Adrian Del Valle - Diego's Brooklyn Read Free

Diego read it a couple of times while chewing the pink gum until it was nice and sticky. He then pressed it onto the bottom of the padlock and carefully lowered it through the grating. He aimed toward a subway token lying on a narrow ledge 12 feet below. The token was all shiny and new, the brass glistening like gold with the letter “Y” stamped out of it.
    Gold doubloons, Spanish coins from the 1400’s; a treasure trove worth millions was below the deck of Diego’s imagined Spanish Galleon. Through this heavy iron grating he could see piles of it worth millions and he would have it all.
    This was his lucky spot, the bus stop at Nevins and Flatbush. He had only cleaned it out a week ago and here he could see at least three tokens, a couple of quarters and a dime. The tokens, he could redeem for 15 cents each; a whole buck and a nickel was down there—a good day. It was enough to buy a quart of milk, a candy bar for both himself and his mom, and a ticket for the Lido. For twenty five cents, the cheap theatre on Court Street played ten cartoons, “The Three Stooges”, and two feature films.
    He left for home and 15 minutes later turned into his block on Dean Street where he saw Karen’s two girls playing skully. To most of its residents, the street wasn’t all gloom and doom. To Diego it was all that was familiar. It was home.
    “How much did ju get?” asked Ana.
    “A dollar five.”
    “Ju forget to pick up dee milk?”
    “I’ll go in a minute, I have to use the bathroom first.”
    D’avino’s Grocery sat on the adjacent corner, a store owned by an old Italian couple. Holdovers from the neighborhood’s better days, the D’avino’s carried on like always, despite their advanced age. They were friendly to everyone even though they lived through the trials of two world wars and escaped the takeover of their country at the hands of Mussolini and the Nazi’s.
    They used to sell a lot of sausages and cheese, hung from the ceiling in rows. Back then, Olives and pickles came right out of barrels, as well as a dozen forms of pasta. These days, loose rice and various kinds of beans sell by the pound. Plantains and a root called yucca are prominently displayed below ripe bananas, apples and oranges. Puerto Rican spices and the cheaper cuts of meat, like chicken and salted cod, sell well. Unpackaged coconut macaroons on wax paper lay on the counter by the register. Guava, mango, and coconut juice in single serve cans were popular with the newer residents.
    Outside, The Daily News and New York Times sit at the forefront. To the right are the Mirror and Post, the latter two, sheepishly displaying copied headlines with steel paper weights stamped with The Daily News logo. Below those are the Spanish newspapers, la Prenza and el Diario.
    Inside, fly paper hangs from the ceiling with nearly every square inch black with bug eyed carcasses. Lying on a towel at the end of the counter, a fat cat sleeps the afternoon away. In a back room, parakeets, Luciano and Annabella, chirp from the front kitchen of a rear apartment where the D’avino’s live.
    Diego pet the cat while waiting for the line at the counter to shorten. He finally took a spot behind the last customer, a quart of milk under his arm.
    “Ay a Dieg, Howsa you motha?”
    “Oh…uh, fine, Mrs. D’avino. Here’s for the milk.”
    “Howsa you lika theesa summa. You havena gooda time? No more of the school, ay?”
    “No…we finished school a month ago, already.”
    “A whola month? My, howza the times shes a flies, no? Here iza you change.”
    “Thanks Mrs. D’avino. I gotta go, bye.”
    As Diego exited the store, the owner called after him. “Hey, taka care of you self. Sayza hello to Ana for me?”
    Outside, ol’ Bill finished up sweeping the front of the store. At six foot four, the robustly built black man from the Deep South never lost any of his muscular tone despite an advanced age of 75 plus. His hard lined, craggy face tells of a difficult life of