I now knew Mundo was an inevitability. Bolo was aware that I was no longer installed in PanStar on a twenty-four hour basis. And the Lincoln Road house was in the beginning stages of a lengthy renovation. All that was left on my fall task list was to get Osvald sorted.
“You know, you’re cutting it close for me,” he remarked, when I turned up at his shop to let him know I was ready to start shopping. “My lease here is up in six and a half weeks.”
“It’s all good,” I said in a brisk tone. “The mortgage is pre-approved and my lawyer is expecting the paperwork. All we have to do is find a building, and unless you’re planning on being extremely picky that should be easy to do around here.”
“All I want to do is find something I can stay in until I’m ready to retire,” Osvald replied.
“Retire,” I reflected. “I’d love to be able to think like that. You’re luckier than you even realize, my friend.”
“I’ll be lucky if we find something in time for me to move out of this dump,” Osvald threw back at me. “What’s the plan? How are we supposed to find my final home?”
“There’s a real estate office down the block from the C train,” I said. “Let’s go see what they have to say.”
An hour later, my credit had been validated and we had a follow-up appointment to tour three buildings later that week. Six weeks later, I closed on a building that had been empty for going on nine months- the owner was motivated to sell and I was motivated to buy. Right before his lease at the old shop was set to run out, Osvald had shut it down and started renovating his “final home.”
After he’d completed demo, Osvald invited me over to check out what he planned to do with the space. As I approached, I took a good look at the new electric sign shining brightly over the front of the building. “Osvald’s Prime Cuts” was spelled out in red, white and blue, with little Dominican flag stylings filling in each letter. It made me laugh to see that my friend couldn’t even wait to get his shop open before letting the neighborhood know he’d arrived.
“We did good,” Osvald stated. “But now I got a lotta shit to take care of.”
We were leaning against a back wall, surveying Osvald’s new domain, in all its stripped-down glory. All in all, it was at least twenty-five percent larger than his old spot, with a real, functioning stock room and employees’ area in back.
“So, what are the plans for all of this?” I asked.
“I’m gonna upscale it, but not like cigar bar style crazy upscale,” he replied. “I want to have six chairs, top of the line lighting, a real seating area with a flatscreen on the wall over there,” he said, pointing to an area towards the front.
“Mets games going all summer,” I smiled.
“And Knicks games all winter,” Osvald finished for me. “I know you can see it.”
He went on to detail the full vision- a proper manicure station, a breakroom with a working refrigerator and a bathroom that didn’t look like it was carted in from Rikers.
“And I’ve been looking for an old school hot lather machine. Like a green one, from the Seventies.”
“I remember them,” I said. “When I lived in England, I used to go to an Italian barber who had that exact one you’re talking about. You should go dig around those old shops on Atlantic Avenue. If you can’t find anything, put the word out over there- someone should be able to track it down for you.”
Osvald smiled, sighed, and said, “I can’t believe I’m finally gonna get the barbershop of my dreams.”
“When did you decide to become a barber?” I asked.
I’d known Osvald for going on ten years, but never delved into his background.
“I always wanted to be a barber,” he said, simply. “It’s like drama from my childhood. My mom used to give us shitty home cuts. There were six of us, and she couldn’t afford to spend all that money on hair every month. I hated it. Then, I spent years renting a chair in other people’s shops. And by the time I got my own place, I just couldn’t afford to make it what I wanted.”
“So, you really did get your dream,” I remarked.
“I did,” Osvald agreed. “Thank you for that.”
“You know,” I said, surprising myself, “I never ask people questions unless it's something I need to know, but for some reason I really wanted to ask you about this. I've never been anywhere long enough to dream about anything- and I’d love to know what it’s like to have that option."
The look on Osvald’s face clearly let me know that he had not expected this turn of conversation.
“Listen,” he began, “Ever since I had to go out and make my own money- and that happened when I was, like fourteen years old, my only dream was to be somewhere I was proud of. When I open up the door, I know I want to spend my time working there.”
“Well, now that’s exactly what you have,” I replied. “This spot is yours. You can do whatever you want with it, as long as you can afford it.”
“I mean, not really,” he replied. “At the end of the day, I’m still renting. But you know what? For me, it’s not really about physical ownership.”
“What is it about, then?” I asked.
“It’s about the life I want for myself,” Osvald explained. “Respect in this community right here, and comfort in my bank account. I don’t want to be an old fuck cutting heads with a shaky hand. I want to have the sense enough to know when it’s time to hang it up for good, but until then I wanna be in one place where people know me.”
“Stability,” I remarked, more to myself than to Osvald.
"But what about PanStar, Hopeton?” Osvald asked. “I met you right when you moved into that place. I know you had to have dreams about what PanStar was gonna be. You had to have."
I smiled and told my friend the truth. "I wasn’t able to figure out what PanStar really was supposed to be before Bolo stole it out from under me. And I still have no idea what the rass I’m doing.”
Osvald reached out, dapped me up and said, “C’mon, let’s get out of here. Let’s go grab a drink down the block.”
