Yorkville House Rules

"Jimmy, can I get a towel for a shower?" I said.

"Sure," Jimmy answered.

My mom's sister, Barbara said, "Tommy, you have nerve, you're going to shower here?"

"Barbara, you have a short memory." I said.

Yesterday, I left Jones Beach after a terrific afternoon of body surfing in rough, clean, warm ocean waves. I dropped over my first cousin, Jimmy's house in Massapequa for a block party on Chestnut Street. Of course, I asked my cousin to shower. My house is his house.

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Everybody in my family was welcome in my apartment on 83rd Street. Great uncles and great aunts, fourth cousins, friends, the front door was locked at eleven-thirty after the news. If we were home, that door stayed open for 16 hours. They came without a call, drank a glass of water, stripped down to their drawers if it was horribly hot (Aunt Lily went down to their underwear). Soda, beer, liquor. They watched TV, took poops, fought, made up, fell asleep in chairs and couches, cooked spaghetti, ate sardines with Saltine's crackers, drank Dad's last beer, hid from their wives.

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Our apartment was my Mom's sisters, Barbara and Joan's main stop on their treks around Yorkville and Rory and me were lucky regulars when the circus rolled through.

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Buddy the cat died tonight. He loved Michele and Michele loved Buddy. I'm sorry. If anyone loved you like Michele loved Buddy, well, you'd be a lucky kitty.