This morning I woke up thinking about my little pal Hollywood from South Philly. I used to tend bar at this nice little joint off of 17th and Tasker streets, a shiny spot being a rare thing in those parts. That bar was one of the greatest classrooms Ive been in. Hollywood is the son of a lifelong Italian South Philly couple, and they all lived together, across the street from the bar. They were the first folks to bring me homemade gravy and gnoccis, a South Philly dish I still cant get enough of. Dad made me uneasy, and would come poking around the bar looking for his son. Hollywoods Ma was a different sort, sweet and worn and hunching in a pink checkered apron. I imagined her in a yellow wallpapered kitchen peering over pots of gravy curling with steam, copious bowls of parmesan cheese and pungent onions at the ready, a scowl and a smile etched deeply across a face both patient and wise. Hollywood was a regular at the bar, and earned his name sometime in the hood for his famous laugh and way of dancing. You see, Hollywood had the mental capacity of perhaps an eight year old boy. He got around the city and our little neighborhood, lit up the room, and had a laugh unlike anything Id ever heard. Its echoing around my head right now. Picture this: 56, round of belly and face. Innocent. Black hair, and wondering brown eyes, darting to the left then right back atcha and away again if you were a pretty lady. Fidgety hands that wrap around the portliness, then, a widemouthed slow hoot and haaaaw haaaaw haaaaaaw! bursting forth loudly from delighted lips. We loved him. We held him close and kept him safe. He was racist, and confused that he was. It was what he was taught, but he would sit there, the honest curiosity of a childs thoughts passing his lips. His friends at the hotel he was a janitor at were brown skinned. The conundrum was real, and he took it with all the wide-mouthed laughs he could muster. Hollywood had a favorite song, and a passion in dancing to it that I have never seen matched. Someone would saunter over to the jukebox, slipping in the fifty cents required to hear Frank Sinatras version of The Candy Man. Hollywood would perk up at the first note and shyly swagger over to the dance floor, and slowly, the courage unfurled and there were arms in the air, legs extended, and the best face Ive ever been given. If there was an umbrella nearby, it became part of the act (this is the land of the Mummers, remember). If there was a pretty lady nearby he would skillfully twirl her into his arms, and dip her, hair swaying to the floor. It was in this position Ive seen the conundrum come up again as he was face to face with a breast, head shaking no, no, no as a hand slowly crept towards it. The hand would stop, and that joyous cacophony of a laugh would escape his lips. The man was pure joy. Im grateful to have known Hollywood. I wonder what hes up to these days. Perhaps next time Im up Philly-ways, Ill swing by the bar and see if I can get myself a dance or two.
Posted on: Tue, 22 Jul 2014 11:47:09 +0000
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