A sense of style – a bit of pizzazz -always seemed innate to New Yorkers -from the City. At least that was what New Yorkers tell you. My father believed this without a doubt. He went to work every day in a three-piece suit and a diamond pinky ring.
He always looked like he was heading to the penthouse. Once in the elevator, he’d punch for the basement where his office was, and on arriving, change into the neatly pressed khaki’s that were his work uniform. At four PM, he changed back into his suit and returned home.
It would not have been out of character for him to exclaim that even a New York vagrant has more of a sense of presence than his equivalent in, say, Boston. This last snide aside to Boston was due to my preference for that City over New York. “You know Louis; if you can’t make it in New York, you can’t make it anywhere.” for my family, as for others, New York City had been the land of the fortunate.
In 1973 My father called. They were leaving the City. It just wasn’t the same; the crime, the dirt. I couldn’t resist – ” but Dad, if you can’t make it in New York, you can’t make it anywhere.” silence on the other end of the connection.