Sev Oyno, Arutents Dono, and the Bowery Residents

This is the fourth installment of Bedros A. Keljik’s Armenian-American Sketches, which were translated and annotated by Aris G. Sevag. “No Good Comes From Having Children in This Country,” along with a short biography of Keljik, can be found here, the second story here, and the third here.

This is an old, a very old sketch from Armenian-American life.

When I arrived in New York in 1890, that metropolis’s population counted no more than two hundred Armenians. There were a doctor, a preacher, students and a few photoengravers, with the rest being blue-collar workers. You could count the absentees from any Armenian gathering.

My first contacts were with two Armenians from Kharpert: Arutents Dono and Sev (Black) Oyno, the latter’s christened name being Hovhannes. They lived in a room near the intersection of Bowery and Fourth St. They had come from different sections of Kharpert, and they differed too in physiognomy and character. According to the custom in those days and in order to save money, they had rented a room together, in which they prepared their meals, washed their underwear, and slept.

Sev Oyno worked in a large coal refinery on the Brooklyn side of the East River. He used to sling one-hundred-pound sacks of coal over his shoulder and carry them from the ship to the trucks. Ten hours a day, he would go back and forth like a shuttle. When he came home in the evenings, Dono used to say to him, “You look like a dog that’s escaped from the coal storage bin.”

As for Arutents Dono, he had previously worked for a time in a factory. However, he had gotten sick and tired of being called “damn foreigner” ten times a day by his fellow workers, and engaging in fights, during which his nose and mouth would get busted up and he would get all bloodied. One day he quit; having perfected his English, he got a different—and mysterious—job, the nature of which was unknown to us.

Initially I wasn’t able to ascertain which Kharpert families these two opposite characters came from. After asking them a few questions, I found out that Sev Oyno was the son of Demirji Haji (Blacksmith Pilgrim). I told him how, when I was barely 10 years old, every time I went to the market, I used to stop at the entrance to the square and attentively observe his father’s blacksmith shop and the workers. Haji had been taken on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem when he was still a child. The image of the crucifixion had been tattooed on his arm, and that miniature image had gradually increased in size and expanded as Haji grew up.

Demirji Haji was a huge, robust man. His shirt sleeves were always rolled up, and he felt proud, like a hero having won a medal, when everybody saw the image of the crucifixion on his arm. Haji’s face was pitch black, and I found his son, Sev Oyno, to be a second printing of his father in New Amsterdam. I used to stand in front of Haji’s workshop and observe both the boss and the shop, which did not have doors on either side. The wisps of smoke suspended from the ceiling looked like clouds; the beads of sweat dripping from Haji’s forehead resembled raindrops, and the sparks crackling from under his hammer resembled lightning. As such, the scene left the impression of thunder and lightning on me. In Master Haji’s hand, the hammer would rise and fall with a vigorous and graceful motion. This was the blacksmith’s song, and its crier was Sev Oyno, Haji’s firstborn son and the shop’s apprentice, who, holding the bellows by its two handles, would fan the furnace fire. Oyno’s baggy pants turned around and around in accordance with the rise and fall of the air; Haji’s hammer and Oyno’s baggy pants kept harmony with each other. The pieces of raw iron, which had been placed in the furnace, would shortly take form as they became molded under the master’s hammer on the anvil.

After I told Oyno about his father and the workshop with such gusto, he became a close compatriot of mine. One day, Oyno took me to a famous underground bar-restaurant—the Bowery, whose floor was covered with sawdust and where the air was full of smoke. Here and there, men with disfigured faces were standing and eating. Here beer was served in mugs for five cents; along with the beer, you could eat as much as you wanted from all the foods that were laid out on a long table. For a newcomer like me, this bar-restaurant constituted an unusual scene, as did the local crowd. As I was looking around in disbelief, Oyno saw me, smiled and said, “Babam Ameriga, they call this the Promised Land; eat, drink and be merry, for five cents!”

*   *   *

Oyno’s friend, Arutents Dono, was one of the first immigrants to come to America from Kharpert. Everyone knew that and often remarked that Dono had come to America with Columbus.

Dono, who was now called Danny, had blue eyes, unruly blond hair, and a neatly trimmed beard. He used to speak slowly in a soft voice in order to win the trust of the other person. He resembled an Irishman more than an Armenian. In those days, the Irish were influential people, numerous and xenophobic; they persecuted the weak and cringed before the powerful. If it weren’t for the forgiveness and rectitude of Peter Minuet, Van Winkle and the original immigrant sons of Israel, it would have been impossible to live with the new Irish immigrants. It seemed as if all of Dublin’s residents had been transported to New Amsterdam; in no time Casey had become a full-fledged citizen and gotten a job as a policeman. Being clever, Danny exploited his Irish looks since all his contacts were with them, which we found out subsequently. Danny was not easily approachable and very seldom did he associate with Armenians; the fewer Armenian acquaintances he had, the more smoothly his affairs seemed to run. My first impression was that he was a shady character.

Sev Oyno worked hard six days a week, from seven o’clock in the morning until six o’clock in the evening.

Danny didn’t work; he went to bed any time he wished and slept quite soundly. As it was, he would get back to his room in the wee morning hours. This was why Oyno used to call him a “wandering Jew.”  This notwithstanding, he used to pay his share of the communal table every week; furthermore, his attire was spiffy. Thus, his life had become an insolvable puzzle for Sev Oyno.

When this state of affairs had continued for more than a year, Sev Oyno’s patience ran out so he tried to find out how Danny was meeting his expenses without working. “One day I finally got Danny to divulge his secret.”  When Oyno grilled him, Danny had given a laconic answer:  “Long live the residents of the Bowery, the Irish; only Negroes and mules work in this country.”

Oyno began to tell about Danny’s life now that he was a famous character. The story he told and the way he told it were very interesting and shocking at the same time. “This janavar (literally beast, figuratively eccentric individual),” said Oyno, “goes out late every evening and frequents the bars around Bowery and Third Avenue, at precisely the time when the drunks, totally inebriated, wait for the doors of the bars to close. Danny immediately strikes up a conversation with those hapless characters and, grabbing one of them by the arm, takes him out of the bar on the pretext of escorting him home. After all, Danny knows their brother or father, who’s named Cone or Sullivan. Along the way, he grabs whatever money is left in the drunk’s pocket.”  Danny had told Oyno, “There were times when I didn’t find any money on the drunk so I settled for a tie pin or pocket knife at least.”  This is why he always used to repeat, “Long live the Bowery residents and the Irish!”

Oyno’s story amazed me. I said to him, “Danny’s got to be a very clever and nimble fellow in order to come out of these escapades unharmed.”  Oyno said, “I’ve been this guy’s roommate for two years now. He’s not a bad fellow but, one day, his luck is going to run out on him; he’s going to get arrested and rot in prison.”

When I saw Danny, he was already an older adult. For a newcomer like me, he had an august appearance. As an experienced Armenian, he began to give advice when Oyno wasn’t around. “This country is completely different from the country where we were born and raised. In order to succeed in this country, you’ve got to forget the customs of the old country, especially the idealistic notions they taught you in school. It took me three years to forget all that; it was only then that my eyes really opened up. If you listen to Oyno, perhaps he’ll secure a job for you in a coal refinery; then you’ll become the second dog to escape from the coal storage bin. In Rome you’ve got to be like a Roman; in the Bowery, a Bowery resident — Irishman. Of course, you understand what I’m trying to say. Be practical, make money and then you’ll be the kindest and most intelligent person; the more you use your brain, the less you’ll be using your hands and feet.”  In order to drive home his points more effectively, he put more effort into the movements of his nimble hands, with those long delicate fingers which, although well suited for violin playing, had become the instruments of a pickpocket.

Sev Oyno got married and had children but died before reaching the age of fifty. As it was, he was already bent over and worn out from the heavy, exhausting work which he had performed for so long.

One day we read in the local papers that “the famous and mysterious pickpocket of the Bowery has been arrested and put in jail. Hundreds of Bowery residents are waiting outside the front door, to be certain if indeed he is the fellow they knew—Danny.”

From that day on, we didn’t hear anything about Arutents Dono—the famous pickpocket Danny. The Bowery residents were rid of this man who always used to say “one hour’s work a day is sufficient, long live the Bowery residents!”