The Best Time in My Life
by Jonathan Wilson
In loving memory of the late John N. Wilson, Sr.
When I was younger during the summer on the weekends when I wanted some money, I would often time go to the park across the street from where we lived to find my Dad. He would normally be sitting in the park on the benches along with his friends drinking and watching the softball game. I found this to be an opportune time in which to ask for a little bit more money than usual because Dad would be in front of his friends and didn’t want to appear cheap. If Dad appeared hesitant or even complained one of his friends would surely say, “Give that boy some money,” or they would offer some themselves. My dad would have a little smile on his face and say, “You think you’re slick,” and then hand me a crisp $20.00 bill that he pulled from a small roll of bills tucked away in the secret part of his wallet. Before he handed the bill over he’d rub the bill back and forth between his thumb and forefinger just to make sure there weren’t two bills stuck together.
Softball games were played every weekend between a lounge he hung out in named Nick’s and any other lounge that had a team. Actually the official name of his lounge was the Caddy Inn, which is the name the team had embroidered on their jerseys. However most people that frequented the place knew it by the owner’s name, which was Nick.
Nick’s was located just three blocks from where he lived and was like a second home to Dad and many of his friends who seemed to always be there whenever I’d go there with him. Rain, sleet or snow, hot or cold, Nick’s doors would always be open. So on the day the team wasn’t playing and I couldn’t find him in the park, it was a sure bet that he’d be there. Often times, when my Dad and I would hang out, which was mostly on Saturdays, we’d often time end the day by stopping by at Nick’s. I can’t remember a time that either one of us weren’t greeted when we walked in. Although operated as a business, Nick’s was a place that made you feel automatically welcomed when you came in. Like a shelter from a storm, if you were troubled by anything Nick’s seemed to have an environment that was capable of instantly lightening the load. It seemed the more you came, the more you became attached. You were more than just a person buying a drink. You also slowly became part of the goings on there. So I guess this is why the place felt so cohesive.
The place was usually packed with a few seats available left open at the bar. There was people from all walks of life and professions at Nick’s at any given time. White-collar workers and blue-collar workers alike. Some sidewalk sellers would come in if Nick allowed them to peddle their wares. On any given weekend, one could buy anything from diamond rings to an automobile. If you felt lucky you could place a bet on a horse running in any of the races throughout the day. You didn’t need to be at the Aqueduct or Bay Meadows. All you needed to know was the name, number of the horse, what race he runs and, the most important thing the odds. Depending on the amount bet, the odds determined how much you’d be paid if you won. It seemed almost everyone felt lucky because everyone would play a number. Some days my Dad would even ask me for numbers. And although Dad never got rich, at least as far as I could tell, he was very lucky and would pick the right horses most of the time. I remember once him placing a bet and receiving the little yellow slip of paper which was an actual receipt from the number runner. Later that afternoon I remember him smiling and many of his friends patting him on the back because he had picked the right combination of numbers. They called it a straight. The number man walked in and came over to where I was sitting with my Dad and pulled out a faded yellow envelope stuffed with bills. My Dad smiled and said, “thank you.”
He then counted the money, took some bills out and said, “I want 1-6-2 in the second race, and 7-3-5 in the third,” while giving it back to the number runner, who then glanced around very quickly and pulled an enormous roll of money out of his pocket and added those bills to the top of it. He then pulled out a small pad from his jacket pocket, wrote Dad’s numbers down on a page that looked to be filled with many other numbers and initials. He then reached in his other pocket and took out another pad that resembled the actual roll of paper that is used for receipts when you purchase something by credit card. He wrote the number down again on the outer white paper and then pulled the yellow one off and gave it to Dad. All this took about 30-45 seconds.
Once their business was completed and the runner left, I asked my Dad what kind of job the number runner had since it seemed he was always very sharply dressed, wore nice jewelry, and drove a new car, usually a Cadillac. Dad must have read my mind because he then gave me a crisp $100.00 bill. He told me to be careful and not spend it all at once. He also said, “Son, that job is not for you, get a real job.” I asked him, “A real job like yours?” He replied, “No, you should become a dentist.” I never became a dentist, but I have since inherited the same sort of luck Dad had with games of chance.
During those long hot summer days, while walking by Nick’s, I would often time peek in the window before stopping in to use the bathroom. As soon as I opened the door, it felt as if a blast of arctic wind hit me as I stepped into the dark, air-conditioned lounge. Upon hearing the door open, Nick would stop what he was doing, look up from behind the bar, give me a wave and say, “Hi little Johnny.” I would feel very privileged because adolescents were never allowed in a lounge absent a parent. However, because of my Dad I had carte blanche. After using the bathroom and on my way out, Nick would always call me over to the bar where he would have an ice-cold glass of Coca Cola waiting for me. This wasn’t just any glass of Coca Cola; it seemed as if he took particular care in making it. He would only use crushed ice and put a cherry on the top and throw in a stirring straw. Cold sweat would be running down the side of the glass. I’d climb on to a stool and slowly sip my Coke through the stirring straw while my eyes finally adjusted to the dim lighting inside.
There were small bowls of Spanish peanuts, the ones with the red skins still on them, strategically placed on the semi-circle counter which made up the center of the bar. I would eat small handfuls of peanuts and occasionally dropped them in my Coke. As I listened to the jukebox, which seemed to always be on, my body swayed with the beat of, “you are my starship.” The combination of music, soft lights, cool air, and the smell of alcohol which permeated the air along with the taste of Coca Cola would always place me in a dreamy euphoric like state. I could sit that way uninterrupted for hours. I would spend anywhere between 20-30 minutes watching Nick go about his daily duties which seemed to consist mostly of wiping glasses off and then putting them up to the light to ensure that he had gotten all the smudges off them. His other duties, which he always seemed to be doing, would be stocking the bar with bottles of liquor and beer and cleaning the counter of the bar. But one afternoon I discovered what his real job was and I could tell he liked it from the way he did it.
One afternoon as the lounge became crowded, I watched Nick begin to make drinks. This was where his real talent lay. Like a juggler in a circus, he began to flip bottles over and pour liquor. Like a chemist, he quickly mixed different colors of fluids together in glasses. He’d pour each fluid to an exact predetermined amount and fill each glass to the rim. He would then slide the glass along the bar over to the customer. I’ve seen him slide a glass maybe ten to 15 feet and not spill a drop of alcohol. It seemed as if he could take what seemed to be hundreds of orders at a time. I don’t know how he heard half the orders that were shouted to him over all the music and commotion in the bar, but as far as I know he remembered them all. Since then I have developed a deep respect for those who bartend.
As the years passed by and I relocated to California, I became disconnected with Nick’s and many of my family and friends. Many things in my life have now transpired. Two things, like a thorn in my side, stay with me. For one, my dad is no longer living, a fact that pains me greatly. However, I have faith that one day we’ll be together again. Secondly, Nick’s is no longer there. My sister having had to travel back to Brooklyn to attend my dad’s funeral was jointly responsible for following my dad’s last three requests. Of these three requests, the most important one it seemed, only because he told me countless times, was his cremation. He would say, “Boy – you are my only son and it will be your responsibility to have me cremated when I die.” At that time in my life, not really wanting to acknowledge the reality of it, I just listened. I remember feeling very worried that something was about to happen to him, and not really knowing what to say I would ask him, “Why?” He would then reply, “Cemeteries are eye sores and a waste of valuable land; they should build parks and schools for children, not have bodies there.” At first I was horrified at the notion of this but in time I have found wisdom in this thought.
The other request was to have his ashes spread around at Nick’s which was nothing but a vacant lot now. Since I was unable to do this myself, having been told countless times, I wondered whether or not his last request would be fulfilled. I knew much more than anyone else how very important this last request was. It is a troubling thought on my mind to this day not to have been able to carry out his last request after being enlisted to do so. I hope he understands. The only comfort I receive in this area is my sister assuring me that it was done.
I try to imagine in my mind how the corner of Troy and Atlantic Avenues might look without Nick’s. I cannot envision it. Maybe I don’t want to. Dad was strongly bonded to Nick’s while alive, so strongly bonded that after his death and cremation, he wanted ashes from his body to be part of the landscape. I feel, at least in a symbolic way, that there is a connection with Dad’s death and the absence, or more appropriate, the death of Nick’s. I think about the eventuality of death that we as human beings move towards as well as the eventual demise of institutions and establishments. I wonder whether these two things are somehow intimately connected in some cosmic way that evokes similar feelings in me once they’re gone? And if connected, just how important the memories of these things are? I’ll leave these thoughts and questions for the great minds of another day.
For me now, as I struggle with many painful memories of the past and what was the “best time in my life,” I can even now still taste the combination of Spanish peanuts and ice cold Coca Cola as I sip it through a stirring straw. And every time I hear Ray Charles sing, “Georgia on my mind,” the song that was to be played at his wake per his second request, although it causes me to cry, I also hear Dad telling me, “Don’t cry over me, I lived a good life.” And although the years continue to march forward and I miss him more—I also miss Nick’s. What I’ve come to know is that the death of a loved one and the death of an era are equally sad. But even now, at this very moment when I think of Dad and Nick’s, both will always be there for me.
