By Peter Scott-Presland
Look. They are dancing, the old man and Ruth. Their feet shuffle on the scuffed parquet, while four, maybe five, other customers nod in time to the music. In the ornate mirrors you can see the reflection of the nodding and the dancing.
He is a gentleman, and you can see that she is a lady. Look at her gloves, regard her shoes. You do not often see such co-ordination so far from Fifth Avenue.
And he, with his handkerchief in his breast pocket and his brown shoes so shining, you can see that he is a man who likes to make an impression. Is that a hint of cologne that we catch as they pass our table? Just a hint, I fancy. Now that is class.
I’ll be loving you, always
With a love that’s true, always
Soon the trio will stop playing. Mr Israel Balin’s lovely strains will die. (He too came here as a child. He too stood shivering and naked on Ellis Island while rough American hands hosed him down and shaved his head to remove his lice. And he too still lives here, ninety years later, in Beekman Place by the East River, despite being so rich and famous.)
But, for the moment, the trio plays. The old man and Ruth dance. They are in the spotlight. They cannot see it, the customers cannot see it; only you and I can see the soft pink spotlight which picks them out in the middle of the bar.
When the music dies, the old man will let his hand linger at Ruth’s waist for a long delicious moment, and then he will lower his arm. He will bow, gravely, and then he will hand her to their table, to her seat.
The bar is but rarely busy nowadays. The Ukrainians are not here anymore to fill it with their laughter. Such laughter! The kind of laughter that only those who can remember when they were once close to death can laugh. The Ukrainians cannot afford New York any more. They have all moved to Brooklyn and the Bronx and Hoboken, New Jersey, home of Frank Sinatra and Sammy’s Famous Deli Sandwiches. In the Bronx the streets are saturated with Hi N-R-G music like a heady perfume; music which means nothing to the sentimental Ukrainians.
In their place come the Indians and a new name for East 8th Street: Curry Row. They did not shave the heads of the Indians when they came. They do not use Ellis Island any more.
The Indians do not care for the Izzy Gold Trio. They do not have the eye for genuine 1930s gilt chandeliers and little round tables like they used to have in the steerage lounge of the Queen Mary. The Indians do not like the classical naked ladies who chase each other across the ceiling, nor the gold flock stripe of the wallpaper. The Indians sit on their stoops and fan themselves with copies of the New York Post, and keep themselves to themselves.
There is no applause when The Izzy Gold Trio stops playing. The old man bows, as I told you he would. They are returning to their seats, and now they are ordering drinks from the waitress. Ruth will have a Pina Colada because she does not like the taste of alcohol. The old man will have a whisky sour. This is their third cocktail tonight. They do not usually have more than two drinks, because Ruth insists that she does not have the head for it. In this she is correct; in this she is also no different from the old man, except that he does not recognise the fact, and argues. Tonight he is more persistent than usual and wins the point. He needs some Dutch courage. He has something important to say today, I think. Let us eavesdrop, to find out.
‘Ruth, we are old friends,’ the old man says. ‘How long have I known you?’
He lights a cigar. His hand is trembling.
‘Since forever, I sometimes think,’ says Ruth.
‘Twenty-seven years!’ He answers his own question, the way some men do. ‘To this very day. This day in 1959 did I walk into the Studio Coffee Shop just off Second Avenue for the first time. And wasn’t the first thing I saw a handsome woman in her prime, towit, you, behind the counter?’
‘We were younger then’ says Ruth.
‘The world was younger then.’ The old man nods. ‘We were full of fire. At least, you were full of fire. In me already the fires were dying down. But you! The first thing you do is make a joke. An old Jewish joke. I still remember it. “The food in here is terrible! And such small portions!” And we both laugh. You laugh so much you spill jelly on the counter, and you take it up off the formica with your finger, so. And you say, “Mmm! Delicious! Tastes just like jelly!” And we laugh together again. Then you talk to me. You tell me that the Breakfast Special which I have ordered does not include coffee, coffee is extra. It will come to 45 cents in total, plus tax. I ask for my eggs over easy, and whole-wheat toast, and you tell me that whole-wheat toast is also extra, although ordinary toast is included in the Special Breakfast price.
‘Your husband, as I am shortly to learn he is, shouts at you in strong Yiddish .“‘I’m talking to the man, I’m explaining him,” you remonstrate. “You do not write your board clear so I have to explain to everyone.”
‘He shouts some more. You shout back, also in strong Yiddish. Ach, you are a fighter! Such fire! And then you turn to your customers. You appeal to your constituents, which is only as it should be in a great democracy such as ours. “All my life I never have an argument,” you say. “I walk away from trouble. Life is too short.”
‘Then you shout again at your husband, “You say I trade on your soft heart. I exploit you. I do not exploit you. You exploit me. Always you exploit me, since when we are married. I will go on strike,” you shout. “Power to the Workers!” You raise your fist in the air. Then you turn towards me and say, “Husbands! Have a chocolate biscuit.”
‘And as I eat my chocolate biscuit, I know that I have found a home.’
‘Is it really twenty-seven years already?’ asks Ruth.
‘To this very day. I have learnt how the world turns here, on your coffee shop radio every day since then. I have heard men in the moon. I have heard of the fall of Saigon. I have heard the death of Kennedy and the resignation of Nixon. I have heard the Dodgers rise and fall in their season. All life and death is on the radio of the Studio Coffee Shop, and always you are on the other side of the counter. Do you miss your husband, Ruth?’
‘I have the Coffee Shop…’ Ruth shrugs.
‘We are both alone,’ the old man is saying. ‘It is not safe for an older person to go alone at night on the streets of New York.’
‘We manage,’ Ruth replies. The Izzy Gold Trio starts to play a slow foxtrot, ‘Nevertheless .’
Maybe I’m right and maybe I’m wrong,
Maybe I’m weak and maybe I’m strong,
Nevertheless I’m in love with you.
Ruth is humming to the melody. She has a silvery, lilting voice. There is nothing like the old songs,’ she says. ‘There are not so many places which play them nowadays. Would you like to dance some more?’ She turns and looks at the old man.
‘Not just yet,’ he insists, his eyes fixed on her. ‘Not until I have finished what I have to say.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Ruth, will you marry me?’ he asks. You see? I told you he had something important to say.
Ruth takes a long sip from her Pina Colada. It seems that the question is not unexpected. The old man, for his part, turns from her and looks straight ahead, waiting. He scratches the small wart on the end of his nose. The cigar dies in his hand.
Ruth looks down at her hands and at her fine white gloves. She thinks for a very long time. She thinks of her husband, buried so long ago it seems; she thinks of her small third-floor apartment; of the smell of garbage which floats up the stairwell; of the cats which claw and yowl round the garbage sacks waiting on the pavement, then purr against your legs when you come out to chase them away; she thinks of her big brass bed. Such a big bed for one person, but then, she has become used to the space of it.
She has not seen the old man’s apartment, but she knows that it does not have a view of the East River as hers does, for he has told her as much.
She thinks of the Coffee Shop, where every morning at six o’clock she turns on the electric grill, the coffee percolator, the toaster – and the radio. She thinks of the smell of Home Fries, the sound of eggs sizzling. She thinks of her customers; of Joey who is putting himself through ballet school, and looks so thin you would think that he had TB, except that they don’t have TB now like they used to when I was a kid; of Michael who works in a camera store and is one day going to be such a famous photographer; of Sandy the Scottish immigrant who always drinks his coffee in a silent rage at a world which does not recognise his true great worth; of Esther and Mardie, the sisters who live together all their lives, and work together on the flowers stall in Union Square; and of the old man himself, coming in so prompt every morning at eight o’clock, with a rose in the buttonhole of his blue seersucker and the best shine on his shoes that the boy in Grand Central can give.
‘Of course, you would not have to work,’ the old man is saying softly in her ear. ‘You could sell the shop. I am not a rich man, but…’ He shrugs.
‘And when I die, there is always the insurance. No more would you have to get up at five each morning. No more would you have to scrub out the bathrooms at an hour when sensible people have gone home. You can lie in bed for as long as you want. If it is a fine day we can go sit in Central Park, or take a trip out to Atlantic City even. Just imagine, not having to work again.’
And that, you see, is just the trouble. Ruth cannot imagine.
She does not need to think any longer. The old man is making up her mind for her. She smooths down her floral print dress, so that it covers her knees properly once more.
‘Thank you, but no.’ That is all she says. The old man bows his head, accepting his sentence with dignity. He removes a speck of fluff from his sleeve, straightens the creases in his trousers. He pulls down the cuffs of his shirt to show the requisite inch of starched white. He adjusts the cufflinks.
The Izzy Gold Trio, changing the tempo, breaks into a quickstep.
‘Shall we?’ the old man asks.
‘At our age?’ returns Ruth.
‘If we do not dance, no-one will dance for us,’ he replies. ‘And if nobody dances, the old tunes will die.’
Ruth nods. She understands. As they brush past our table, she is starting to hum again. Her hand is light on his shoulder. He turns on the balls of his feet, as a good ballroom dancer should.
Do you know, just yesterday,
I heard Calvin Coolidge say
‘Vo-do-di-oh-vo-do-dioh-do.
Ruth laughs to herself. She is thinking, ‘Does anyone remember Calvin Coolidge?’
Tomorrow she will polish the chrome stool which the old man will sit on. He will come in at eight o’clock, his red rose in his buttonhole. He will order the Special Breakfast, now priced $1.99c., plus tax. He will have his eggs over easy, and whole-wheat toast. Ruth will spill the jelly as she spoons it from a big jar into little bowls. She will scoop it up on the end of her finger, put it into her mouth, and say, ‘Delicious! Tastes just like jelly.’ They will both laugh.
The old man will thank her for their evening out. He will invite her to come dancing again to the Izzy Gold Trio at the same time next week. She will accept graciously, and turn to another customer who has just come in.
And then she will fall down dead. A clot the size of a small pea will stop the supply of blood to her brain. She will be explaining to a young French girl who is staying at the YWCA that coffee is not included in the Special Breakfast, coffee is extra, and she will stop in the middle of a sentence. A puzzled look will come over her face, and she will slide gently to the floor, pulling a dishcloth which says ‘Studio Coffee Shop’ with her. And as her eyes turn upwards, she will smile at the old man.
He will hasten to the other side of the counter for the first and only time in his life. His knees will crack as he bends over her and gently closes her eyes. And then the old man, who is not a singer, will start humming softly to himself. And such will be his humming that no-one will recognise the tune of Always by Mr. Israel Balin, as he blesses Ruth with the melody as she goes dancing into the dark.
Peter has been a writer/director/performer for over 50 years. He wrote for the LGBT+ Press for much of that time. He has won an Edinburgh Fringe First, been nominated for Best Musical three times, and won the 2021 ILGCN award for Zoom performances of ‘A Gay Century’. Recently he edited/contributed to ‘Flash Dances’, an anthology of flash fiction. https://www.homopromos.org
