Robert Fairbanks

Life in the Life: From Mulberry Street to South Philly

One of many days, weeks, months, years, and decades in New York City—more specifically, Manhattan, on Mulberry Street in Little Italy. Truly treasured days and memories from long ago.

After visiting my favorite old Italiano tailor shop, where the owner and his two sons performed absolutely exquisite tailoring of suits and shirts, I would often stop next door to see his brother, another fine gentleman from the Old Country. His specialty was crafting handmade shoes with such care and precision that walking in them felt as though one were floating on air.

Every pair was custom-made, and like many of the Italianos I knew and spent time with, I had different pairs crafted to match the various suits tailored by his brother and nephews next door. Usually, I would have at least two suits made, along with matching handcrafted Italiano leather shoes.

To most people walking in off the street, such craftsmanship would seem like a small fortune, and yes, it was certainly expensive, but it was worth every penny. Through word of mouth, people from all over Manhattan came to visit these quiet Italiano gentlemen from the Old Country.

As for me, and most of the kids I grew up with, we spent our younger years running around together and, as we got older, continued to stay close while handling whatever business was asked of us by our older goombahs. One of the requests we received quite often was to make the drive from Manhattan, through New Jersey, and onward to South Philadelphia.

Back in the 1960s and 1970s, and right up until my incarceration in 1985, those days in South Philly became some of the most treasured memories of my life.

Being there felt like being with family.

The majority of the population was Italiano. Some were older, some younger, and many were our own age. Naturally, we became close and conducted quite a lot of business together over the years.

One particular place that I, and many others, always looked forward to visiting was the original cheesesteak spot in South Philly: Geno’s.

BADDA BING, BADDA BOOM—BADDA BOOM, BADDA BING!

Those original cheesesteaks would practically melt in your mouth. They were so delicious that one simply could not leave South Philly without devouring a few of them. More often than not, melted cheese would find its way onto our tailored clothes and all over the interiors of the cars we drove.

Of course, we always brought huge bags of Geno’s cheesesteaks back to Manhattan for some of our carefully chosen friends.

Now, every once in a while, a few of those cheesesteaks mysteriously disappeared during the drive back to New York City.

HAAAAAAAA!

Most of the time, though, the intended recipients actually got their cheesesteaks.

Now, to be fair, the other famous cheesesteak establishment sits directly kitty-corner across from Geno’s—Pat’s. They had, and still have, some mighty fine cheesesteaks. But in my own humble pebble-on-the-beach opinion, Geno’s wears the crown of South Philly cheesesteaks.

Oh, how I miss those cheesesteaks.

And I miss the marvelous people of South Philly—not only my Italiano friends, but people of every race and background who eventually made South Philly their home and fit in wonderfully. It became a place filled with character, pride, and community.

As I sit back in this prison cell and reminisce about those magical days that now seem several lifetimes away, they still bring a smile to my face and warmth to both my heart and soul.

Those tailored suits and expertly handcrafted Italiano shoes are now nothing more than fond memories. The remarkable craftsmen from the Old Country have long since passed on, but the memories remain alive within all of us who were fortunate enough to experience those times firsthand.

Those days were truly magnificent. Perhaps they should have been turned into books, or even movies. But then again, who would believe those stories except the people who were actually there, living them and enjoying what we simply called…

“Life in the Life.”

June 3, 2026

Robert “Zack” Fairbanks

The Stash Car

In the middle to late 1960s, I was, to put it kindly, a rather poor student.

The truth was that I had very little interest in sitting behind a desk when I could be out on my ski boat, hanging around the Town Beach Club, or spending time with my goombahs in Manhattan’s Little Italy and with my friends in Boston’s North End.
Looking back now, I deeply regret turning my nose up at the wonderful educational opportunities my family tried so hard to give me. They offered me some of the finest prep schools available, and I was told that whichever college I eventually made it to would be paid for. My Italian grandfather—Mio Italiano Nonno—was prepared to make sure I had every opportunity.

Unfortunately, I had other plans.

My first prep school was Kingsley Hall, a boys’ school in Westbrook, Connecticut. I lasted about a year. Then came the incident with the Headmaster’s daughter. Actually, there were two incidents.
Let’s just say that being caught with the Headmaster’s daughter twice went over like a lead balloon. I was expelled and found myself back home, grounded more thoroughly than a groundhog in February.

It wasn’t long before I was heading back to New York. I took the New Haven Railroad from New Haven, Connecticut, into Penn Station, followed by a quick subway ride downtown to Little Italy. And there, once again, I found what felt like home.

My goombahs welcomed me with open arms. They took me under their wings, and before long I was spending my time between Manhattan and various other places along the East Coast.

Some of those trips involved going north to Boston. Back then, Boston’s North End was, and still is, the Italian part of the city. The people there treated us kids like family. We were young, we were energetic, and apparently we were considered trustworthy enough to be given certain responsibilities.

Of course, those responsibilities sometimes required travel.

Eventually, my family sent me to interview at another prep school, this one in Great Barrington, Massachusetts. I loved the place.
The school looked like an old castle, and the boys who attended it seemed to be every bit as adventurous and troublesome as I was. They came from all over the world.

My roommate was from Bogotá, Colombia. Yeah… that’s another story for later.

School itself was all right, but most of us boys absolutely detested the school day. Once classes were finished, however, things became much more interesting. We played soccer, ice hockey, baseball, and whatever else kept us outside and away from our books.

And then there were my travels.

For trips to nearby Pittsfield, Massachusetts, as well as my regular journeys to New York’s Little Italy, Boston’s North End, and sometimes South Philly, I had acquired something that was not exactly part of the school’s transportation program.

I kept a used Lincoln Continental hidden in the nearby woods.

That was my stash car.

Whenever the opportunity presented itself, I would disappear from school and head off to New York, Boston, or South Philadelphia “on business.”

I foolishly hated school, despite the excellent education being offered to me and paid for by my Italian grandfather. Meanwhile, my friends and my Colombian roommate were also making regular trips to Boston, New York, and South Philly—supposedly on business for our elders.

I never really got caught with my Lincoln hidden in the woods. But make no mistake: everybody knew something was going on. The dorm elders would occasionally ask why we kids seemed to disappear on weekends. Somehow, though, our stories held together, and nobody gave us away.

I won’t go into exactly what materials we were transporting all over the East Coast. Let’s just say we had one hell of a lot of fun, made some decent money, and earned a fair amount of respect from our older goombahs.

For nearly two and a half years, our little traveling business went on without a serious hitch. We were young. We thought we were clever. We thought we were getting away with everything.

And, for a while, we were. Then reality finally caught up with me.

Just before I was supposed to return to school for the autumn term, my young criminal career came to an abrupt end. I was arrested.

Instead of heading back to that old castle of a school in Great Barrington, I found myself being sent to what is still known as Cheshire Reformatory, a facility in Cheshire, Connecticut, for boys under eighteen.

And just like that, the stash car, the weekend trips, the schools, the goombahs, and my carefully constructed little world came to a very sudden stop.

That, however, was not the end of the story. It was only the beginning of another chapter.

More on that ongoing saga later…