The Ghost of Broad Street

Twenty-five years after leaving town, our writer, who grew up in Logan, came back to walk all 13 miles of our grandest boulevard. The landmarks he remembered are largely gone, but it’s still a street overflowing with stories, dreams and danger

Indeed. Joe Tolstoy stands sentry at the main door in Chancellor Court. He is tall and upright and apparently a ranking member of the Hyatt Brigade, in a white uniform with three gold stripes on the sleeve and a proper military hat. He would sooner give you money than talk about it.

“A dollar a bag is standard,” Tolstoy finally fesses up. “A dollar per person for hailing a cab is also standard. It hasn’t changed in a long time, but no one is telling the world that bellmen need more money.

“But a fortunate man doesn’t necessarily have to make a fortune,” says Tolstoy, and pardons himself to greet a silver Mercedes-Benz. Tolstoy has only read the short stories of his namesake, but he carries on the literary tradition in his own way: Tolstoy is a screenwriter.

He will not let me read his screenplays. I give him a tip anyway: Get your screenplays out of the computer and into the world. Philadelphians are paralyzed by an inferiority complex longer than Broad Street itself. A mammoth effort is required to escape the not-ready-for-prime-time attitude that sucks at your heels like quicksand, stuck on the turnpike somewhere between N.Y. and D.C. You either get out of Philly when you’re young and full of spit, or you spend the rest of your life wondering how the upper half lives. Hollywood is a million miles away from Chancellor Court.

Sauntering through South Philly is disappointing. It lacks the pulse you remember, the finger-snapping, the girls’ high hair and the guys’ hesitation strut. Homogeneity has struck. Even the mural at Wharton Street is deflating. Frank Sinatra looks like a cross between Benny Krass and Oscar Levant. Four stories high (which Frank occasionally was), surrounded by fans (which Frank usually was), Sinatra croons to fans of all colors; one couple near the second floor is fainting.

The dirty little secret of the Great Mural Renaissance is that people and businesses buy this art, sponsor this art; Frank was paid for by Jack Daniel’s (Frank’s favorite beverage), Jerry Blavat, Comcast, the Daily News, and Frederick’s (not of Hollywood but) of restaurant fame. It is written on the wall.
The lettering on the window may say TARELLI’S TAILORS, but the shop near Morris Street is just Rocco. Rocco and his suits. He charges $550 for the average suit nowadays. Used to make 15 a week, then down to 10, and now half that many. Sure, he could do a fitting and mail the parts to be sewn together in Costa Rica, but that would be un-American.