LET ME IN, WOMAN!

LET ME IN, WOMAN!

dad opened the door.

*******************************

I was born not too long after World War 2 ended. World War 2 brought on a different aspect of family life for millions of Americans.

You’re probably not sure where I’m going with this, so bear with me.

Before the war began, men ruled! They ruled the working field, any and all businesses, homes, and all decisions made regarding those daily-life functions. Women had no say whatsoever.

So, what was the role of women? UGH!! Stay home, clean, cook, cater to your husband in every way imaginable, tend to the children plus all other items regarding the home – except decision-making. (Yikes! Talk about the Stepford wives!)

Even when women finally earned (well, that’s the way men looked at it) the right to vote, that’s all they were allowed to do.

But that was the pre-war era. “Women have a place and it’s in the home!”

Oh, bull!

Once the war broke out and most of the age-appropriate male species were gone, it was up to the women to take over. Factories needed to fill the working arena. Women were available while men weren’t. It was soon realized that wearing skirts and dresses in the factories was hazardous. They began wearing pants and found them to be very comfortable attire. And the list goes on.

Can you just imagine the attitude of men when they came home from the war only to find their worlds as they remembered them, were turned completely upside down?

Women, by now weren’t backing down. Score one for the female population.

While women became more knowledgeable in the working field, it soured the emotions of many men – for a number of reasons but I’ll list two: they felt inadequate since their wives were now working and earning a paycheck and the women weren’t about to give up their jobs. Even the employers had to admit that some of the woman worked harder than many of the men. The men weren’t happy; nope, not at all.

Too many men began to drink. “Hey, my woman won’t stay home and paper me! Let’s go have a few beers!”

No, not all men succumbed to this melancholic way of life but too many did. While some would drink every night, many would only drink on weekends. But the bars (beer joints as they were once called) did a phenomenal business.

And that’s where my story begins. Oh, you thought this was my story. Oops! Sorry, it was just a prelude to help you understand the mindset of … well, a few men in my neighborhood.

Most apartment houses were only three stories high. Some had one apartment on each floor while others had two, one on each side of the stairway.

The apartment where my parents lived when I was born hosted two on each side. I won’t go into all the neighbors, but I can’t help but mention Vera and Mickey. (Yes, they were so unforgettable that I remember their names).

When Mickey came home from the war, Vera decided to keep her job. Mickey wasn’t happy and began drinking. Heavily, I should add.

On more than one occasion, we would hear them shouting at each other, as we envisioned, due to the noise, dishes being hurled against the walls.

One summer night (if was a Friday), while every neighbor had their windows open, Mickey came home drunk again, and once again, the shouting began. That’s when we heard Mickey say, “Woman, where the hell’s my supper! I want my supper on the table when I come home!”

Oops! Wrong thing to say to a woman who worked all day and then rushed home to cook – especially when you’ve stopped off for a few beers – well, actually a few too many beers.

That’s when Vera yelled. “You want your damn supper? Here! Go get it!” With that, she flung his supper, which was still on the plate, along with the pots and pans she used to cook it, out the kitchen window where the entire supper crashed to the ground in a resounding clatter of breaking glass and metal crunching cookware.

Vera left their apartment and slammed the door behind her. My parents thought for sure the hinges would break. She didn’t go back home until Sunday night when she’d prepare herself for work the next day.

The following weekend, the landlord asked them to move.

Not too long after that, we moved around the corner. I was only six years old. The landlady of the 3-family walk-up (who also happened to be my dad’s mother) promised us an apartment for less what my parents were currently paying. It made sense. There were four of us back then: Mom, Dad, my brother, and me. The apartment we’d been living in had a tiny, eat in kitchen, bathroom, one bedroom, and the living room. My brother and I shared the bedroom which left mom and dad using a sofa bed. My brother was twenty-seven months older than I was.

The new apartment would give us two extra bedrooms and a dining room. As I said, it made sense to move.

Unfortunately, my grandmother was a very cheap landlady (my grandfather who originally bought the apartment building died before I was born and because of that, my grandmother was terrified to spend money).

Each afternoon, around five, she’d turn on the hallway lights (don’t know why since we weren’t allowed to have company – too noisy, she said). By nine each night, the lights went out! It was a very dark hallway. We’d gotten used to carrying small penlight flashlights with us.

When the lock on the vestibule door broke, even though my dad offered to fix it, she wouldn’t spend the money for a replacement. We could learn to live with a broken lock.

Anyone could walk in if there was a mindset to do so. Thankfully, no one ever did – except.

One Friday night, ok, so it wasn’t Friday night anymore, it was about two on a Saturday morning, I was about eight. My sister (yes, by this time, we had a new addition to our family), and I shared the front bedroom, my parents slept in the next room, and my brother had the bedroom on the other side of the living room. (It was called the hall bedroom).

Anyway, as I was saying before I interrupted myself (yes, I do that a lot when I’m writing), we were all awakened by a loud pounding on our apartment door.

As the pounding continued, we heard a loud, VERY loud voice shouting, “LET ME IN WOMAN! OPEN THE DAMN DOOR OR I’LL BREAK IT DOWN!”

My dad practically fell out of bed and raced to yank on his pants, and he made his way to the door.

He opened the door, and grabbed a wrist just as a fist was about to connect with his nose.

Dad didn’t know whether to laugh, shout, or punch the intruder but in the end he laughed.

“Harry,” dad said calmy, “I suppose you’re looking for Theresa!”

Harry looked a bit confused but said gruffly, “Where’s my wife? Let me in! Why are you in my home?”

Dad put his arm around Harry’s shoulder, and I heard him say, “Come on, Harry, I’ll take you to her. She’s been waiting for you.”

Dad escorted Harry down the two flights of stairs, out the door of the building, and down the street to where Harry lived. Once they entered his vestibule, dad offered to help Harry climb the stairs to his apartment but Harry, said, “Thanks, Frankie. I’ll just sit here a bit. I’m somewhat winded.”

Dad watched as Harry leaned his back to the wall and slid to the floor, closed his eyes, and began to snore very loudly.

As it turned out, Harry was so embarrassed about the incident, he never drank again.

At least his story turned out to have a happy ending.