Talk about a superman!
Fifty dollars and a slice of pizza will earn you his life story.
We heated a slice from the night before, grabbed two twenties and two fives, and texted:
“Are you in the basement? Nikki and I have something for you.”
He said yes, so down we went.
Nikki handed him the pizza. I said, “Thanks for all your work so far, and we’re looking forward to living in your space.”
He’s the super, and the title is apt.
I asked what baked goods he likes.
“Everything.”
I asked what foods he grew up eating.
“Rice and beans.”
And then the treat:
His life story.
—
Born in the Dominican Republic, Eugene moved to America at seventeen. “He was a humanizer. No, I mean a womanizer.” He lived in the hundreds of Manhattan, ten people to a one- or two-bedroom apartment. The house was too full to study, so he dropped out of school against his mother’s wishes.
He got a job: $2 an hour.
He rented a room: $20 a week.
He married young. Today is his fourty-eighth anniversary. How young? Who’s to tell.
If you tell Eugene you moved here from France, he’ll tell you his favorite music is French. La Bohème. In that dusty, stone-filled basement, he hums along, and the wistfulness in his eyes makes it clear he’s always wanted to learn French.
Eugene’s father had thirty-one children and took care of none of them. More than anything, Eugene doesn’t want to be like him.
Like many retirees I know, Eugene retired at sixty-two—then came back to work six months later. He’d been working all his life.
Yesterday, he fixed my radiator.
Julian Wise 