Frank, the Window Cleaner and Timmy

Frank - Dawn on 65th Street.

Every weekday morning, Frank, the Window Cleaner, could be spotted around Lincoln Center, his silhouette cutting a distinct figure against the soft dawn light. With his bucket, ladder, and cleaning pole, he moved swiftly across campus with a loping stride. 

There was something about his learned schoolteacher appearance and raspy city accent that drew me to him. But what really won me over was his habit of leaving freshly caught fish in my fridge before I even got to work.

One morning, I heard Frank calling my name from across the street. He was waving, a broad grin on his face:

“That blackfish is like sushi!” he hollered.

“What blackfish?” I replied, confused.

Still laughing, he crossed the street and said:

“I left some of the best blackfish I ever caught in your fridge this morning. You were probably still asleep! Those fish like to hide under rocks. You need a lot of patience to find them. Oh boy, they’re sweet. Make tacos! You’ll love them.”

Frank was incredibly generous. He’d be out on his boat off Long Island Sound at 3 a.m., catching, cleaning, gutting, and fileting fish before sunrise. When I arrived at work, I’d find two ziplock bags full of pristine fish waiting for me. I was lucky enough to try his striped bass, fluke, porgy, and of course, blackfish. And Frank was right; the blackfish made the sweetest tacos I’ve ever had.

Timmy

Timmy on the Plaza

Tim, affectionately known as Timmy, was Lincoln Center’s go-to handyman/plumber. A gentle giant and popular figure around campus, Timmy cruised around in his electric cart, which was stacked with bags of cement, a wet vacuum, slabs of paving stones, tiles, buckets, a blowtorch, and copper pipes. Whether it was fixing an uneven paving stone on the plaza or unclogging a storm drain choked with fall leaves, Timmy was the one who got it done.

Timmy had a bit of Southern charm to his voice and manner. Around Thanksgiving, he was always eager to share tips about how to deep fry an entire turkey. Each time I called him, he answered the phone with his signature greeting:

“Whayou saying Rahdge?”

Timmy’s handiwork wasn’t just limited to Lincoln Center—he has been to my house numerous times, installed new faucets in my bathroom, fixed a leak from the washing machine, replaced the pipe under the kitchen sink, and even repaired the igniter on my gas stove. I’m extremely impatient so I was amazed at his willingness to tinker and figure things out with the help of the internet. I remember being on the verge of telling him to give up on my washing machine until, with a little help from YouTube, he got it working again.

My landlord, Bill, who lives above my apartment in Harlem, also called him Timmy. Bill, being an architect, once asked Timmy to break down a bathroom wall to fix an ancient German faucet rather than upgrade it to a simpler Home Depot fixture. The job took four days and required Timmy to coordinate with me in the basement where the water mains were located.

While Timmy was working upstairs, my wife and I were busy in the kitchen, making steak and ale pies. She handled the crust, I prepared the filling. Timmy had been at it all day so we invited him to join us for dinner. He politely declined, preferring to buy some materials, so I sent him off with a freshly baked pie for the road. About 20 minutes later, I got a call from him. He was stuck in traffic, pie in hand, and asked if my wife was nearby. When I put him on speaker, he said:  

“This pie is amazing. The crust is so, so buddery! I started eating it, and the lady bus driver beside me said, ‘Whatchu eating, Sweetie? You look happy!’ I told her, ‘My friend and his wife just made the best steak pie with the budderiest crust I ever tasted.’ She even wanted some!”  

We all laughed, delighted at how much Timmy had enjoyed the buttery pie—and at his unique dining experience.