§ 75 The Confusing Geography of Jersey
Years ago, when I earned my daily bread and occasional beer on Park Row, one Andy Horn ran a cozy bar in the shadow of Brooklyn Bridge. A grubby person known as Smitty was a fixture at Andy’s. He cut up food for the free lunch counter, did odd jobs and in rush hours helped to serve the trade.
He had been born on Cherry Hill, right around the corner; he had been reared on the Bowery and he had never ranged farther than Coney Island or Far Rockaway. Greater New York city was all the world he knew or cared to know.
His sister married a market gardener over in New Jersey, and when his summertime vacation came Smitty went to visit her for two weeks. His new brother-in-law had bought a car and had promised to tour Smitty about the State and show him the sights.
At the end of a week Smitty was back at work. One of the regular patrons hailed him:
“Hey, Smitty, I thought you were going to stay longer. Didn’t you care for country life?”
“Nix on dat stuff fur me,” said Smitty. “I’m offen it fur life. Say, dat Joisey soitinly is one funny place. Why, all dem towns over there is got different names!”