8 Million Stories: Harold the Chub
It all started when 18-year-old Alan Robins, following his third viewing of West Side Story at the Loews Pitkin, decided that if George Chakiris, a Greek kid from Ohio could play a Puerto Rican in the movies, then a Jewish kid from Crown Heights (who was also an accounting major at Brooklyn College), could reinvent himself as Abelotto Robelotto. Thereafter Alan referred to himself as A.R. the P.R.
He began to frequent the President Bowling and Billiard Academy, a subterranean poolroom two flights beneath Utica Avenue and began to smoke pot. It was there he met Carl and Lenny, two beat artists who sold counterfeit reefer. The stuff was actually Asthmador, an over-the-counter tobacco substitute favored by asthmatic smokers.
Real reefer was scarce in the Fall of 1963, and A.R. was persuaded to share a cab to Brownsville where it was rumored to be plentiful. At the corner of Grafton Street, Carl spotted a crowd of Puerto Ricans milling around and ordered the driver to pull over.
Ask them if they have any reefer, Carl told A.R. Youre supposed to be Puerto Rican, make like one.
I only took a year of high school Spanish.
Ask them whos got the boombah.
Boombah?
Yeah, it means pot.
All I remember is how to say is that the burro is the automobile of the poor man and some other crap.
Ah, never mind. Ill do it, Carl said.
Carl flung open the door. The crowd separated. Murmurs of policia circulated among it.
Whos got the boombah? Carl demanded. People stared blankly.
I dont think thats Spanish, Lenny said. Let me try.
Go ahead, genius, Carl hissed. We dont have all night.
Lenny took a deep breath and blurted out, Yo tengo bomba.
The corner erupted in pandemonium. Lenny stared disconsolately. What the fuck? he muttered, surveying the empty corner.
I think you told them you have a bomb, A.R. said.
Shit! Yo no tengo bomba! Lenny shouted down the empty street.
Now what? Carl asked.
Lennys face turned purple. Its all your fucking fault. You want to be a goddamn Puerto Rican, then learn Spanish.
Yeah, and the cars gone, Carl said, pointing to the empty spot where the cab had been waiting.
A black man wearing a dashiki who had been watching from his porch tossed an empty can of Rheingold and ambled over. Carl studied his approach. Lets ask this chub where we can score some boombah.
Carl coined words for which no known etymology existed. Chub and boombah were two of the latest. To him, all blacks were chubs.
Ah, listen, you wouldnt know where we can score some boombah would you?
Aint never heard of such. You aint The Man is you?
We look like cops to you?
Naw. You boys too dumb-ass to be the man. Names Harold. If it be smoke you be wantin, my cribs across the street. First need to see some ducats.
Carl flashed a roll of bills. Harold smiled displaying a gold-capped tooth. Lets get to it.
Upstairs in his small apartment, Harold pointed to a pile of pillows. Have a seat. Be right back. He disappeared behind a black and gold tapestry of lions lounging beside a zebras half-devoured carcass.
Carl elbowed A.R. Ill handle this. If he gets the idea were a bunch of lames hell try to get over on us. A.R. nodded. I dont trust this guy.
Harold returned with an assayers scale and a cellophane bag containing finely ground grains of pot. What kind of weight you boys be after?
An ounce. No oregano. Were hip to that shit, A.R. said.
Harold smiled. Shits a hundred-percent Acapulco Gold.
Carl gestured toward A.R. Its for my man, here. Id have to taste it first. Harold rolled Carl a joint. Carl took a deep toke and smiled. Righteous, he said.
A.R. reached to claim his purchase. Carl slapped his hand. Stop coming off weak. Did you even offer our host a taste?
A taste? Why does he need a taste? Its his reefer.
Carl turned to Harold. I apologize for my associate. He doesnt know how to conduct business. A.R. appeared stricken. Want a taste?
Dont mind if I do. Harold rolled himself a bulbous joint. You boys be OK. He took several tokes and handed it to Carl, who took a hit and passed it to Lenny who smoked it down to the roach. A.R. gathered up his remaining reefer and stuffed it in the bag.
Walking to the Sutter Avenue subway, Carl lambasted him. You really came off weak. Embarrassed us. Lucky that chub was cool. Give me that stuff. You sure put a dent into this you greedy bastard. We better save you from yourself. And he pocketed the bag.
Barry H. Schwartzberg is a retired NYS Supervising Labor Standards Investigator. He was born and raised in Brooklyn and now lives in Hudson Heights. Harold the Chub is excerpted from part of a series of unpublished stories.