I generally am a person who liked to mind his own business but when I saw my widowed mom sobbing her heart out at the kitchen table that Friday night, I knew I had to say something even if it was the wrong thing with good intentions.

“Anything I can do, Ma?”

She looked up at me with teary eyes and just patted my hand without saying a word. Actually, I already had a pretty good idea what the problem was, but I hesitated to bring it up without a plan to do something to fix it. My name is “Danny Boy” Donovan and I really loved singing that tune.

My three sisters were all listening to the radio because we weren’t like the rich folks in Apt 502 and 504 with actual television sets. At least, the Greek bus driver in 502 had a bunch of kids just like my mom and they were always inviting us to watch from the front door as long as we didn’t go into the living room. It was like watching a baseball game from the bleachers. I spent most of my free time these days reading books that Mrs. Murphy checked out for me from the Public Library because I was too young to read them. She told me it made her feel good to be doing it because the poor woman was not a very good reader and she liked the fact the librarian figured her for a real live “bookworm”.

I had already turned 16 but was still too young to smoke cigarettes, drink beer, or even check out an adult book from the library. Now, when I say an “adult” book, I don’t mean it was like a dirty book. No, they were just the ordinary books that ordinary people read like “David Copperfield”. They were real strict in those days and minors were supposed to stay in the children’s section under penalty of having their library card confiscated.

I knew this was “rent” day and my mom was a few bucks short on the landlord money. It was only $17 a month but that was because we didn’t sign up for the hot water or ask for a new-fangled Frigidaire instead of the old-fashioned “Ice-box” that was on the way out. I always felt sorry for the old Italian man that had to hump the block of ice up five flights of stairs mumbling in Italian under his breath all the way. I think he liked my mom because he always gave us a little extra when he split the ice.

I had just finished watching the “Million Dollar Movie” about an invisible man. I was squatting in the hallway of 502. The oldest daughter of the Greek bus driver had her head resting on my knees which I kind of found real distracting since I was caught up in the complexity of being invisible. I was at an age when any female’s body parts near my privates caused me a whole lot of stress and agitation. Judy was not a pretty girl but she was really smart and was happy all the time which counted for a lot in these hard times.

My three sisters were jumbled together like a single monster with three heads, six arms and six legs. I guess you could say we were all a bunch of “Million Dollar Movie” addicts waiting expectantly for the next movie to come our way.

I went into the tiny bedroom and broke out the three bucks I had stashed from serving funerals and baptisms at the “Spanish Church” up the block. I don’t know the exact reason my sisters and I went to the Spanish Church instead to the church of our parish, but I think it had something to do with an argument between my mom and the pastor over her not taking any help from the parish “do-gooders” and the fact she didn’t hide the fact she smoked cigarettes and drank a bottle of beer from time to time.

I gave the money to her knowing it would fill the envelope for the landlord with the exact amount needed to keep us in the fifth floor “mansion” without hot water or a real refrigerator.

The worst bully on the block was an Italian kid called “Bobby” Sorrentino. He had kicked my ass one time at school but I didn’t say anything and after that we became real good friends. He was always coming up with ideas for making money and I generally didn’t get too involved with the schemes since he was not one to be too concerned over legalities. I knew the odd bucks I was making working the “altar boy” schedule and doing odd jobs for the nuns at the convent was not going to hack it much longer, so I told him I was in on his “newspaper” project. He already had a pretty good route that covered about 30 stores and stands in Chelsea. I helped him now and then but he considered that his “bread and butter” and wasn’t cutting anyone in on it.

He was searching the subway platforms after the morning rush hour for discarded newspapers and then recycling them for resale to the lunch crowd at the West side restaurants. It wasn’t much money, but it added up over a five day week. He had started it because he was making up for shortages in his stacks with the undistinguishable papers with the same dates on them. Even the stands were selling the older editions as the “Latest” because the newspapers didn’t change the cover sheets very much. He had a lot of “deals” like that going on. I was his “Little Italy” connection because I looked more Jewish than Italian and the budding “made” guys didn’t see me as a threat on their turf.