cbr17bingo Green
Now I’m not even gonna pretend to understand the world of semi-rent controlled rental property, not to mention rampant gentrification, of the 1990s New York. Seems like a product of an endless supply of need and a limited amount of acreage on which to build.
Be that as it may, this is the story of a man (jazz musician) and his beloved dog Herbie Mann, a formerly abused mutt saved from an animal shelter death sentence. They have lived in an apartment in the Roberto Clemente Building, a multi-cultural refuge for the arty types, for quite awhile now. There’s a nearby park for the dog, and he’s pretty much on good terms with all his neighbors. What he doesn’t have is an actual lease agreement. In writing. Although the owner, a kindly jazz fan, has offered to draw him up one several times, he just never got around to it. Coulda, shouda, woulda.
He leaves to take care of his terminally ill mom back in his hometown of Chicago. He returns several months later to find no one he knows left, and people being walked through his apartment by a real estate agent. Seems the owner has died, and his son, wishing to sell the building, has no interest in honoring his father’s informal agreement. Ike Morphy’s apartment is the last detail to be worked out.
From here on, it is an entanglement of literary magazine types, and theater circles, and legal apartment related shenanigans. The dog’s abuser makes a surprise appearance, and an unusual romance begins to unfold. And just so you know, Herbie Mann’s going to be OK.