By New Times
By Connor Radnovich
By Robrt L. Pela and Amy Silverman
By Ray Stern
By Keegan Hamilton
By Matthew Hendley
By Monica Alonzo
By Monica Alonzo
The guy everyone calls Bing is bantering with the pizza man.
"You get that Italian beef sandwich on your menu, you'll have them lining up," Bing tells Chris Bianco of Pizzeria Bianco, a fabulous little eatery at Phoenix's Town & Country Shopping Center.
"Okay, okay, you got it," Bianco bellows from behind the counter. "I got my game face on just for you, Bing. We'll call it the Roast Bing sandwich."
Bianco's fianc‚e, Susan Pool, asks Bing if he'd like something to eat. Bing politely declines, as usual. Normally, he'd volunteer to do odd jobs for his friends the pizza proprietors--taking out garbage, running a few errands.
But not today. He's got lots of walking to do, and a rainstorm seems imminent.
"I may be by later," Bing tells the couple. "Got to get my exercise in before it gets to pouring on me. You kids have a nice day."
They will, because that's pretty much what Bing does--help people have nice days. His daily presence provides a refreshing departure from the brief, often meaningless encounters that taint urban life.
He adjusts his shocking-pink ball cap--the one with the inscription "Bing" stitched across it--then steps out of the restaurant into the chilly air.
Bing stops briefly at the Cobbler's Den, a little shop tucked into the southeast corner of the shopping center. There, Bing greets owner Ed Piotrowski, a veteran shoemaker for whom he's done chores for years.
He won't accept money for his labors, either at the pizza joint, the shoe shop or at any of the other small businesses he regularly visits and assists.
"I just like being around these people," Bing says. "It makes me feel special when kids like Chris and Susan, and gentlemen like Ed smile and wave at me. If I can make myself useful a little, that's enough for me."
Bing and Piotrowski chat easily for a few minutes, touching on the Super Bowl, their health, the weather. The cobbler turns to an onlooker. "There aren't too many guys like this in the world," Piotrowski says. "He just makes a lot of people around here feel really good."
Bing is a 75-year-old retired printer from Chicago. He has ten children, 23 grandchildren, one great-grandchild and a wife of 49 years. Bing says she still lives in Illinois because "she doesn't want to leave the nest, the flock. But she visits."
Bing became Bing years ago as a tribute to his lifelong hero, Bing Crosby, the famed crooner/actor/golfer whose given name was Harry Lillis Crosby Jr.
For the record, this Bing's real name is Jim Keegan.
Habitu‚s of the Camelback Corridor sound a familiar refrain: They speak of the twinkle in Bing's eye and of his positive outlook, which gives even grouches cause to smile.
"Phoenix is a vanilla, air-conditioned world with a lot of vanilla, air-conditioned people," pizza man Chris Bianco says. "But here's this guy who smells the smog and the orange blossoms every day, who's out there on the streets. I don't care how old he is. He knows what's goin' on. He feels it."
Bing leads a simple life: He subsists on social security and a modest pension from his 45-year stint as a hot-metal printer. He says he quit drinking a quarter-century ago because he was getting too fat.
Only one of his offspring, a son, lives in Arizona, so Bing satisfies most of his social needs with friends he's made while walking--a tobacconist, a yogurt maker, the cashiers at a Smitty's, the cobbler, the pizza maker, and passers-by.
He doesn't own a car, never has. In the late 1930s, Bing recalls, he got behind the wheel for a driving lesson. Once.
And he's not keen on Phoenix's public transportation system, either. So day after day, after he attends Mass and Communion at St. Thomas the Apostle, Bing walks and walks and walks.
His gait is steady, fast-paced, purposeful, and with good reason.
"Knock on wood, no one has given me trouble yet," he says, referring to his 15 years of walking in Phoenix. "Maybe because I look like I know where I'm going."
He varies his route daily just to keep things fresh, but Bing's trek usually goes something like this: He leaves his two-room apartment on 24th Street south of Camelback in the morning, heading first to the Town & Country Shopping Center. (If he needs provisions, he'll shop at the Smitty's at 20th Street and Highland, walk the mile or so back home, then start again.)
After checking in with his pals at Town & Country, Bing heads to Christown Mall, about five miles to the northwest. He catches his breath there, watching the patrons rush by him for a spell, and does a bit of window-shopping.
Then he walks back home, maybe stepping past the Pizzeria Bianco to say hi and see how business is. He covers this route--at least ten miles a day--year-round. Only extremely inclement weather or illness stops him.
"Walking is one of the few things that's still free," Bing says, "and I'm not the kind of guy who sits in a rocking chair. You need to work your mind and body or you'll die sooner than later."