2 Hawley Street



The intersection of Water Street and Court is no more dangerous than the others but, it’s December and it’s icy. Headed to work, on my bike, I rode the traffic with no more thought than if it were a sunny day in the middle of June. I enjoyed my bike and going to work was not going to rob me of its pleasure. The Court Street bridge, a grid work of steel, spanning a narrow of the Chenango River, made those 26 inchers literally hum as I crossed over and entered into downtown Binghamton, N.Y.
It was almost 4:00 p.m. and I knew dad was expecting me. Normally, I didn’t mind having to help out at the store but, ever since last June when (Watch Out! You’ll lose a finger) I got hurt, well, let’s just say that I didn’t like being there as much as I used to. Even now, navigating as I was, I kept my left hand raised so my stub finger wouldn’t throb. That hurt. The throbbing. But, the ache creeping into my raised arm wasn’t much of a trade off either.
Traffic halted as the lights changed. Straight ahead city buses, idling at curbside, coughed fumes into the air adding to the mixture of gasoline and diesel. No wonder, I thought, shaking my head, that Binghamton was sometimes called “Gas Valley.” Rising upwards, exhaust fumes blended with the sweat-stained white of low-lying clouds. Behind, diminishing notes from the carillon atop Trinity Church surrendered to the measured strokes of the Courthouse clock. It was time to get going.
There will be plenty for me to do: cutlets to bread, meatballs to pack, steaks to shrink-wrap. The crew will have already left…day’s production done. Except for the cube steaks. That was for dad. At the end of the day, he would sit on his stool and make those damned steaks. Not once, not twice would he feed the same piece of meat into that machine. Repeatedly, he would work each one until he was satisfied. He had told me that the secret to making the perfect steak was to compact the meat into your hand before it fell completely away from the machine. He had told me while grabbing my wrist, shoving my hand forward towards the bottom of that machine. He had told me just as the blades ripped open the fleshy pads of my fingers. He had told me that should not have happened. He had told me when I was 11 years old. Time to get moving.
The light changed. Steadying the bike with my good hand, I pedaled into the intersection where I promptly stalled and toppled over into the slush and mud. Embarrassed and soaked, I picked myself up, walked over to the sidewalk and turned onto Water Street away from the downtown and its traffic.
One block south was Hawley Street. At times, when I wasn’t in a hurry, I would ride this way so that I could go by grandma’s house. I knew the street well: the Police station, the south end of the Courthouse, the Capital theater on Exchange Street. Up ahead was the Pontiac-Cadillac dealer, Stickly Photos on the corner and, across, the Sons of Italy hall. What I hadn’t seen before brought me to a halt. On the corner of Water Street and Hawley was a two story building-abandoned, I thought. Except for one thing…a pair of bongo drums.
In a window display there they stood. I sat astride my bike and just stared. Drums, I thought. I had known for a long time that I would like to play the drums. I didn’t know where I could take lessons. Dad once suggested that I ask the junior high school music teacher. It didn’t matter, he told me, that I went to parochial school. Public schools had music teachers and I could get lessons if I wanted to. Further into the room I spied a few folding chairs, a grand piano top down and, standing in a corner, a broom and dust- pan. Somebody cleaning? And then I saw them. Apart from the chairs and piano there sat, all set up and ready to play, a set of drums. It was time to get going…but not yet.
I kick stand the bike to take a closer look. Centered in between two display windows was the front door. Left hand raised, I grabbed the brass knob with my right, testing it. The door was unlocked. I entered. The room was a fair size but not overly large. Straight ahead was a doorway with drawn curtains. To the right, in the corner, stood the broom. There, too, was a shelved practice area, complete with pads, drumsticks, music stand and an assortment of pens, pencils and rubber stamps. On the shelf next to a pad sat an ashtray fronted by a padded bar stool. Below the shelf was a wooden crate. A step away, on a carpeted platform, sat the drums. A stereo system, music stand, folding metal chair completed the setting. On the opposite wall, a slate blackboard, white chalk and eraser. Like the wooden crate, I wondered what this was for.
“May I help you?” Startled by the voice, I turned to face a man who looked like Robin Hood. He stood about 5’ 8”, slender and sported a goatee. I saw that his hair was shiny black and combed to the style of the time: side-swept to the back, rolled top to brow, sideburns at ear lobe length. “Do you give bongo drum lessons,” I asked.
“Pardon me, “ he replied. Immediately, I knew how stupid my question must have seemed to him. “Uh, do you give drums lessons,” I asked nervously.
“Yes. Are you wanting lessons?”
“How much do you charge?” He told me the lessons were weekly, 30 minutes to start with, stretching to 45, $3.00 each. I thought about how much dad paid me and asked when I could start. He turned away from me and walked back into the room he had come out from. A moment later, he returned with a desk calendar in his hand.
“Let’s see, how ‘bout next Wednesday night, 6:00 p.m.?” That would be fine, I answered. “Good. What’s your name?” I told him and watched as he penciled it into his lesson planner. I am actually going to do this, I thought, getting a chill up my spine…excited!
“Okay, Frank. Next Wednesday then.” I didn’t want to leave just yet. I looked around a bit more and then thought to ask his name. “Tony, he said. Tony Monforte.” He extended his right hand in greeting. I took it and saw, once again, the wooden crate underneath the shelf and asked. He explained that he has a few students, young, not tall enough to reach the shelf. The crate was for them to stand on. Ah! It was time to get going.
I turned to leave and saw the blackboard. About to ask but decided I would probably learn as time went on. I wasn’t wrong about that. In fact, I was to learn a great deal more.
I walked out, turned to close the door behind me and then noticed the number on the glass window- number 2. The address was 2 Hawley Street.

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