saying. They were words from a dialect they didn’t know. Jacobson apparently pushed off the stove sending the two of them flying backwards. He then turned around and threw a haymaker striking Kurtiz on the left side of the head, knocking him out cold. Jacobson stood over him like a prize fighter, primed and ready for Kurtiz to get up. But Kurtiz would require several days in the hospital as he was suffering from a concussion. There would be no round two as Jacobson was banned from Kurtiz’s and Kurtiz was banned from his “funeral home”.

That was the story I was told by a very inebriated man who looked like an owl and had a penchant for drunk driving incidents out on Long Island. I have heard a party at Jay’s will do that to you, but I’ve never been.

I had never been able to confirm the story, but I did speak to Jacobson once. I saw him in his speakeasy. I had come a little worse for wear around three. The place was less crowded than I had expected, and a woman was doing what we were told was an authentic Arabian snake dance. Another detail I cannot confirm as I’ve never been to Arabia, wherever that may be. Jacobson was in the corner, all by himself. He was watching the woman with the snake with a mild interest. With liquid courage flowing through my brain, I walked up to him.

“I think you want to hang off her more than the snake.” I said raising my eyebrows, hoping he got my innuendo. He smiled lightly.

“I’m afraid the snake is going to try and eat her. And I don’t have anyone to replace her. She’s a hard act to replace.” He said, with an heir of polite humor.

“Jacobson, right?” I asked.

“Yes.” He said.

“I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“None of it is true, I’m sure.”

“Oh really? How come?” I asked with an inquisitive slur.

“Because if any of it was. If I was as powerful as people think I am, I could go home again.” Jacobson said smiling.

“Go home again? Where are you from?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m an American now.” He said. “This…this is my home.” He tapped a finger on the tabletop.

“Some might say you aren’t an American, just a permanent visitor.”

           “They can say that.” He said nodding gently. “But they’re wrong. They’ll continue to be wrong. They’ll always be wrong.” His boldness and certainty of his belonging threw me for a loop. I had never met someone who so thoroughly saw himself as member of this country who wasn’t born here. There was an absolute metaphysical certitude to his words that gave them weight. A weight so heavy a bulldozer could not make them move.

           The music stopped and the crowd of degenerate drinkers clapped. Jacobson smiled at me. He took a swig from his glass and stood up. He came round and patted me on the shoulder.

           “Enjoy your evening.” He said and walked away into a back room. I would never see him again and I would wonder, even to this day, what was true and what wasn’t. The questions are many. This man is still an enigma to me. The only thing I know for certain was that he was an America. Of that, I’m sure.