Lucky

This is the story of how love, beauty and joy can arise, tower over and defeat the pain of sadness, lonliness and disappointment.

I suppose the word best used to describe her then would be “lanky.” It was a word I recall hearing more often then than now. Now, you might say “tall and thin”. In the forties it was “lanky.” Another word I recall hearing in reference to Mrs. Luckenbach was “divorcee.” Now, that one is still in use, but it doesn’t carry the same impact. It isn’t as pejorative as it was in the 1940s. Then, it bore a stigma and was always whispered, although not too often, because Mrs. L was pretty much the only divorcee in the building…perhaps the only one on the block. Moreover, she wasn’t seen all that frequently. But the really whispery thing about Mrs. L was the fact that she was, on more occasions than could be considered discreet, seen in the company of different men.2

The first time I can remember seeing Mrs. L she was arm in arm with a mustached man in a military trench coat and barracks cap. He was referred to as “the Marine,” and in fact was one…the first one I was ever aware of, if not the first I had ever seen. I recall him staggering his way home on Cabrini Boulevard on many afternoons and evenings and can recall overhearing disparaging comments by neighbors with regard to his sobriety. He was supposed to be Arthur’s and Bobby’s father, or so we thought, but after he vanished and the years seemed to make more clear the marital status of Mrs. L, that idea was dismissed. Mrs. L was the mother of the boys. That was that. There was no father.3

There was a grandmother, Mrs. L’s mother. Pretty much it was she who took care of the boys. The old lady never left the apartment but was frequently seen in her housedress and scuffs, shuffling her way between the apartment and the hallway incinerator. And often she could be heard yelling the boys’ names into the street, her face and shoulders visible, leaning out of the third floor window. Mrs. L apparently worked during the days and typically was seen arriving home in the evenings; unlike her mother, smartly dressed in a suit and heels, her hair always done up. 4

My first recollection of Bobby and Arthur was of the two of them, running across the street, wearing sailor hats. It was soon after a ringworm scare and school inspection for the bug, complete with lamp lights and nurses. Beneath the boys’ white hats their heads were shaven. 5

They were both called “Lucky.” The name seemed to fit each of them. Arthur was “Lucky.” Bobby was “Lucky.” Arthur was the younger but not by more than two years. Bobby was always the considerably taller. You might say he was… lanky. They bore no resemblance to one another, either physically or in their behavior. Bobby seemed quietly and confidently to enjoy the status of older brother. Arthur was the wilder and tougher, the more demonstrative and impetuous. But although Arthur was undeniably what kids referred to as tough, and maybe even the toughest on the block, he was not, as many a “tough” kid was, psychotic, volatile or nasty. He was approachable. And contrary to utilizing his “tough” status to bully, Arthur was often prevailed upon by younger, smaller or weaker kids to protect, defend, or help them out of a jam with less understanding denizens of the neighborhood. He was a good arbitrator, mostly because he could negotiate from a position of strength. And he never exacted anything for the service.6

Bobby sometimes played stickball with the older kids on the block but was less of a presence than was his brother. He kept to himself. Shortly after the Korean War broke out I seem to recall Bobby jauntily arriving in the neighborhood one afternoon in a sailor suit. I say “seem to recall” because I can’t figure how he had got hold of the uniform so fast and perhaps over the years I had only imagined him as a fully outfitted sailor, somewhat prematurely. In any case, he was back in civilian clothes some days later. Word was he was turned down, and reclassified 4-F because of a punctured ear drum. The rejection became known from the neighborhood buzz, and the feeling was that for Bobby, pride had turned to shame. It had, at least for him, become disappointment.7

Arthur meanwhile was becoming sinewy, although not nearly reaching the height of his older brother, and developing his lean muscular frame by some mysterious process, which, when I queried him about it, he did confide, could be attributed to strenuous weight lifting at home...barbells! It was the first I had ever heard of this process. Shortly thereafter, from spring through the fall, Arthur rarely wore anything but T-shirts with sleeves rolled up to the shoulders, unfiltered package of cigarettes tucked securely in the folds. And soon after that he became the first on the block to sport a tattoo on his deltoid. It was a red heart with an arrow piercing it. Beneath it, it said Mother. I remember many brief evening conversations, with Arthur perched on the fender of a parked car, during which he waxed knowledgeable on any one of a number of subjects. Arthur had the wisdom of a kid who was three or four years older than you were. He knew about weight lifting, women, sharp dressing, and, it seemed, the adventuring ways of the world. Later that year Arthur enlisted, impressively, in the U.S. Air Force. The feeling was that Bobby felt badly.8

Arthur was killed shortly thereafter while stationed out west. The story had it as being a car accident somewhere on the coast. For most of us word of what had happened carried a most unreal quality and did not convey the kind of devastating, tragic impact it should have. It had the undertone of another wild event; another bit of the kind of rash mischief that characterized much of what Arthur did. How he lived. And for some time the expectation was that someday, somehow, Arthur would be coming back.9

Less and less was seen of Bobby and it seemed the days of carefree stickball and frivolous hanging around outside, in romp and high jinks, had passed. With Arthur’s vanishing from the ranks, something of the cavalier was gone from the block. When I did see Bobby he never smiled, he never laughed. He seemed sullen, bitter. And always, he kept to himself, dissuading any casual conversation.10

We moved to the apartment above the Luckenbachs. I was attending high school and playing piano. And just about everyone within earshot knew. One day a strange thumping sound, a persistent bass vibration, began to emanate from the floorboards. It was not long afterwards that Bobby Luckenbach, one afternoon, rang my doorbell.11

It was a warm spring afternoon and the promise of the school term’s end, an exciting summer, romance and all the indefinable options open to youth, softened and tantalized the air. It was the kind of air so gentle and undisturbing, its benevolence almost went unnoticed, certainly unappreciated. But it was there. And it seemed to me, at least in subsequent years, to have colored and set the tone for everything that happened that afternoon. 12

It was the first time I had ever seen Bobby Luckenbach standing at my door. Up front and person to person, so to speak. An older kid, calling for me! I was totally puzzled as to what he might have wanted. It crossed my mind that my playing might have gone too far and his visit was by way of a complaint. Bobby said he knew I played the piano and that I was attending a music high school and he wanted to show me something. He said he would appreciate my opinion. Apparently, he had wanted to share something with me. Obviously, there was no one else. 13

We went downstairs and for the first time I ventured through the Luckenbach door. The old lady was there, in her housedress, shuffling about. Bobby took me through the long hallway into his room at the back of the apartment. With an indescribable pride he showed me his high-fidelity set up: the speakers, the amps, the turntable, the receiver. And then with great delicacy he lovingly removed several records from a neat array of albums carefully organized on new, dust free shelves. The albums were Frank Sinatra with the Nelson Riddle Orchestra and a guy I had never heard of, Stan Kenton. The room filled with a vibrating Artistry in Rhythm and Opus in Pastels, Laura and Intermission Riff. I now understood where the thumping bass in the floorboards came from and heard a combination of sounds I had never heard before, called 23 Degrees North 82 Degrees West; synchronized trombones that haunted me for years until I finally learned what the title meant and located the recording. (It turned out to be the coordinates of Havana, Cuba.) And then Bobby played Sinatra’s I’ve Got You Under My Skin, snapping his fingers to the Nelson Riddle arrangement. I had never seen him smile so broadly and so much. I had never seen him as happy. Since then, Sinatra/Riddle and Stan Kenton have always been connected for me, and spring days have always borne the strains and echoes of those tunes; the music those men made. 14

I had completed my first year at Hunter College when Bobby asked me down to hear some new Kenton sides he had just bought. He told me he had gotten a job at a neighborhood record store. And soon, he said, he would be going for his “G.E.D.” He smiled a wide grin, revealing a row of crooked, somewhat poorly aligned, and concave top teeth.15

The last time I saw Bobby Lucky he was busy with customers in the mom and pop record shop on 181st Street between Broadway and Fort Washington Avenue. He was laughing, in motion, totally involved.16

The Port of New York Authority razed our apartment building shortly thereafter. All the 20 Cabrini tenants had to relocate and I never saw Bobby after that, although on many spring afternoons I wondered where Bobby Lucky and his mother had flown to and whether Bobby was still hearing the sounds he had loved. He didn’t seem to be listed anywhere, not under any of the spellings I tried for his name. It was, after all, a tricky name. Luckenback? Luchenbach? Luckenbach? Or was it Luckenbacher? It wasn’t Lucky.17

It was on a balmy June day more than forty years later that I ventured into the New York Public Library on 42d Street to see if I could get the proper spelling of Bobby’s last name from an old listing in a 1949 reverse telephone directory. And what was his mother’s name, anyway? Perhaps, I thought, his number might still be listed, these days, under her name. I had always thought it was Mary…or Marion.18

Finding the proper room on the second floor, Local History, I accessed the telephone book on a reel of microfiche. And there it was: 20 Cabrini Boulevard with a listing of nearly all the tenants I had remembered; many of them quite gone and many quite forgotten. But something was wrong because Lucky wasn’t there. Neither was Luchenback, Luckenbach or any other similar spelling. It took me a moment and then I realized, of course! They didn’t have a telephone yet! I tried a 1950 book. My finger caressed the screen, moving down the list of long lost, familiar and now regained names. There they all were, as they had been. And there was Lucky’s. I might not find him now, after all these years, but I had found his name. Luckenbach. And the first name, unexpected. It was Bobby’s and Arthur’s mother. Her name, strange and uncommon. Kind of classy sounding. A lovely name: Marlan. It didn’t seem to fit her. But the more I looked at it, the more I looked back, the more I guess it did. The more it fit. Anyway, there it was. Marlan. Marlan Luckenbach.There it was.19
 

Reviews

[Jenny Davis]

This was a joy to read! I always know when something is good when later I can't remember if it was a book I read or a movie I've watched...this fell into that category. I saw all the characters and felt like I was you...thinking, seeing and wondering. Thank you for sharing this, it was well worth the read :) I'm glad you found "Marlan."

[None]

I lost myself in your descriptions and wonderful story. I especially like your words...."The old lady never left the apartment but was frequently seen in her housedress and scuffs, shuffling her way between the apartment and the hallway incinerator."...what a fantastic visual!
Certain people can make an impact on their lives and may never know it. Sometimes we don't know why we are turned away from what seems to be our calling at the time but find out later our true love...."And then Bobby played Sinatra's I've Got You Under My Skin, snapping his fingers to the Nelson Riddle arrangement. I had never seen him smile so broadly and so much. I had never seen him as happy." Music was his, I do believe!
Your story lets the reader take part in fond memories and have wishful hope that you find Bobby again.

[Leah T]

This line:
"The feeling was that Bobby felt badly."
made me laugh.

First the happy: I really enjoyed reading the story, how the narrator was not the main character, how he's really only a window to the brothers. Just a story about a life. I thought you set up the characters well, especially in how they related to one another. You didn't tell too much or too little.

However: The end, when the narrator looks up their names in the phone book and finds them. I didn't know what you were trying to do there. Also, in places the tone was a little strange to me - I read your profile and saw that you're a journalist, so maybe I'm inferring, but at points it did seem a little like an article about something that happened. This wasn't entirely bad, because it located the story as if you were reading a local newspaper - I imagined the characters in my own neighborhood in Brooklyn. However, I think the reason that it seemed like a report or an article was that the language wasn't the MATERIAL of the characters and the action, they weren't MADE of it; it DESCRIBED them, as if the words couldn't really see the essence of what the story was about and were only trying to reach it. I hope this makes sense, and thanks for reviewing my poem!