| Not being used to apartment life, we were cautioned by my aunt soon after arrival, that there were people who lived downstairs and therefore we had to be aware of our foot stomping and loud noises. In this particular case, Aunt Mary told us that a little man (I imagined him to be very short, like a midget or a dwarf) lived beneath them and that he was extra sensitive to banging and foot noises from above, especially from visiting nephews and nieces. My aunt told us that he was a downright nasty little fellow and wouldn't have the slightest compunction about storming upstairs and taking care of us in his own nasty little fashion if we did not comply. My grandfather cheerfully went along with this warning as he sat in his favorite chair, legs crossed comfortably under sharply creased, perfectly cuffed wool slacks. When dinner was served, the grown ups ate at the dining room table and the children would eat separately at a collapsible card table dressed over with a seasonal table cloth. After dinner, finally comfortable and recharged, we began to run around the apartment while the family was still preoccupied with the meal, wine, and conversation. In spite of repeated warnings and threats about the little man, we had energy and it was time to play. Little did we know that the little man was indeed lurking right outside the apartment door ready to pounce on us for destroying his peace and serenity, his nastiness surfacing and his wrath known. A knock at the door. "Who could that be? Aunt Mary?" Why is she not answering her door? I thought to myself. "Michael, go get the door!" my mother said. "What are you, crazy?" I said to myself. "I'm not opening any doors! Not hers. Not in New York City." It was already dark outside, and we were very far from home. I could see car lights and the Empire State Building outside the living room windows and, besides, there was a midget or a troll or an angry dwarfed man who lived downstairs. "So, no way... No way." "Michael, Georgie, get the door," my mother's voice urged. By now, my grandfather had started edging towards the front entrance encouraging us to be brave, and confront our fears. "My brother is older. Let him open the door. I'm little…he's big," I wanted to plead with Papu, but, with a reaffirming hand on our shoulder and a sort half–push, Papu corralled us toward the steel apartment door with the peep hole in it He looked out and with his soft spoken Greek accent he declared that he could not see anybody. My mind raced. “Oh my God, that's because he's too short to be seen! He's really here! He's out there, the troll… the dwarf… the nasty little city guy!" The knob turned, the door opened just a crack. The scents of Italian food and Hungarian cooking and Jewish cooking rushed inside, blending richly with the Greek aromas. I could see no one at my eye level or at my grandfather's eye level. I trembled, saying, "He's not little… he's invisible now! Get me out of here! Mommy, Daddy, help! The invisible man is outside in the hallway, and he’s looking for me! We were warned and didn’t listen and it's my fault and he's going to get us for banging around and jumping off the beds and not listening!" Then I saw the adults laughing in the kitchen and poking their heads around the corner from the kitchen. What’s going on here? I thought to myself. In a flash, the little man appeared. He came from the side to the left of the door and slid across the floor right in front of the door. His feet stopped but his body kept moving as he fell over on his side. He wore a tiny Mexican straw hat on his head and was dressed in a blue-lapelled suit with rainbow colored poncho slung over his shoulder, and was holding the tiniest guitar I had ever seen. He was barely 18 inches tall and did not get up. My heart pounded. The adults laughed aloud as my brother held onto the crease of Papu's pants. My thoughts raced wildly. My brother inched towards my grandfather’s leg as I gripped the doorjamb in fear. The little man was attached to a wooden base, his feet nailed to a board. On the bottom of the board was etched MADE IN MEXICO. “It's a trick, a joke," I declared, "grownups fooling kids!" Aunt Mary appeared at the doorway from the direction where the Mexican doll had emerged. I saw her hand first, her body, then her face beaming with a broad smile, laughing and chuckling. She had pushed the Souvenir Man in front of the door to scare us. She’d done it all ...the knock, the push, everything. My cheeks turned red as I laughed and stomped and scooped up the little man figure, shaking him and showing my prisoner victoriously to my brother and to my sister in the living room. Everybody laughed. We closed the door and went back inside Aunt Mary's apartment where it was warm and smelled good, in the building where so many people lived close together in New York City. |
| Aunt Mary's Apartment (continued) |
