Read an Excerpt
The Mayor of Central Park
Chapter One
I Start Telling the Tale
Now the way I heard it, this whole loopy story happened in the pearly month of May 1900, right here in the middle of New York City. It's mostly about this gray squirrel who went by the name of Oscar Westerwit.
To look at Oscar Westerwit you might think, hey, just another New York City squirrel. Only thing is, if you said that, you'd be dead wrong. 'Cause the simple scoop is that this here Oscar Westerwit was a full-sized uptown romantic. And when you get an uptown squirrel who's romantic, let me tell you something: You got yourself a story busting to trot itself up Broadway like a tap-dancing centipede.
But you're asking, how come I was able to grab this tale? Well, back in them days I was cub reporter for the Daily Mirror. My beat was Central Park. So, figures, while I'm not in the story, I heard all about it.
Anyway, this Oscar Westerwit, this squirrel I'm talking about, the voters in Central Park used to call him the mayor of Central Park. Which ain't to say he actually was mayor. At the time, the real mayor of New York was Hiz Honor Robert A. Van Wyck, a guy so terrific they named a traffic jam after him.
But the thing of it was, since Oscar knew everybody and everything in the park so well, the voters there called him the mayor.
Now to bump right into the beginning, this yarn started spinning string on the third Friday night in May. That was when Oscar held his regular mayor's monthly open house.
Only first you need to fix yourself a picture of Oscar in your head. I mean, this here was one swell-suited squirrel, dressed up to all nine buttons. He was sporting a light, white cotton suit, with a baby blue bow tie, shined-up shoes and spats, and a ripping red gardenia right there on his jacket lapel.
And his home -- a two-room elm tree apartment in the middle of the park-was just as terrific. There was an easy chair by the window with an actual electric lamp at its side. There was a pile of The Baseball Weekly stacked up along with the New York Tribune. Pictures of his heroes -- Honus Wagner, Roscoe Conklin, and Lillian Russell -- were on the walls, right along with his degree from the City University -- class of 1898.
As for Oscar hisself, he was humming a Broadway show tune and sliding into a tap-dance do-diddle every other step while setting food on the table. You know, like:
My sweetheart's the girl in the moon,
I'm getting to marry her soon.
When all of a sudden, who should come bip-bopping into his room? Sam Peekskill, that's who.
"Hey, Oscar," the rabbit shouted, the way only an excited southpaw rabbit can volume his voice, "Arty Bigalow has gone missing!"
Now what you got to know is, Oscar wasn't just mayor of Central Park. No, sir, he was also the shortstop and manager of the Central Park Green Sox. And a pretty decent player, too.
"Says who?" said Oscar to Sam.
"No one's seen him since day before the day before."
"I'm not worried," said Oscar as he filled a bowl with nuts and crackers and set it by the window.
"How come?" said Sam.
"Sam," said Oscar as he laid out some pretzels and pickles, "no way Arty's going to miss the game. Hey, if we beat the Wall Street Bulls, we're in first place. He knows that. I know that. Everyone knows that. Here, pal, spot down these cucumber sandwiches."
"Sure," said Sam, doing like he was told. "But Oscar," he said, "this Arty, his personal life is one big spicy meatball. What the guys were thinking was, maybe youse should go check his boardinghouse. I mean, that cat's our only pitcher."
Oscar shook his head and plunked a pile of napkins down like he was flashing a royal flush at a Friday night poker game. "Tonight's my open house."
"So?"
"Hey, Sam," said Oscar. "Come over here."
Sam went to where Oscar was standing by the window.
"See that moon in the sky?" said the squirrel.
"Sure. It's where it's supposed to be, ain't it?"
"Right. But pop your eyes on how the moonlight makes the park hills, lakes, trees, and meadows look like they've been dipped deep in blue light and purple shadow."
"Okay."
"And there -- the Dakota towers are looking like servants on the ready. Now -- listen to those clip-clopping horses and carriages on Fifth Avenue. And over to the West Side -- hear them clanging trolley bells. Got all that?"
"What's all this to do with tomorrow's game?"
"Sam," said Oscar, "this Central Park is ... perfect."
"Yeah, but if Arty --"
"Hey, pal," said Oscar, "Central Park is where I was born, grew up, and live. Central Park is the best beauty in this whole burg."
"Sure, Oscar, but Arty --"
"Hey, come on. Guys like us have been around here long before 1857 when the park was built; long before the Dutch showed up in 1612. Long even before the Lenape Indians named this island Manna-hata."
"Okay," said Sam. "It's great to know all that stuff, but if Arty don't --"
Oscar spread his forepaws wide. "Hey, I love this place!"
"Oscar," said Sam, "you know where a romantic like youse belongs? In a Broadway show, that's where."
"Broadway Oscar, that's me!" And the squirrel did a quick tap-dance double doodle.
"That's cute, Oscar, but I just hope you're right about Arty."
Wasn't long before the apartment was crowded. Some were there for the nuts, pretzels, and talk Oscar laid out deep. But plenty of folks were there asking for his help ...
The Mayor of Central Park. Copyright © by Denise Avi. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
