The Pet Protector

Not a peep. That’s what I hear when I walk up the stairs to the top of Christine Shane‘s duplex. She has a full house. Bosco, a blue-nose pitbull, Nubia, a chihuahua/pharaoh hound mix; James, a pitbull; Jayda, a black pitbull/lab mix; Sam, a lab; and the four hairless sphynx cats — Henrik, Pandora, Trinity and Nefereti — are all in residence. Yet not so much as a bark or a meow, a growl or a hiss greets me. Two dogs are in the kitchen, one is sequestered in the bedroom,…

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The Sewing-Machine Savior

Eleven. That’s the number that forever altered Sakis Karagiannakis‘ life. That’s how old he was when his father died, paving the way for his becoming the prime provider for his mother and two sisters. OK, he did get to finish grammar school and his older sister did get hired out, too, but by 13, he was working full time repairing bicycles and motorcycles. “I always wanted to be an airplane mechanic, but I never got to go to school,” says Sakis, owner of SK, the neighborhood’s…

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The Big Guy With the Cute Beagle

Prominently positioned in the living room, there’s a recliner upholstered in corduroy the color of a Christmas tree. It’s right next to a framed poster of an Ansel Adams’ photo of Yosemite National Park. When Bob Koch walks in, Caesar, a benevolent Beagle with big eyes, is lounging in it. Up until Caesar’s arrival 2 ½ years ago, it was Bob’s chair. “Now, it’s our chair,” he says, squeezing himself around the dog, who gives him a sloppy kiss. Bob is…

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The Steady Shoe-Shine Man

“Shoe Repair & Shine.” That’s what the sign says in big, snow-white letters. But it’s probably been there since Kennedy was president; no doubt the owner never bothered to update it. After all, who shines shoes any more? Open the old wooden door, and there’s Gonzalo Zhicay vigorously buffing the knee-high boots of a young woman as she sits on a wooden throne, her wedge heels propped up on shiny brass stands. There’s a rhythm to his work; back and forth,…

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The Ageless Storyteller

It never would have happened if she hadn’t told that one little white lie. Betty Deudon can’t really be held responsible. After all, she was only a schoolgirl standing on the sidewalk by Long Island City High with a classmate when the handsome French sailors, their red-pomponed hats rakishly askew, strode by. “Let’s pick them up,” Betty told her girlfriend. She smiles at the memory. “I didn’t speak French, but my friend did, and when they asked me how old…

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