Hidden Hoboken
by Timothy Gager
Vince knew by the hanging chips of paint and the cracks in the window that Sinatra never lived here yet the owner obviously wanted to work that angle.
“So you going to take the place or not?” the owner asked. Vince noticed his way of gesturing loudly every time he spoke.
Sharon hung on Vince’s arm. “Vince…we gonna take it? Come on…Sinahhhtra, the King of the Hill, Cream of the Corn, A-Number One, la-dee, da-dee, dee.”
Sharon would look at Vince kind of cockeyed when she drank too much and it was one of those times again as her hand worked constantly sweeping the wispy hair out of her eyes. She pulled on his sleeve and whispered loudly. “It’s so romantic. It’s Sinatra’s house. He slept here; he walked here on these floors.”
Vince released himself from her grip and walked the room himself. He walked from dusty corner to dusty corner. “Why’s it been empty so long?”
“Restoration,” the owner added dragging his tongue over the chip in his front tooth, “you’re not going to rent a place like this in Hoboken for $1300, with its historic value and all.”
“Yeah there’s Sinatra historic history in this house,” Sharon chirped as Vince mumbled something.
History was here in Hoboken in the era of Old Blue Eyes. Men worked the docks, lived in the factories; barely came home to eat and more often out for drink. Hoboken, their Hoboken was the worst of times; it was the bottom of the barrel; the pool halls, the “set em up Joes” and use of the Big H. That horse came into the city a little later between that time and this time. Now, Hoboken is a city in revival.
“This is cheap, no?”
Vince wouldn’t answer. “What was his name again?” Sharon whispered to Vince.
“Bobby Marshall,” the owner answered. “You gonna take the place or what? What are you…?”
“I heard it was destroyed by fire,” Vince cut in.
Bobby pushed his hand nervously down the front of his shirt.
“Yes, I may from out of town, but I do know a little history. Sinatra’s house was destroyed by fire.”
“Ya mean he never lived here?” Sharon asked.
“Of course he lived here,” Bobby quickly snorted. “After. He lived here after.” He turned to Vince. “So you know a little history?”
“I know some. I know enough.”
“So then what do you want to do?”
“First, I think the rent should be cheaper. About $900 would be a fine place to start.”
“He didn’t live here?” Sharon voice muted.
“900…”
“Sure if you wish to discuss this in private,” Vince said. “Let’s say we go to the basement. We are allowed in the basement, aren’t we?”
Bobby wiped the sweat from his top lip, and his shirt wet enough to form a dark colored outline of New Jersey on the chest of his blue t-shirt.
“Come on, let’s take a walk” Vince said to Bobby. They went into the other room.
“Of course the basement is open to you,” Bobby said. “The place is clean. Shit, I was cleared of that...found NOT guilty. You heard that, right?”
“You think no one watches Court TV. Give me $400 off just because every day I’ll think about what was hidden in that basement. OK? Do we got a deal?”
Bobby rubbed his hand on his dungarees. “Deal. $900 for the historic value.”
Vince bounded back into the room where Sharon was looking up at the tattered ceiling.
“We’re going to take it.”
“It needs some work,” she said.
“Yes, but he lived here, honey. He lived here.”
