Nancy Ruhling's Astoria Characters

Three guitars and a chin-up bar. There’s not much else in this monk cell of a living room. The shy guy doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he starts strumming. Once Jon Christopher Allen finds his voice, he loses himself in the song. And everything’s all right. Jon’s working on album No. 5. Jon’s music has been a long time coming, and in a sense, his whole life has been a rehearsal. True, he’s been performing for nearly two decades, and he has released…

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The first thing you see is the pink poodle prancing like a princess. Her Liberace collar dances in the sunlight, nearly blotting out her pipsqueak escort, a Pomeranian promenading in a mohawk. They’re leading Leia Gatch and her 6-year-old tow-headed son, Alex, down Ditmars Boulevard. It takes them an eternity to walk a block. They are catnip for smartphone shots. Leia and friends: The pink poodle is Bridget. The Pom is Trevor. Despite what it looks like, this is not a circus act. It’s…

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When Chubby Icaza opens the door, the sweet scent of baking bread spills out into the street where Tom Cat, which is sheathed in translucent turquoise windows that look like the deep blue sea, is king of the block. The nose doesn’t expect such a thrill so close to the car-clogged 59th Street Bridge. After 23 years, Chubby is used to the mouth-watering aroma. But each time he breathes it in, he breathes a sigh of relief. If it were not for Tom Cat, he wouldn’t be here. Chubby has been…

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With a pair of playful purrers padding at her sensible sandals, Sister Tesa heads to her office. The walls are papered with hundreds of snapshots of children, none of them her own yet all of them hers. As solemnly as a Sunday-morning sermonizer, she recites their names. This is no mere exercise in rote-memorization even though some of their smiles have been frozen in place for nearly three decades. Sister Tesa is the founder and executive director of Hour Children. “If I’m worried about…

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Attilio Poli is standing tall in the asphalt drive of his back yard. He’s gazing at his fig trees and grapevines, but there’s a faraway look in his eyes that takes him all the way to Venice. He hasn’t stepped foot in the city of his birth for nearly a half century. At 93, he thinks about what might have been. Attilio’s a very young 93. “I cannot get my country or my people out of my mind,” he says. “My brothers and sisters are all dead. I’m the only…

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