“the boss,” “the King of Kings” but in plain words, a hood, a hoodlum, a punk! — FROM “WHY PAMPER PUNKS?” A COLUMN IN THE NEW YORK JOURNAL-AMERICAN. INSIDE the luncheonette at the corner of 97th and Madison Avenue, Gober straddles a stool at the fountain, sips slowly his fourth cup of coffee, and watches her. Outside on the curb, Junior Brown sits holding Gober’s leather jacket across his lap, munching on a cold fried frog’s leg he has pulled from a greasy brown paper sack. It is ten minutes before nine. She waits on a party in a booth, then walks back behind the fountain to wash dishes stacked in the aluminum sink. Gober says to her, “You could talk to a guy, at least.” Gober is seventeen, husky and tall, with tangled black hair and deep brown eyes. He has a dark, handsome face, and an uncertain smile which tips his thin lips. Her name is Anita and she is beautiful. To Gober she is like a girl the marceros would serenade, back in Rio Piedras, during the feast of Marza, when they would roam the streets singing on their rondas.
