The Asphalt Jungle

By Marc-Yves Tumin

Let us give thanks for the great souls among us. Sometimes you begin to lose your faith in humanity. Then you're inspired by the heroism of ordinary people.

I encountered one such courageous person outside the barbershop where I used to get my haircut.

Frank Donofrio, the classic shop's owner, had kept West Siders spiffy for some 70 years.

He was an old-fashioned gent and spiffiness was a matter of principle to him.

People whose locks he'd first trimmed when they tucked themselves in the children's seat would drop by with regularity, and Frank made sure they were up to snuff.

He was the Oracle of Columbus Avenue and did things his way.

Nobody rushed him. Nothing troubled him. He cared not for anyone's opinion. And the most insignificant things assumed importance because they were meaningful to him.

He had a green thumb and was particularly proud, for example, of the fragile mimosa tree outside his shop, which, against all odds, he'd nursed back to health, after a truck almost ended its days.

Every week, I'd sit in the big Chicago chair by the window, observing the passeggiata and listening to the Delphic commentary as Frank and his brother, Danny, snipped away.

That's when I first noticed the dusky street vendor from Senegal.

Ahmed D. had struck up an unlikely friendship with Frank.

He was an amiable fellow, much younger, broad-shouldered and genuine, with strong features and a ready smile.

The poor chap had been rousted by a bank from his regular spot on the corner, but Frank encouraged him and gave him permission to set up his table of briefcases, handbags, and wallets in the shade of his beloved tree. And with Frank's imprimatur, Ahmed found acceptance on the block.

Frank had no patience for bad manners, folks who failed to curb their dogs, and kids who messed with his mimosa, but he sure was keen on Ahmed.

"If everybody around here was more like him, there wouldn't be any trouble," he used to tell me. "The whole block didn't want him, but I stood up for him. He's all right."

Frank hailed from San Fele, a tiny hilltop town in southern Italy. His father had been a barber.

He had had but five years of formal education and he was a hard worker. Perhaps that's why he took Ahmed under his wing.

I learned that Ahmed was the product of a hardscrabble upbringing in Louga, in the Republic of Senegal.

He and his five brothers and sisters enjoyed few luxuries and less schooling.

His first language was Wolof, but he also spoke English and French, which is that nation's official language. Senegal is mainly Muslim, and Ahmed was an adherent of Islam.

All Ahmed remembers ever doing was working.

His father had owned a small business. Like Frank, Ahmed had followed in his father's footsteps. And, like Frank, he dreamed of someday going to America.

Ahmed came here a decade ago, when he was 25, and settled in Manhattan.

I'd see him on the pavement, seven days a week, in the bitter cold, huddled inside his battered van or baking in the unforgiving heat.

I could well understand why the one thing he wanted was his own store.

Sometimes, I'd question Ahmed about his life, but he was a shy, taciturn man.

I knew he wanted to become a citizen but not much more, so I did some research and found that Senegal is about the size of South Dakota, the westernmost country on the African continent, with about 11 million souls.

It won its independence from France in 1960 and has a tropical climate and strong southeast winds, most notably the harmattan.

Since it suffers from droughts and floods, I imagined that Ahmed was well prepared for a life of hardship.

Indeed, working 'round the clock in all weather didn't leave him much time for relaxation.

"I like to study my religious books in my spare time," he told me in his plainspoken way.

He was determined to succeed but realized it wasn't easy.

"I think it will get a bit better later, but I don't know how I can get any good business the way things are now," he said with a sigh.

Still, Ahmed the Intrepid soldiered on with resolution. Then, in the dead of winter, he disappeared without a trace.

Worse yet, another street vendor set up a table on his spot and confided that our mutual friend had resigned himself to failure and returned to Senegal. How sad. Time passed. Then, one Sunday afternoon, as I walked up Fifth Avenue, near the Empire State Building, I heard a familiar voice singing out, "Mr. Marc! Mr. Marc!" I couldn't believe my eyes: It was Ahmed D.

I am happy to report that he had rented the front of a store nearby.

The human spirit is a wonderful thing. Ahmed was fine. He was still in business. He had simply refused to give up.