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*K&A was just an ordinary neighborhood as I realize now. Today it is rundown and another world. But in my childhood each street could have been paved in gold, such was the richness I observed without knowing. “Under the El” was such a wonderful and thrilling experience. The neon, the salesmen out on the pavement calling the public to buy the latest radio or TV, the best washer, the potions inside. Demure neighborhood bars with ladies’ entrances. The winos, the spastic who writhed and negotiated the EL each day all dressed up in a dark suit, the old men spitting and smoking, arguing and watching the scene. And up on the streets the final years of horse-drawn carriages, ragmen, hucksters, insurance men with their thick black books, bibles to prosperity, proper and bitchy old spinsters who write letters to your parents, and the churches always full and prosperous. Like most neighborhoods back then. Like a small town within a city of rivaling towns or districts up against one another. My memories are sacred. I was “there” and not “over there” in Harrogate or, God forbid, The Northeast Village. We hated Port Richmond but they’re the same as us but a little more narrow.

* Kensington Avenue at Allegheny where there is an El stop.

It was a warm day into the seventies and brightly cloudy. The sun seemed to be fighting to get through. It was spring like and Mayfair turned into men in shorts, Irish parties from bar to bar, the garden supplies stacked up outside ShopRite ready for sale. A couple were feeling one another up and kissing in a little crevice of the Mall’s entrance. I went about in a tee shirt while Marci kept on her light jacket.

We have Medina for the weekend. I took them to the movies and to Borders. We went to the supermarket too. The child loves her grandmom. They will enjoy one another watching endless TV, talking, and finally going to bed. Grandmom will stay with her, hug her and talk some more as the TV continues to blare.

I’ll sleep alone. Every once in a while I get a break. I’ll be able to stretch my body all over the mattress instead of up “against the fence” which means her fat ass chasing mine all night, pushing my skinny, almost non-existent ass against my senior citizen fence. The little fence has become my friend. I’ve actually used it to sleep. I wake up to its indentation upon my ribcage. The fence is there because I occasionally have such frightening or emotion-laden dreams that I throw myself out of bed. I’ve been hurt. We argue about this all the time but she says I want to get under you, feel your body and your warmth. But Baby, I say, I am under you all night, you crush me down and I can hardly breathe. And it’s hot as hell too. Give me a break. In the middle of the night I have to have an ass fight with her so she’ll rollover and I’ll have some room. I’ve even won a few. Even the mattress favors her side. My side feels like a little parallel hill, (to my body), on which I’m pitched. Thank God for the fence. When she gets in on her side the entire surface pitches her way. I am leveled and straight now except it’s a tiny space and I’ll even be pushed into a narrower one. It’s a constant fight.

I finished “The Gold Coast” by Nelson DeMille. I enjoyed the read. The smug and self-assured speaker’s high-brow humor, while written well, was difficult for me to grasp. It had an appeal to a screenplay. Suffice to say I was amused. Similarly even the tragio-comedic second half merely entertained me but the plot was very tight, the voices distinctive, the comprehensive detailing better appreciated and the read more enjoyable.

I didn’t have the same response to the book that JMD reported. I bought the book because he recommended it. The genre is crime thriller. The style is first rate and breezy but pretentious. It would make a good PBS series. I was reminded of so many other books of that kind: e.g., Buckley, Dick, Dexter and P.D. James. Their tales also make for good theater and TV movies. DeMille is in that category. I read the book quickly. I couldn’t wait until the ending, a very good one with lots of twists. I did like the sexual angle: The story was successfully an extension of their sex games. But that game was not pretend in its consequences, unless you take a lighter interpretation since our narrator thinks about sailing to Hilton Head where his wife awaits. I won’t read the sequel. Scott Fitzgerald he is not.