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everything. It turned a single long drive rod which ran the entire length of the shop near the wall with enough room for the wheels set upon it. Along this single lengthy drive rod, the mounted drive wheels placed at convenient intervals, were of various diameters. Each unique wheel, in succession, turned its own long leather strap which reached out crossed and twisted by 90 degrees or more toward a dedicated cobbler's machine. Multiple drive belts slapping, machines of different function tapping and chattering, all keyed to a single driver, each geared to speeds consistent with various functions and functional rhythms, yet, each rhythm tied, somehow, to a singularity, shared. The engine, slapping leather straps, machines - what an interesting place it was for the absorbing ears and psyche of a child. Was that the rhythm of Jazz Man? Before his young son could learn, completely, the difficult trade of making shoes, Cobbler Macaluso, married to the sweet of spirit daughter of the owner of the small restaurant next door, Novella Pontremoli, died young of the consumption, coughing up his life in a massive explosion of blood. His son, not yet fully formed in temperament, witnessed this incompletion, "Poppa! Don't leave mommy alone! Poppa! Poppa! Don't die. I need you," he wailed holding the head of his dead father off the bloody floor. His little friend Joey Gallo, looked on, crossing himself, over and over. There was only the tappata tappata rhythm of the shop to answer him. Joey crossed himself one final time and cried, looking straight at heaven, "It's not fair, God. Nothing's fair." There were tears streaming for his pal who could not let go. And God did not answer. Young Macaluso just clung to his father's head, "Daddy, Mommy needs you." That was then. This was now. In the distance, beckoning a truck dangerously packed with too much ice cream and not enough dry ice, there on the far hill, the two