Heather tightened her robe to cut off the chill. “Besides missing you terribly, I’ll be fine.”
Justin stared out at the vast openness in front of him. “I really love it here. You’ve made me a happy man. I feel so blessed!”
“We’re both blessed. And we have another blessing on the way.” Heather rubbed her belly, then wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck and softly kissed the back of his head.
“Any more advice on how to best share my faith with Brian and Craig?”
Heather bit her lower lip—always a sign that she had something important to say. “Just this: Like Pastor Monroe’s been saying all along; be patient. You know they’re gonna wanna do the things you guys did in the past. If you blow ’em away right off the bat, you might put a gap between the three of you that four days could never bridge. Just be patient. And always pray for God’s Divine guidance.”
“Good advice, babe. Just hope I don’t blow it. What if all they wanna do is party like in the past? I don’t think I’ll be able to fake havin’ a good time.”
“Then don’t.” A gust of wind blew snow already on the ground in all directions, before finally settling again. Heather stood to stretch her lower back, which was hurting from sitting on the love seat. She went on, “Just because you don’t like partying anymore won’t make Brian or Craig think you’re a religious fanatic. But if you preach to them nonstop, I’m sure they will.”
“Wise counsel, babe.”
“Thank you,” Heather said, with a curtsy and a smile.
Justin went inside for more coffee. Knowing how much his wife had been missing her morning cup of coffee, though her doctor had sternly advised against the consumption of caffeine during the pregnancy, he poured a cup for her as well. One cup wouldn’t hurt.
Heather noticed the two steaming cups in her husband’s hands and smiled. “M-m-m, yummy!” She was back on the wicker love seat buried beneath the flannel blanket.
Justin sat next to her. The snowflakes were getting bigger. A light dusting had already fallen, adding a beautiful pristine white color to the predominantly brownish fall landscape.
For Heather Schroeder, this was a normal view. A native Coloradan, she was used to seeing snow this time of year, sometimes even sooner. But with weather patterns so unpredictable these days, no one knew what to expect from one day to the next.
At any rate, Heather loved snow and was grateful to see it falling this morning. An avid skier, she looked forward to teaching her children how to ski someday.
Five-six in height, Heather had beautiful straight strawberry-blonde hair. But what stood out most were her aqua-blue eyes. They were both warm and inviting. Her nose was small and thin, her smile captivating. She was a caring person who possessed a warm, magnetic personality.
Heather was a conservative woman and dresser, but a sharp dresser, nonetheless. On top of that, she had the wisdom of those twice her age. Snuggled next to her husband beneath the warm flannel blanket, she couldn’t help but smile. What more could a woman of 30 years possibly want? Couldn’t have scripted a better life if I tried.
“So, when’s Craig flying out to meet you guys?”
Justin took a big gulp of his coffee and swallowed, “Tomorrow after the game. Brian has all the details.”
“I’ll bet he’s as stoked as you are.”
“Yeah, especially about the Jets game on Sunday. As kids, we used to watch them play at Brian’s house on Sundays. They weren’t that good back then. Should be a great game.”
“All I can say is go Broncos!” Heather stuck out her tongue.
Justin laughed. A die-hard Denver Broncos fan, he expected his wife to say something like that.
“In all seriousness, I hope you have a good time, sweetie. You certainly deserve it. Just make sure to call me once you land. I’m not goin’ to my parents’ house until I hear from you, okay?”
“Yes, my love.” Justin pulled his wife in a little closer. Yes indeed, he was a blessed man.
6
CRAIG RUBIN WAS TAKING his first break of the day. The restaurant opened at 6 a.m. and had been busy ever since. No big surprise there. Rubin spent the past few hours trimming the long line of hungry patrons waiting for breakfast tables. Without even inquiring, he knew the two-other family-owned restaurants were experiencing the same hectic conditions.
While his two buddies left New York to attend college elsewhere, Craig Rubin remained in New York to work the family business, which consisted of three Jewish delicatessens all bearing the name, Mitzi’s. Two were located in Manhattan. The other was in Brooklyn.
Rubin didn’t need to be recruited by some big university like Brian and Justin had been. He was too busy being recruited—lured was more like it—by his two older brothers, Marc and David, and his father, Yacov Rubin. While it sounded exciting to leave his hometown to attend a great university, Craig Rubin knew his future was in New York City.
For the past twelve years, Craig had been in charge of the Midtown location at 42nd Street and Fifth Avenue.
The other Mitzi’s in Manhattan was located in Battery Park, just off the corner of FDR Drive and Wall Street. Yacov’s middle son, Marc, was in charge of that location.
His eldest son, David, was in charge of the Brooklyn deli next to the Fulton Mall, just off the corner of Fulton and Adam Streets.
For nearly a half-century, 43 years to be exact, Yacov Rubin had a reputation for having one of the best breakfasts and lunches in town, and the best cheesecake in all of New York City. This was something for which he was quite proud.
All three delicatessens were extremely profitable and not for sale. Rubin frequently received offers to sell them; some even offered to overpay, much like patrons did for a cheeseburger platter in his Midtown location—up to $25—but Yacov always refused.
Bottom line: Yacov Rubin didn’t want anyone but his three sons to get rich off his legendary reputation. The patriarch of the family had developed many capable managers and assistant managers over the years, but they weren’t Rubins. Everyone knew he wanted his own flesh and blood to be in charge of the daily operations when he finally retired or died, whichever came first.
As the years passed, Yacov gradually dialed back the time he spent at his prized restaurants. When he wasn’t relaxing in Florida with his wife, Selma, he still enjoyed working a few days here and there, mostly at the downtown Brooklyn delicatessen.
As much as he still loved Manhattan, it had gotten to where navigating its streets had become too hectic for the aging man to deal with. Brooklyn was also hectic, but nowhere near as bad or as stressful as Manhattan. And with Selma battling stage-four breast cancer, Yacov wanted to remain close to home in Brooklyn, just in case. Sadly, her prognosis wasn’t good. It was day to day.
Not counting his wife’s dire health condition, at 63 years of age, Yacov Rubin’s lifelong quest for success had otherwise become a thriving reality. He always said God gave him three sons for a specific reason. Three great sons. Three great delis. Three great locations.
According to him, it was Divine Intervention, which only served to add another level of security and peace of mind to his already huge mountain of financial success.
What made Mitzi’s so famous was its New York style cheesecake. Nothing topped it. It was what had spawned Mitzi’s Deli in the first place.
At the ripe young age of 20, with his mother Mitzi’s permission, Yacov took her cheesecake recipe—a recipe so good everyone had to try it—and opened a small corner store in Brooklyn. Each morning, at five a.m., he would bake cheesecakes, then go door-to-door offering his mouth-watering desserts for a fair price, either plain or with a fruit topping.
What started out with 20 cheesecakes a day soon turned into 30 a day, then 50, then 100.
Two years later, Rubin could no longer handle the demand all by himself. He had to hire employees. What began in Brooklyn as Mitzi’s New York style cheesecake, quickly turned into three world-renowned restaurants.
He proudly named each one after his mother.
Because it was smack dab in the middle of everything, it wasn’t uncommon to see famous people frequenting the Midtown Manhattan location. Autographed pictures from some of the most famous citizens on the planet hung on walls everywhere, thanking Yacov for the wonderful dining experience.
In most cities, having three of the same businesses in a three-mile radius might be considered by some as business suicide. But in New York City, it was business paradise. Yacov Rubin learned this at a fairly young age and took full advantage of it.
In the Big Apple, a person could establish a business presence every half-mile or so, if they were so inclined and could afford to.
In any three-mile radius, tens of thousands of businesses were in operation nearly around the clock. The city never slept. Business owners from all nations and tongues, all trying to capitalize on the American Dream, occupied every available nook and cranny in the overpopulated city.
Not only were businesses stacked side by side like sardines, they were stacked on top of one another; many in refurbished, decrepit old buildings. With severe overcrowding, entrepreneurs rarely had the option of building or expanding out in Manhattan. There simply wasn’t enough space, unless a building was first demolished.
The solution? Building up. One of the top commodities in Manhattan had long since been the air or unused space above the buildings. Hopeful proprietors would bid millions of dollars for the privilege of expanding upon already established buildings.
Anything to be inside The City...
Whatever it took to accomplish this task was done. As a result, hundreds of construction cranes and scaffolds were seen throughout the bustling city on a daily basis. Some business owners needed only a tiny fraction of space to conduct every-day business operations. Some needed an entire floor, while others needed an entire building or even an entire city-block.
In the end it all came down to demand, and how big one’s purse strings were.
Even the rooftops that weren’t built upon were used as gymnasiums, walking and jogging tracks, swimming pools, makeshift gardens, tennis and basketball courts, and so on. Not only did rooftops offer a tremendous view of the city; they served to cut one off from the craziness down below.
But it wasn’t free to have such a privilege. Nor was it cheap.
It was once said that Manhattan was the only city on Earth where you could feel the energy rising up from the sidewalks. The city was electric. It boasted an exciting, yet intimidating mystique which served to lure millions of people in. It could easily mesmerize and overwhelm a person at the same time—visitor and resident alike.
On any given day, the streets and sidewalks of Manhattan would get busy at the crack of dawn and stay busy until the wee hours of the night. Once a traffic light turned green, hundreds of people crossed the street like herds of sheep following their master, which, for most, was the clock.
New York City wasn’t the place for those seeking solitude.
Craig Rubin took the last bite of his bagel loaded with smoked whitefish, cream cheese, tomato and onion. He washed it down with coffee, his fourth cup of the day. He wanted to fly to Detroit after his shift to maximize his time with Brian and Justin. But leaving a day early would have only elevated the level of stress between himself and his older brother, David.
When Craig first requested time off for this trip, David angrily reminded his kid brother that he already spent a week at their parent’s condo in Miami Beach back in July. Craig didn’t need to be reminded. He’d already heard it enough.
David and Yacov Rubin were like thinkers. Both believed vacations were for the weak-minded. Their view of success wasn’t vacationing but working hard for 40 years then retiring to Florida. Anything short of that was merely robbing yourself of your golden years.
Since that conversation—argument was more like it—David always did his best to leave his younger brother guilt-ridden, by constantly reminding him that Poppa should be home tending to Momma, not covering for him again.
The guilt-trip worked, but not enough for Craig to cancel his trip. Rubin would bring his duffel bag to work in the morning and help with the onslaught of breakfast customers.
While his two buddies enjoyed the festivities leading up to the football game, Rubin would run around like a madman at work, then fly to Detroit, via Cleveland, Ohio.
He just hoped Brian and Justin wouldn’t be footballed out after the Michigan-Ohio State game. The Jets-Lions game also promised to be a good one. Not as good as The Game, he knew, but a good game nonetheless, featuring two probable playoff teams.
The fact that the New York Jets were playing in Detroit this weekend was rather remarkable. Had the game not been scheduled in the Motor City, Craig probably would have remained in New York. The football game was his bargaining chip, so to speak.
What a wonderful coincidence, Rubin thought, getting back to work.
Yes, this weekend was going to be unforgettable.
Little did Craig Rubin know just how unforgettable it would be...
7
TAMIKA MOSELEY WAS EN route back to Manhattan after dropping off a couple at JFK Airport. As soon as her passengers got out of the cab, someone else flagged her down for a ride.
This was quite the norm. What was unexpected, however, was that her life had turned out this way in the first place. Born in Brooklyn, Tamika always had a head full of dreams. Growing up, everyone thought she would be the most likely to succeed. After graduating from high school with good grades, the ambitious young woman enrolled at a local community college hoping to become a registered nurse someday.
The problem was that she only qualified for a partial scholarship. But Tamika vowed not to let that stop her from chasing after her dream. In her neighborhood, too many dreams were extinguished due to a lack of money. Always one to believe where there was a will there was a way, the determined woman worked full time and attended college part-time.
Eventually she would become a nurse...
She never expected that dream to include getting pregnant and bringing a child into the world during her sophomore year in college. As much as she wanted to become a nurse, she needed to leave school and find a second job. But she was determined to resume taking college courses at some point in the future to keep her dream alive.
Her boyfriend, Isaac Moseley, whom she later married, quickly landed a job as a cook in a restaurant in Manhattan, in Seaport Village, on the lower east side of the city.
Tamika found work at a retail outlet store and worked two jobs up to her ninth month of pregnancy, before taking time off to give birth to their son, Jamal.
A year later their second son, Dante, was born.
The young, cash-strapped couple found an apartment on the upper east side of Manhattan, just off the corner of 98th and Lexington Streets. The 30-story building was 85-years-old and in desperate need of a complete overhaul. For security purposes, the windows on the first five floors were protected with security bars.
Isaac and Tamika weren’t the slightest bit impressed with the building, but they didn’t have the luxury of being too picky. They were desperate, and this was one of the few rent-controlled apartments they could afford in Manhattan. They reluctantly took it.
The apartments were fairly clean, but the decaying hallways and stairways were atrocious. Residents knew the only reason their apartments were somewhat clean was because the owner was forced to maintain them by law or continue paying stiff fines.
But the same couldn’t be said for the re
st of the building. It wasn’t uncommon seeing mice, rats and cockroaches loitering in the hallways at all hours looking for food to eat.
And the elevator system was nothing short of a deathtrap! And dreadfully slow! It would sometimes take the Moseleys fifteen minutes to ride from the lobby up to the twenty-ninth floor.
During summer months, by the time they finally reached their floor they were completely soaked with sweat. But being so high up, they had no choice but to use it.
Then there was the graffiti: coded words from various city gangs covered just about every inch of the building’s interior. Every six months or so, the walls would be repainted to cover it up. A week later the graffiti was back. It was a vicious cycle that wasted too much time, money and effort.
With light covers missing all throughout the complex, naked bulbs hung from ceilings dimly illuminating the dangerous and illicit artwork on the walls. Only those who put it there could decipher its many coded messages of racism, hatred, rage, vengeance and even murder.
Everything took a drastic turn for the Moseleys two years ago, when Jamal was three and Dante was two. Isaac came home from work one day announcing that one of the dishwashers at the restaurant helped him convert to Islam.
Each day after work, before going home, Isaac would stop by the local mosque to read the Koran and pray with a growing group of Muslim men.
In no time, he was in constant praise of Allah.
The day he changed his name from Isaac Moseley to Abdul Muhammad was the day Tamika could no longer take it. She was at the end of her rope and refused to call him anything but Isaac.
“When I married you, you was Isaac! That’s what I’m callin’ you now!” she would bark.
At this, he would fume. As the months passed, Isaac, now Abdul, became more and more involved with his newfound religion and less and less involved with his wife and two sons.
Chaos in the Blink of an Eye Page 4
