Free Out of Time by Monique Martin

easily.
    But, as she always told herself back home, if you can’t make money, spend money. Simon had balked at first, until she pointed out that he could simply never shave again. Off they went to F. W. Woolworth Co. 5 and 10 Cent Store.
    The Woolworth’s back home had been nothing like this. Complete with a soda fountain, which Simon wouldn’t let her try, the store had everything a person could want. Clothes, canned goods, jewelry, personal items, the list went on.
    For someone who’d never lived on a fixed budget, Simon was absolutely miserly. She managed to finagle a few items anyway. Toiletries were a must. The sales woman suggested a new product—Charmin bath tissue. What in God’s name did they use before? The soap smelled more like lye than lilacs, but at least it was something. They bought all the necessities: toothpaste, hairbrushes and a safety razor that looked anything but. They purchased towels and undergarments—Simon had delicately disappeared for that one—and one pair of pajamas. Simon hadn’t thought her suggestion that he be tops and she be bottoms was all that funny. But with less than ten dollars left, they couldn’t afford a second pair.
    ~~~
    It was early afternoon when they dropped off their packages at the apartment and hit the pavement again. For such a big city, there were precious few jobs to be had. It certainly didn’t help not having the faintest idea where to look either.
    They wandered aimlessly for a few hours before Simon suggested they work on a grid. Walking the business districts block by block, east to west. By late afternoon, they’d traveled from Columbia Street on the East to Bowery on the West. Still no jobs, not even a nibble.
    As the day wore on, Simon grew more and more quiet. She knew he held himself responsible for them being there. She also knew that no amount of talking would make him feel otherwise. Screwing on her best smile, she suggested they get an early dinner.
    They walked a few more blocks when the unmistakable smell of garlic cooking in olive oil caught her attention. She sniffed the air like a bloodhound on the scent and led them further down Delancy. Even before she saw the street sign, she knew where she was—Mulberry Street, the heart of Little Italy.
    “Wow,” she said. “Just like in The Godfather .”
    Simon was unimpressed. “Quaint.”
    “Oh, come on, look at it,” she said, tugging on his sleeve and pulling him into the fray.
    The street was small, barely wide enough for two cars, and bursting with life. Sidewalk cafes crowded with men playing cards and dominoes. Groceries with large wooden boxes displayed fresh fruits and vegetables on the sidewalk. Push carts selling every food imaginable clogged the streets. A few cars trying to weave through the mass crawled along more slowly than the people on foot. Green and white awnings jutted from the brick facades. Lace curtains covered the lower half of etched glass windows. And the smells. Garlic and oregano. Basil and simmering olive oil.
    Three men in black pants with crisp white shirts leaned against a light pole smoking cigarettes. “ Ah, bambina. Molto bella. Venga averci una bevanda con. ”
    Elizabeth giggled. “Hello.”
    Simon grunted and moved between the men and her, taking her arm and hurrying her past.
    “Isn’t this great?” she asked.
    Simon let go of her arm. “Charming.”
    He could be a spoilsport all he wanted to.
    “I’ve always wanted to come here,” she said after enduring nearly a minute of his funk. Simon hardly seemed interested, but she ignored him. “Fun Tony always told the best stories about growing up on Mulberry Street.”
    Simon raised one privileged, boarding school-bred eyebrow. “Fun Tony?”
    “A friend of my father’s. Tony Funnico. I wonder if he’s alive yet?”
    She looked at the young boys running down the street in their caps and knickers, and wondered if he might be one of them.
    “He’d be very upset with me if I didn’t have a