The Newspaper Neighbor

So to pass the wee small hours of my middle aged insomnia, I often do web searches for people I used to know, including neighbors from Long Island. When I go back to my childhood, which was exceptionally happy, it calms my mind, and sometimes allows me to drift back to sleep, for the second act of my evening... The other day I looked up our old across the street neighbors, the Perotas, and learned that "Big Jimmy" had died a few years ago. It saddened me. Big Jimmy (as opposed to his first born, Little Jimmy, worked for the NY Times as a delivery expediter. It was a good, solid, union job, and with his wife Rita working part time at the local osteopathic hospital, allowed the family to raise 3 sons and put them all through college. Big Jimmy was a tough, typical Long Island Italian guy. Little Jimmy apparently came out as gay after college, but middle son Chris and littlest Stephen did not -- Stephen became a Nassau County cop, I Think, and Chris worked for the Times like his Dad. The funny thing about Jimmy and the Times was that he was a Republican, and HATED the content of the Times. Jimmy was a Daily News kind of guy. Still, early Sunday mornings, he would bring 4 or 5 copies of the paper for his more liberal minded neighbors, including my Dad. When I was a teen, and came in very late, sometimes I would bump into him as he ambled up our driveway. I always thanked him, and he winked at me and said "Great night, huh?" My Dad and the other neighbors would thank Jimmy for the Sunday Times, via bagels and other pastries. It was most neighborly... Maybe 15 years ago, I took the Ds and my 2 sisters to NY for a family bonding trip. I took everyone to restaurants and to see a revival of "Sound of Music" on Broadway. I wanted to have the Ds learn about my family's history. On the final Sunday of the trip, we visited my ancient Aunt Anne in Queens, and then had some time to kill before our planes left for Florida and California. I drove to Wantagh, and to our old street -- Charles LAne. We knocked on the Perota's door, and Rita and Jimmy were home. They invited us in, and over coffee, reminisced about the 60s and 70s in the old 'hood. My Dad and Jimmy were both city boys, who never owned a house until the ones on Charles Lane. We laughed about how un-handy my Dad was (if it was fixable with Scotch tape, it was fixable -- otherwise a pro was called in), and the time Jimmy went exploring in his attic, and stepped between the beams -- not realizing the plaster ceiling wouldn't hold his weight. Rita heard yelling, and then saw a pair of pants and shoes hanging through her bedroom ceiling. She wanted to help her dangling husband, but had to run to the bathroom lest she pee on the rug first from laughter. It was a lovely visit. When we returned to Florida, I sent Rita some oranges from Bloods GRoves in Delray to thank her. We made plans to get together when Rita visited her sister in Lauderdale, but never did. And now Jimmy is gone, too. If there's an afterlife, I like to think they get together once in awhile -- and Jimmy brings Hy the paper. Neighbors in the great beyond...