Short Story By: Bill Monks

Greenwich Village is that one watering hole, where those who wish to know NewYork must taste and see. If you're single, hungry for adventure, and a non-conformist, it's worth a year of your life. You will meet fellow pilgrims who appear from every part of the country seeking a sort of Camelot; some find it.

I loved the restaurants, the bars, the sidewalk art shows, antique shops, littletheaters, and playing chess in Washington Square. The people from the New School, New York University, Parsons, Cardozo, Forbes, Prentice Hall, Fairchild, Sheed & Ward, Marshall Chess Club, and, Asti's restaurant, were all the helpsing opera. There are the con games, the handkerchief switch, three card Monty,the supposed moron (Oscar winner), who has just found gold coins on thesubway and ask you for advice. The pick-pockets who catch you in the swingingdoor, or puts ketchup on you when you are going up a staircase and tells you, "Youâ ve been shot!" While your ripping your coat off, he walks away with the briefcase you have just put down. The supposedly stolen watch, peeking out ofthe folded newspaper and the whispered, " How about it, Mac, ten bucks?" Your friendly mugger, who can do a job on you in ten seconds, in broad daylight. I admired them, all but the mugger; he plays too rough. What you see in the Village quite often ain' t what you get. If you wish to tour the Village, keep one hand on your heart, the other on your wallet and one eye in the back of your head.

Thirty years ago I descended into a hole in the ground, smack in the middle of the Village. The hole was actually a bank' s safe deposit vault where I was employed. To describe the ' hole' where I spent a great part of my life, I could compare it to a hermitage. Those who wander down into the hole looking for a place to hide their wealth would wonder how I could stand the solitude. Little did they know from whence I came. In my misspend youth I had become addicted to chess and darn near lived in Washington Square Park. I was just a wood pusher who loved the game. As the saying goes : I don' t think I ever beat a well man. I was once taken apart by a sightless man in thirty moves. If the world is a stage, I met myshare of fellow performers, and it was quite a show. Many members of the cast sat at my desk over the years. All I could offer them was my two floppy ears. I did not attempt to untie the knots. I left that to the hundreds of psychotherapists who infested the Village at the time.

I found that the common denominator among us all was that we liked to be listened to, and that we needed a lot of loving. Each one of us exists in a different space and time that hides our interdependence. Not blind to our basic oneness, we attempt to reach out to one another.

As the strangers sat at my desk ,the first thing said would be, "Are they all your kids" I had a frame on the wall that held small cameo pictures of my adversaries. They then asked me how I managed. I replied that I had never come close. I gave the person a brief glimpse of life in the trenches and we would commence to bond.

Most people, believe it or not, are human. They would warmly accept me as a fellow member of the walking wounded. Their need to heal and be healed would service. There was a mystical touching, a willing to trust and risk letting me into their lives. They filled out a brief application that told me enough about their background to pick their locks, permitting me to draw out the highlights of the life of one of God's greatest creations. I loved them all for taking the time to sit and share. I have few gifts, but one I always enjoyed was being a good listener.

I showed heartfelt interest in their lives and they repaid me in kind. No one wore a mask at my desk. There was no need not to be honest. I know their love and wisdom made a huge difference in my handling life's problems. Humanity is like a session of group therapy that's just not running too smoothly. We really do need a Moderator.

Customers sitting at my desk carried me on voyages of wild adventure, of deep tragedy, the greatest moments in their lives, their dreams of success, how it was to grow up in Spleedunk. They shared their feelings of isolation and loneliness, even of contemplating suicide. Three of my customers told me of their plans and the good listener failed to hear them. I guess I had more hope for them than they did.

Individuals described the part they were playing in the big show, from the Mayor's bagman to Frank Sheed, (we had a mutual love of Augustine), and Malcolm Forbes. I had his Faberge Collection. I would let him look at it once in awhile.

There was the resident of the Bowery, an old shaggy bum who held his pants up with a piece of cord. He wore a copper washer for a ring. I was always alarmed that the bank was going to throw him out. He loved to play the horses. When hedied, as was the custom, we opened his safe deposit box. He may not have beaten the world, but he beat the horses: three thousand bucks in cash, a winner.

From the psychiatrist who told me she had treated homosexuals in the village forthirty years, and never met a mother who wasn't glad her son was a homosexual.

The practicing child psychiatrist who always mummified her safe deposit box with red masking tape, and constantly accused me of putting things from her kitchen into the box. Outside of that she was as sane as you are, I think. Ninety-ninepercent of the time she was perfectly normal. We got along great, but she was always disappointed in me when she found strange things in her box. One time she had a police captain from the local precinct call me up and tell me to knock it off. He did not need an explanation.

There was the psychiatrist who always had a big grin on his face, not a smile. I figured this guy must have solved the problem. I finally asked him, " What's the answer, Doc?"

Not removing the grin, he answered, "Heavy sedation."

The writer, who told me her novel was about to be reviewed in the Daily and Sunday Times the following week. That Friday I picked her book up at the local bookstore, intending to give it a preview reading. I spent a busy weekend with my head in her book. She was a superb writer, a master of the English language. She picked her words like the Colombians pick their beans. Her phrases were memorable.

I constantly paused to admire her style, but the book was god-awful. The meat of the story was the reminiscence of the main character, a dowager. She told of a life born in poverty and dying in immense wealth, at the age of ninety. Her life had been pure self-gratification, without conscience or regret. Adultery, stealing, poisoning her Down's syndrome grandchild, vice after vice, all perfectly justified. The heroine would have made a great spouse for Sammy of "What Makes Sammy Run?" I always thought you enjoyed a book or were bored by it. Not so. I was disgusted with it. The parting words of the heroine, "And I have been lied to." She should have been shot. The author' s writing skills were acknowledged in both reviews. I doubt if Rembrandt could sell a masterpiece of vomit.

The Fifth Avenue dentist who gave me $3,000 worth of treatment and would only take twenty bucks. He was a Navy dentist who I had served with on Guam. The nicest words I ever heard, "That will be twenty dollars." I was set to drop a bundle. I made it up to him in referrals.

The heart surgeon, with a huge income, told me he couldn't afford his insurance and was going to quit. I grunted with sympathy, as my intestine popped, from carrying his share of the world's wealth.

How it was to tour Russia as a reporter from a top financial magazine? The reporter was actually an editor of the magazine, a chap who, no doubt, was an expert on world economy. He told me what a joke it was to see a lock factory that had to fulfill its quota by tonnage, meet it by making huge locks. He had toured their factories and couldn't believe what he had seen. Still in a state of shock, he gave me all the details of his trip and then I read it in the magazine, the following edition. In l970 he knew U.S.S.R was doomed.

I asked the late Paul Ford who was starring in "It's Never Too Late," how he remembered his lines. He always spoke as if he was very mixed up. I don't think he ever acted. Paul Ford of the 'Bilko Show' and 'The Russians Are Coming' was Paul Ford, period. "I don' t," he replied, "I know just about what to say .Every night my lines are a little different." He was one humble person.

I met the old New York Times reporter, F.W. Marquand, who covered Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show and knew Cody, and also knew James Barrie, author of 'Peter Pan' . Imagine talking to some one who knew Buffalo Bill.

Then there was Jack Rose, the very last of the bare-knuckle fighters. A nice little man, about ninety when I met him. He fought as a bantam. There was always an unbelievable amount of rounds in each of his fights. In one of the clippings he showed me he was wearing a jewel-studded belt. He was a winner. He was a cream puff. What a simple guy! He was huggable. I couldn't picture him hurting anyone.

There was also the guy who had a swimming pool in his mansion next to his bed, my fondest dream. Each morning he jumped out of bed into his pool. One of the finest men I have ever met, yet when he told me of his baggage I knew I would never have the courage to jump into his pool. Life is very fair. It's unfair to everyone.

How would you like to be owner of one of worlds top publishing houses, and give each of your nephews and nieces a million dollars on their twenty-first birthday? Don' t forget to take his special daughter with you. She is the woman standing in the corner facing the wall. The world is very fair.

The member of the John Birch Society who had about fifty pounds of South African krugerrands in his box and was waiting for the U.S. to collapse any day.

The artist who gave me one of his paintings and then a month later jokingly accused me of hanging it under my bed. I told him, " Stay out of my bedroom."

The people who become captives of their wealth. Sometimes I actually thought the vault would pulsate, there were so many hearts locked in it. People would callme to ask me to check if their box was locked.

That reminds me of the time I asked a multi-millionaire friend how it was to be rich. He looked me straight in the eye and said, " I' m not rich. I'll tell you who' s rich. You should meet the guy whose yacht is tied up next to mine down at Palm Beach. What a yacht!"

That' s when I learned we are all rich, and we are all poor, depending in which direction you' re looking.

The countless widows of the countless magnates who died twenty years too soon. The countless sons of the countless magnates who had never taken over their father' s business, and instead beat it out to California. One old friend worked all his life to build a thriving clothing store. Two months after his death his son closed the store and sold the building for eight million dollars. I asked his son, whom I knew since he was a kid how it was to have eight million bucks. He said it wasn' t all that good. He lost all his old friends. When out dining with his buddies, if he picked up the check, he made them look bad; if they paid, he was cheap.

The thousands of young actors and actresses who came into the Village to give New York a whack. The one lesson they had to learn: If you don' t think you're better than Tom Hanks or Meryl Streep go home. You have to have one heck of an ego to succeed in the theater. The competition eats all but the tigers. It's not really a wonderful town. I met a few who made it, but not many.

The poor soul, who survived Belsen, and needed no tattoo. His eyes and skull-like face told it all. He said when he went into the camp he was a devout Jew. Now he firmly believed that Moses met no one, and heard nothing on top of that mountain. Top that for tragedy. He never really survived. That man was dead. He was a ghost haunting the living. I wish I had never met him. I never asked him for his story. Just to look at him made me nauseous with guilt. That painful reflex action gave me quite an insight into who is our brother's keeper.

The millions of dollars of diamond jewelry shown to me that could not be worn because of the crime in our society and not sold because, "My late husband gave it to me." Actually worthless to the owner.

The very distinguished gentleman, with Homburg and velvet collared coat, who only walked backwards. What a strange, horrible illness. Ask your father what a Homberg is.

Learning never to ask how the wife is, if you hadn't seen her for a while. Divorce was a popular past time in the Village.

The lady who removed every stitch of her clothes, down to the buff, sans shoes or stockings, on the bank floor. She had been told that she lacked sufficient I.D. for the bank to cash her check.

" How' s this for I.D.?"

The rest of the customers completely ignored her (the subway syndrome). I hadcome up on the bank floor to make a deposit. You could hear that pin drop.

The Admiral, classmate and friend of Rickover, who headed a destroyer flotilla, was now a lawyer. His destroyers ran cover for our convoy when the outfit was on its way to Iwo. He had served on some of the same ships my father was stationed on. I became a close friend of his father who was a very wise old rabbi. I dined with the rabbi at his home. A very kind soul. The whole family was a class act.

The Koreans own all the dry cleaning stores in New York City. Great money if youwant to put the time in. One young Korean told me he had to go to Boston in order locate a store that was for sale. This young man was what America is all about, both he and his wife, upon getting out of Parsons, put their careers as commercial artists on hold. They managed at one time or another to obtain a Laundromat, a restaurant and now they were seeking a dry cleaning business. Shortly after his return from Boston he told me his only child crawled out the window of his twelve-story apartment on Sixth Ave. Sometimes it just doesn' t pay to make friends.

The Korean girls, who worked the massage parlor around the corner from the bank, all had Irish last names and married GIs to get over here. They made a ton of money the hard way, five hundred to a thousand a day, tax-free. The average girl worked a year, made a large grub stake, then would take off to open a 7-11 out west somewhere. They all looked like sweet young things, living on the razoredge, in very rough company. The courts finally shut them down. I heard their language, when testifying, was so innocently gross, the judge had to clear the court.

The voice coach, who always invited me to observe his class of aspiring students on graduation night. He would book a club in the Village so they could perform live. I think his students always thought I was on a talent search. I felt a little guilty when some of his students would fawn over me. I thought his singers were great, but some of his comedians were hilariously lousy. Talk about chutzpah. He was a good coach, but he wouldn't take the responsibility for their material. He himself was a natural comedian and I enjoyed his company; a good friend for many years.

God, did I know widows. Some never cry, and some never stop. With their husband gone, most wives had no idea how to handle their finances. As time passed they lost touch with reality. It was painful to see the Fifth Avenue dowager facing Alzheimer's alone.

Quite often these women forgot to eat, or pay any of their utilities. I kept alot of telephones ringing and lights on. Sometimes I actually opened their pocketbooks to see if they had enough money to buy food, or I took money out of their accounts and paid the old bills that they carried, and gave them enough money for the week. They thought they were destitute because their pocketbook was empty, when in actuality they were extremely well off. They would constantly forget that they had accounts with us. The wife of the dentist dressed in rags and always thought she was broke. I went through their safe deposit boxes hunting coupon bearing bonds that sometimes had not been clipped in years. They would be so grateful when I found several thousand dollars of their own money. They wanted me to take half of it, but I never did. It was sad. It was so easy for these women to fall through the cracks. Those whose children had long ago moved to California and called Mom once in awhile. Then there were the childless, or the poor wretches who had planned their own lonely demise. They were prey to the unscrupulous. When a relative eventually showed up, I could only cross my fingers and hope for the best. The best long-term investment is still children, but there are no sure things.

The people upstairs must have suspected what I was doing, but I think they preferred not to believe it, so unbankish . Money and Banking and Mathematics of Finance were not my strong suits. I blew both of them in college. Thank God I majored in Philosophy. I never regretted it. To me the bank was always a vapor, an illusion. I could never relate to it. Don't misunderstand me I was always loyal to my employer, but in my own fashion. They came out far ahead.

I enjoyed the close relationship I maintained with my customers, and naturally I paid a price. A tear accompanied every laugh I shared with them.

I had a lot of gay friends who were caught in that sudden chilling wind thatcame from nowhere. I remembered my mother had often mentioned the horror she had witnessed during the influenza epidemic of l918. She had worked as a maid in doctor' s office in New York City. The doctor would come home and empty his pockets of all his money, and she would put it in a basket to be placed out on a windowsill. The flu was taking whole families. AIDS was reaping only the young men, but oh so thoroughly. Outside of San Francisco, there are probably more gays in the Village per square foot then any other place in our country. The gays who lived in the Village were only in the closet if they worked in an up or downtown office. Most of the gays I knew were either in the theater or the fashion industry. A great bunch, but I did feel a definite gap between us. Their world was gay but I thought I sensed a bitterness they felt toward the establishment, a hidden anger. There was an invisible line drawn, or maybe a fence that kept our worlds apart. They had more than their share of talent and, it seemed, good looks. They also had a sharp and caustic wit, but I also felt they were extremely lonely.

It was sad seeing the effeminate gay trying to built up his immune system by going on steroids, taking up body building, which was completely out of character. I watched as so many of them slowly started to fail, fade and die. It was so damn certain. Every gay was terror-stricken.The past could not be undone. When the young men died, I met their grieving families, who came to the Village from all over the country. They would go down to the vault to empty the safe deposit box. It doesn't get much sadder. As I sit here I can conjure up a sea of faces of dead friends. They all took a part of me with them. Time lock set, vault door closed, I sit in a bar across the street from the Bank, downing a Manhattan. I have come to the conclusion that the only thing of real value in my vault were the people who came into it.