A telephone rings!

A message from Sol!

"The boys are meeting on Feb. 5 at Ben's Deli on 38th Street in the city."

"I'll be there," I offer.

This conversation spans 50 years or even longer. The boys are getting together. Longfellow Avenue and 172nd Street was the original place they had in common. PS 66 and PS 50 are the schools they attended. Glorious Herman Ridder (PS 98) was the junior high school and James Monroe was the high school.

Fifteen hexagenarians sitting around a series of tables with garlic and half-sour pickles and mounds of coleslaw. A few bald heads, some elegant moustaches, paunches of assorted sizes and gray hair are the dominating theme. The eyes are still clear and the spirit and elan are still there.

Most of the guys are veterans of the Armed Forces and only a few divorces dot the landscape. Camaraderie and old stories and even older jokes fill the room.

A few of "the boys" do not attend even though they are constantly beckoned and beseeched to attend. "We tried to get so and so but he just won't come!" Attendance is an affirmation of life. "I'm still here so don't count me out yet!" is the motto. (There is also a Florida extension to this Bronx group.)

The pastrami, corned beef and turkey breast sandwiches arrive. So do the mounds of French fried potatoes, beans and the Dr. Brown's Cel-Ray tonic.

There is no main speaker and you converse with the guys on your left, your right and the gentleman across the table. Nobody brings their bankbooks and the stock market is cursed by all. Children are mentioned a lot and occasionally someone talks about his wife.

Two hours pass and it is time to go.

Hugs and handshakes. "Call me you rat! I called you last!" "When are we getting together again?"

I leave and walk slowly toward Penn Station to catch the Long Island Rail Road. The air is almost freezing but I am warm inside. The Bronx lives again.

Maybe I shouldn't have eaten all those pickles, pastrami and coleslaw. I'm a little nauseous.