In the presence of greatness

The man, a transient resident in our building, flushed as he entered the foyer and excitedly told everyone within earshot that St. Louis, Cardinal baseball great, Joe Garagiola was visiting three doors down.

I had no interest in hometown baseball and no idea who Garagiola was. I gazed out the door at two Italian men, one middle age and one elderly. They sat in metal lawn chairs in bright sunshine conversing animatedly, wiping sweat off their brows and gesturing with their hands. What I remember most about that summer day on my 11th birthday is the laughter, but it wasn't just Joe Garagiola's and his old uncle's.

The memory connected to that day was a ten cent one. I waited for my turn to use the pay phone in the stifling hot, dingy hallway of the old brick rooming house on North Market Street. Before I could insert the dime in the slot and dial my grandma, the coin slipped from my sweaty palm and rolled across the dusty floor. A teen boy on the staircase watched me as I bent over and chased my dime. He looked down my blouse at my pre-pubescent braless chest and taunted, "Ha-ha! I see your titties."  My face burned with embarrassment as he ran laughing hysterically up the stairs and slammed his door.

Behind every door in that old turn of the century building, a story resided. My story was unfolding chapter by chapter, character by character and it was no fairy tale...

Friday is my milestone birthday. I am toying with writing my memoir.