WEST SIDE (Market) STORY

I used to shop at the West Side Market to see humanity.  I didn’t care about the food; I was looking for real, working people.  I ran the gauntlet of Italian produce vendors, who would say to me, “Hey, how about a couple peppers?”  I wouldn’t answer. I didn’t even like vegetables.

I liked meat — greasy meat.  I picked up a couple links of Farkas’ hot Hungarian kielbasa.  That stuff could kill you, unless you were 25 and immortal.

Now the produce vendors are mostly Arabs, and I’m no longer looking for humanity.  It comes to me.

I was at the market with time to spare; I was waiting to meet a tenant at the Cleveland Mediation Center across the street.  He was a delinquent tenant who was also delinquent in showing up for the meeting.   So I went to the market.

The market was, still, a good cheap exotic trip.  A vendor carried an eviscerated goat over his shoulder.  You don’t see that at Heinen’s.  I bought a loaf of bread and returned to the mediation center, which was in a dilapidated 1920s office building.  There were stenciled signs on the office doors for abogados (lawyers), bail bondsmen and Middle Eastern doctor / Welfare Patients Accepted.  My delinquent tenant, Mr. Rice, hobbled in to the mediation center on a cane.

He spent $400 per month on prescription drugs, he said, and couldn’t afford the rent.  Apparently, he didn’t know anything about Medicare’s supplemental prescription plan.

The mediator — “I’m Bob” — told Mr. Rice he could address neglected building repairs.  Bob had just set me up.

Mr. Rice shook his head and said, “The man wants his rent and I don’t blame him.”

You had to like a tenant like that.  A stand-up guy.

I put up with Mr. Rice and his late rent payments because, among other reasons, I liked his accent.   He was an old black from Gallatin, Tenn.  I said, “My mother was from the South.  I could listen to you all day. That’s why I’m here [at the mediation center].”  Another reason was he owed me $890.

Mr. Rice skipped out several months later. He left behind ratty furniture, Playboys, old clothes and a stove that looked a piece of fried chicken.

You want that stove original or extra crispy?

Mr. Rice said, “Don’t put me out.”

I didn’t put him out.  He left on his own.

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Tomorrow (Thurs. July 29)
Driving Mr. Klezmer
Cain Park, Alma Theater, Cleveland Hts., 7 p.m.

My son Jack, suddenly, will be in the show.  He’ll play the iPhone, beat-box, play drums, and do a comedy sketch.

$20 in advance, $23 at the door.
$2 off for 60+ and students.
216-371-3000 or www.cainpark.com.

“Driving Mr. Klezmer” is Bert Stratton, Alan Douglass and Jack Stratton.