Home

There's something about home - familiar, comfortable - that has nothing to do with the locale, the way of life, the time of year, or even the local cuisine. And there's something that defines a particular place as home no matter how much time you spent there or spent anywhere else. There's a place for all of us that, every time we return, is home.

I know, because I went there this morning. Home is a small section of Queens just off the Belt Parkway, directly under the flight path for JFK airport. Home is a nest of 7-story apartment buildings surrounded by 2-story "garden" apartments, dilapidated ball fields, old people bent over from age, hauling their 2-wheeled carts to and from the grocery store.

Home is an old man I've never seen before greeting me -- "Good morning! Happy Holiday!" It's the second day of Hannukah, and this is -- or was -- a Jewish neighborhood.

Home is up there, the fourth-floor apartment, the small window from which I threw things, launched match-head rockets, and even once cast a lead weight out the window only to have it swing back and break the window of my first-floor neighbor. They knew it was me; they were not happy, but (and I did catch a break every now and then) they didn't tell my Grandmother what I had done.

Home is a parking lot that used to be a grassy area with benches, an oasis between two buildings that didn't house anyone we knew, or anyone who knew our parents or (in my case) grandparents. An oasis where we could come with our girlfriends and go as far as the elements and our mutual modesty permitted. The benches are gone, now, and the grass has given way to asphalt, but I remembered the night when -- ignorant of female anatomy as I was -- I decided to go for it and ran my hand all the way up my girlfriend's leg, under her skirt, as far as it would go until I touched something soft. She like it, as it turned out, but we still went our separate ways a year later. I heard she got pregnant and then married some thirty-seven years ago, and I haven't heard from her since, but I still have a Polaroid picture of the two of us. The light is bad and the picture has degraded so all you can see is the outline of our faces, but I'd know her anywhere.

The pizza place is still there, but it has expanded into a full-fledged restaurant. I don't know if the kids still go there for a slice and a coke, but we did. It was either the pizza place or the deli, at the other end, where you could get a knish or the best french fries on the planet. And, of course, kosher pickles straight out of the barrel.

It's not much to look at now. The buildings all seem to have awnings and pretentious names. Signs on the side advertise apartments "for sale." They used to be co-ops and condos; perhaps they're all condos now. The streets and the sidewalks are cracked, and most of the buildings seem to be in need of one type of maintenance or another, but our echoes can still be heard in the stairwells where we gathered for cigarettes, or on the streets where we serenaded the neighborhood with our own rendition of Horse Latitudes or, depending on our mood, Don't Bogart Me.

Everything took place within an incredibly small area, perhaps one-half square mile. We all lived within a thousand yards or so of each other, perhaps one reason why we were able to survive in the days that predated personal computers and cell phones. Everyone was connected by sheer proximity, if nothing else.

(Fast forward. It's time to eat.)

Breakfast is amazing. I've gotten no more than a few hours of sleep, painful and fitful sleep, and I've entered the world where the contrrast is turned up all the way on everything - colors, smells, sounds - until everything starts to resemble a caricature of life. The restaurant is packed, standing room only, and I sit at the counter. It's Sunday and everyone is working. Thomas is there, the namesake of the restaurant, as is the unnamed waitress we normally see every day but Wednesday. My waitress is Gina, someone I haven't seen before, and she's a marvel of nonstop movement until she feigns collapse against the unnamed waitress.

Everyone is talking, everyone is eating, and the only one conserving energy is the big guy -- obviously a co-owner or otherwise important -- who is the other half of the cartoon portrait on the wall. It's him and Thomas, Thomas and him, although Thomas is really Tommy. The accents range from Queens to Long Island, all typically New York. All home. I stare off into space as I wait for my bacon and eggs and just bask in the sounds of it all.