I went to a barbershop today and would have given good money if you could have seen it. It was a perfect example of old-school barber's: the glass window on the front, checkered tiling on the floor and classic leather chairs lined up facing an endless speckless mirror.
The place used to be known as Frank's but Sal and Joe, who had always worked there, bought Frank out and are now their own bosses. They don't call it anything for now. It just is.
Sal (short for Salvatore) and Joe (a bastardisation of his name, Giuseppe) were talking about it with an old customer as I came in. Yes, Sal and Joe really
dida speak
lika this. Although, to be fair, it was mostly Joe who talked. Sal was busy with hot towels and soapy lather and this scarred face of mine.
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| Back in the good old days: Sal (front) and Frank (back), by http://belmontonian.com/ |
"Doesn't the wife mind you, Joe? Working six days a week?"
"Minda? Of course she mind." He had a thick raspy voice, like all the Italian guys do in all the old gangster movies. "But what, she needs me to go
a shopping with her? She can not shop on her own?"
"And the grandkids?"
"The grandkids I see at night. They stay over the
weekenda."
"But it's good for business? I guess if it's good for business, then it's alright. Gotta make sacrifices, right?"
"Good? It's
a great. I make more money in two years than I made working for Frank. My whole
lifa."
"Nice, Joe, nice!" Americans in general, and New Yorkers in particular, get really excited about money. This guy nearly jumped out of his chair. "How big is your turkey going to be this year? Huge, huh?"
"
Bigga." Joe said and then punched the air and twisted his fist around, grumbling something in Italian beneath his long moustache. I didn't understand what he said, but thankfully, neither did the other guy.
"What's that, Joe?" He asked. At which point, Sal wiped the foam off the blade on a towel, leaned over me and translated:
"He's
a going to stuff the turkey
witha money.
"
