- Messages
- 17,215
- Location
- New York City
("Somethin' haas got to be done," declares Uncle Frank, as a family council of war convenes around the fountain counter. "Tell me sommethin' I don't know, Francis," growls Ma. "This Alice Dooley is out of control, an' not only is she droivin' me daughter insane, noww she's callin' unnecessary attention to our little aaperations here. Soomebody's got to poot a stop to it." "Don't lookit me," shrugs Jimmy the Chest, "I had alla Alice I'm eveh gonna need." "Well, whas'evrybody lookin' at ME fawr?" blurts Danny the Neck. "Well, if none'a you moighty men c'n handle'r, then I suppose it faaals to me to..." Whatever Ma intends to propose is interrupted by the rasping of the screen door as it admits three sleekly-dressed, immaculately groomed gentlemen. A whisper of fine cologne carried in on the early evening breeze is sucked upward by the ceiling fan. "I'm to understand," begins the lead Gentleman, in a voice as smooth as his tailoring, "that someone at this address has -- a conflict-- with a certain person prominent in the sporting world." Glances are exchanged. "I don't think you quite heard me," continues the Gentleman. He nods at one of his colleagues, who briskly steps to the side and with a sudden, violent thrust, hurls the newspaper rack to the floor. "I'll repeat. I am led to understand that somoene at this address has a conflict with a certain person prominent in the sporting world." "Now joost a minute!" thunders Ma, her eyes blazing. "Who the hell are you to come waaltzin' in here an' start boostin' up me place?" "I'm sorry, Grandmother," purrs the gentleman. "I didn't introduce myself." With another nod, the second of the Gentleman's colleagues steps forward, and with a sharp motion grabs Uncle Frank's two-cents-plain from the counter and dashes it in his face. Jimmy and Danny reach into their coats, but Uncle Frank stops them with a motion of his hand. "Paarhaps you boys doon't know who I am," smiles Uncle Frank, dabbing at his face with his handkerchief as he rises from his stool. "My name is..." "Have a seat, Fats," commands the water-dasher, shoving Uncle Frank back onto his stool. "Now," resumes the Gentleman, "I have a message that I have been asked to deliver on behalf of that sporting personality." He nods again, and his two associates, in perfect syncrhonization, overturn a magazine rack and a cigarette display. "There's a bit more to the message," he continues, "and..." But before he can complete his statement, the door screeches open again. "What the hell....?" gapes Sally. "WHAT'S GOIN' ON HERE? MA! WHERE'S MY BABY?" She lunges forward, fists balled, her face contorted with rage. "WHAT'D YOU DO TO MY BABY!" The Gentleman and his associates step back, startled by this unexpected counterattack. "WELL I'LL BE DAMNED!" bellows Alice Dooley. "IZZAT HOISCHEL SCHWARTZ? HEY! SCHMECK!! Remembeh me? Alice Dooley? Fr'm Bushwick?" The colleagues exchange glances, as Sally pauses in her charge, and the Gentleman's eyes grow wide with recognition. "YEAH!" grins Alice, "TEN YEEHS IT'S BEEN! WHENJA GET OUT?" "Uh," stumbles the gentleman, sweat beading on his forehead. "WILLYA LOOK AT YOU!" laughs Alice! "YOU AWRWAYS DID KNOW HOW TA DRESS! HEY, REMEMBEH T"AT NIGHT AT LOEW'S PITKIN?" "Um," mumbles the Gentleman, "just wanted to deliver that message, ah...c'mon, boys." The guests make a hasty withdrawal, as Alice looks around at five pairs of goggled eyes. "It's swell," she grins, "t'see ol' pals again. Ain'it?")
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Jesus.
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("If it wasn't for the slot machine, we'd go broke.")
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I caught the tail end of it growing up in the '70s/'80s when the older-style drug stores back then really did carry a wide variety of merchandise, in addition to having a soda/ice-cream counter; whereas, the newer chains that were opening didn't have a soda/ice-cream counter and carried mainly drugs, cosmetic and daily household goods like cleaning supplies and soaps, etc.
Those old drug stores tended to be on the high side price wise, but the selection was impressive. It's another thing all but lost to time.
They do however pop up all the time in old movies, like this one featured in 1949's "Tension."
And in the Daily News...
There's counts and then there's no-accounts.
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Tell me something about early 1940s New York City in one random independent clause: "We found the count dunking his sorrows in a Tom Collins at El Morocco...."
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Keep your eyes down and take up as little space as possible.
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I've lived in NYC long enough to see a full cycle. The subways were dangerous in the '80s, reasonably safe from the '90s-2020ish - and are less safe now (not as bad, yet, as the '80s).
There can be big underlying social issues at work, but on a practical, make-a-difference-immediately front, policing and sentencing do it. And these 1940s commentators are very right about how much difference a strong and obvious police presence makes.
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Oh, Bimbo, you laugh now...
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Take this idea a step further and you are at the "comfort" business I was suggesting yesterday, just for the other gender. Now that would be forward thinking for 1943. I'm picturing lines out the door and fights over who is next.
"Dear, I'm off to the tearoom."
"What, again? You women love your tea."
"Yes, Dear, that's it."
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