Read South Philly: Some Comedy \ South Philly: The Italian Market

As I moved further south into South Philadelphia, the truth just got harder and harder: You never can be naturalized, only born into this culture.

At the entrance to the world or the entrance to this particular enclave, women are there, opening the gate or guarding it.

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The alley-street buried in the quadrant formed by Bainbridge, Fitzwater, 8th and 9th; I think it was called Schell. It was broader (by a few feet) than my new street, which was even one degree further into this maze: Darien. So we figured we’d park the moving truck on Schell. A housewife appeared on her stoop, and unsmilingly introduced herself then responded with an impatient sigh as one by one we chipperly said our names, and summed it up by gushing out how excited we were to be moving in. “This is a nice neighborhood, with nice people,” she intoned while squinting to look at something just above our heads. Nodding a few times for emphasis and giving us one more once over, she went back inside.

Two years later, I moved a good mile or two south. (Look, I got priced out of Center City, okay? Plus I thought this would be a series of fabulous adventures, when in the end it amounted to nothing but reinforcement after reinforcement of my lonely adventitiousness. And some stories to tell.)

Antoinetta, wife of my future landlord, had her days free so she met me at the empty apartment down below Tasker. She seemed pleasant enough, “as far as it goes” as the saying has it—for instance she was capable of smiling—but her body betrayed extreme ennui over this showing-the-apartment stuff her husband was making her do. Arm akimbo, shoulders sagging, half-yawning as her hand flaccidly pointed things out: “Closet. Kitchen. ’Nother closet.”

I was chatting (babbling, truthfully) about other apartments I’d seen, and asking questions about the businesses on this block, when a thought came to her, and attached to that thought was a question that she seemed eager to ask. “Hey, wait a minute… Today is Tuesday. How did you know to call about this place? Our ad doesn’t run till tomorrow.” Both arms on hips now.

“Because I’m friends with the publisher of the paper. He faxed me over the listings a day early,” I said. I felt comfortable enough with her to be honest about my “taking cuts” over other apartment seekers. I was tired of hearing “It’s rented already.” So I had taken my friend up on his offer.

She loved it. Perking right up she said “Oh, yeah?” as a proud, knowing grin spread across her face. Verbally patting me on the back: “You have a connection! I got it. That’s smart. You gotta have connections.” Especially around here, right Antoinetta?

She decided she liked me despite my strange extra-neighborhood airs. She led me down to the first floor because she wanted me to meet some people.

Jo and Theresa were, I would soon find out, partners in business and life. These Sicilian-American sapphists from a few blocks away were fulfilling the dream they’d had ever since Jo had worked as a chef on a cruise ship, of owning their own French restaurant. Rather sweetly if not slightly pretentiously, they named it Joséphine-Thérèse.

They were glad to meet me, really glad. They told me so. “Oh, Antoinetta, this is the guy who’s gonna rent the apartment? Oh, boy! That is great.” Antoinetta went back outside and Jo, the shorter one with the short salt-and-pepper hair and large nose, told me confidentially, “Antoinetta had this guy in here six months ago, now that did not last,” she said pounding a fist on the table and shaking her head emphatically. “He was, I don’t know what he was—Puerto Rican? I dunno, black? Or something,” she made a sour expression and waved her hands. All the while Theresa, who had long, high, honey-colored curls and long pink nail extensions (she was the restaurant’s hostess, I would find out later), had been surveilling me closely to see if I “got it” or not. My frozen smile and lack of other affect told her otherwise.

“But that wasn’t the problem,” Theresa interrupted Jo to say. They exchanged a glance and Jo looked at me then back at her partner then me again. “No, it wasn’t THAT,” she said. “He had bad credit.” Then they nodded in unison and literally slapped me on the back, saying with genuine warmth: “We like you, though.”

(Jo alleged to me that the city business improvement association of South Philadelphia had bolted a bench down right on top of her delivery hutch into the basement. “They did it on purpose, too,” she said bitterly, looking down the road at “them.” Who knows. A French restaurant owned by lesbians, in this neighborhood, was bound to have some perception issues.)

After I moved in, I went about five blocks over to look at a second-hand dining room table advertised in the classifieds. The lady offering it engaged me in a little chit-chat. Then, the inevitable: “So, where yuz from?” “I moved down here from Bella Vista.” “Well, sure, but I mean: Where are you from?” heavy emphasis falling on the last word. “Oh, Michigan.” “I knew it!” she said, proud of her detective skills. “You did?” “Yeah, I could just tell you weren’t from around here. I knew some people from Michigan once, though, they were nice.” With that I was ushered out to the porch. It’s okay, the table wasn’t my style. It had too much ornamentation all over it.

But didn’t Jo and Theresa like and accept you? Well, in a way, as far as it goes, until the time when I failed to ask a question.

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A handmade sign hung one day in the window of Joséphine-Thérèse, reading “CLOSED DUE TO DEATH IN FAMILY.” I meant to ask them about it, I really did, but some other competing instinct in me, some middle-class suburban super-ego with a Michigan accent, told me it was none of my business, leave them to their grief. Also, honestly, I think I was afraid to get that close… to them.

After the restaurant had reopened and I would see them as I came home from work, Jo would scurry inside to avoid me, head down angrily. And Theresa would ignore me and concentrate on her cigarette until I said “Hi!” Then she would dash off a curt “Hey, yuz” without looking at me.

I guess my chance to cross over into their world, if the chance was real and is not just a spectre coming out of my imagination now, belatedly… that chance must have come and gone during that week when the sign was up, the sign openly inviting (almost begging for) concern and caring and questions.

It had been Jo’s mother who died, I found out later. From Antoinetta.

Tags: mafia, South Philly