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Sixty Two Years Ago
Sixty-two years ago - over half a century, when all things I knew were innocent and simple. Sixty-two years ago, born into a depression that seemed to cripple the spirit of our parents, as we waited on the threshold for another World War. In its way life was simple then. Perhaps it was because our lives were not cluttered up by the sophistication of the machinery and technological advances that would blur by us in rapid succession in the years to follow. Sixty-two years ago, I was born. At times past I've always tried to remember the earliest episode in my life. What I always seem to come up with is a scene in a kitchen where I, as a baby, had spilled orange juice unto the floor. I was disciplined for this error, and for some unknown reason this event has always been my earliest recollection of a life event. It's strange that such a triviality becomes the image of my earliest memory.
My next earliest memory conjures up a scene of violence. It seems that I had an aunt who took her Sleasure in teasing me when I was a baby. Apparently violence knows no boundaries regarding age or size. I remember, after a whole series of teases from her, throwing an empty, jagged, can and hitting her just above the eye. I remember a commotion following and much blood gushing from her head. What has bothered me until this day is that I had gotten satisfaction from this cruel act. Even as a baby revenge can be present in the spirit.
Humor has always been a trait in my life. As a child I would improvise stories using a comedic twist in order to capture the attention of my audience. I tried to satirize the early radio programs and it seemed to work well. My young listeners would roll with laughter as I mimicked away at the radio fare of those days. Although I worked for a small audience the satisfaction that I received could not have been any less than someone appearing before many. I suppose it can be said that all things are relative.
The Twenty Dollar Bill
When I was a young boy, six years old, my physical world was very limited. My world consisted of only four or five city blocks in Brooklyn New York. At this early age I was considered mature enough to be trusted to purchase a few groceries at the nearby Delicatessen. Super Markets were only dreams on a planning board then. At the Deli, I would purchase twenty five-cents worth of ham, maybe fifteen cents worth of store cheese (today we call it American cheese) and twenty cents worth of salami.
On a particular day, which I'll always remember, the Deli was crowded with five or six neighborhood women ahead of me. You didn't have to take a number to be served, turns were based on the honor system. As I waited patiently, from the corner of my eye I could see something green and crumpled on the floor, near the bread and cakes. Stooping myself for further investigation, I discovered that it was a dollar bill. But wait! The familiar face of George Washington wasn't where it was supposed to be. In George's place was the portrait of someone else. Someone named Jackson. Another strangeness about the bill was where the location of the number one was usually to be found. In place of the familiar Number One was the number twenty. In short, twenty dollars all bunched up into one bill was crumpled and waiting there on the Deli floor. It would almost go without saying that a boy six years old in 1940 could be very naive. So not thinking, I held up my find asking if anyone in the store dropped this Twenty-Dollar bill by accident.
Suddenly a gray haired woman about sixty years old seeing my find with eyes that bulged from their sockets, immediately and without claim, grabbed the bill from my young hands, fled from the store like a frightened teenager, all before the other customers could even begin to interpret what had happened.
It took some time before I realized that I'd been taken by that shrewd old lady. There were nights to follow, while lying in bed, I would replay that entire episode repeatedly, frustrated and angry over my stupidity, wishing that I had silently pocketed the Twenty Dollars the way any other person would do. Ever since then I've waited for another Twenty Dollar bill to come along again on a floor somewhere. Of course, It's never happened; it probably never will. However, in spite of the trauma from that event, I've managed to keep my head up and have tried to lead a good clean and moral life. Still, I can't help it when my eyes begin to wander, searching and scanning, waiting for the time when I'll once again find that elusive and crispy Twenty-Dollar Bill.
The Epileptic Fit
Another episode in my life, which has remained with me, took place in my first grade classroom. As well as I can remember, it was the first time I saw how frail humans are, for in that classroom I watched while someone else suffered. In that crowded classroom, at the beginning of the school year, a boy began to shake violently. At first the teacher, Mrs. Langen an elderly woman, thought the child was clowning. It wasn't until he fell from his seat, his head banging hard on the wooden floor and his face turning beet red that Mrs. Langen realized something was very wrong. I remember the boy's face; it's still clear in my memory. He was distorted and grotesque. His eyes seemed to be someplace else Someone thought he might be swallowing his tongue. His whole body shook violently; his nose ran uncontrollably. My young mind was learning that this wasn't a game or joke. Something terrible was happening to another human being. I hadn't understood death yet. It would be another year yet before my Grandmother would pass away and I'd learn how to continue with the absence of someone very close to me. I had wondered if any of these things could happen to me.
That boy didn't affect the other students in the same way. Some kids laughed hysterically while others whimpered out of nervousness. Other children left the classroom with the excuse of getting help from someone down the hall. I remained in the room, my eyes never leaving the convulsing boy. I needed to record this event, watching as Mrs. Langen stood over him not knowing what to do.
That boy, on the floor, suffered from an epileptic fit. I would later see this happen in a different situation and would react much the same way. The experience taught me nothing as I would forever continue to stand in corners feeling nausea while facing someone's suffering. My eyes would fix on a victim while I'd cower in fear, unable to react only hoping that it would never happen to me.
Jacomatsi
One of the funniest kids in my Fifth Grade class was Joseph Jacomatsi. I mean, with a name like Jacomatsi, you had to be funny. His stupid grin was enough to make us double up into a tailspin of laughter. He was dense as far as school work went and was left back two or three times until they gave up on him and passed him along. This made him about three years older than the rest of us in the classroom. Because of his sense of humor, we'd forget some vile features about his person. For example, he smelled badly, seldom changing his socks. He was a complete distraction in the classroom. Teachers would use him to fetch supplies or to wash the blackboard. We thought he was lucky to be able to leave the classroom during the middle of a lesson.
The teachers in our school were Brothers of the Franciscan Order, a humorless group. Yet, Jacomatsi could catch them off guard and leave them doubled up with laughter. There were times when they could barely continue teaching. One of the funniest features about Jacomatsi's face was that it closely resembled the features of a horse. Another kid might be totally upset with this kind of likeness. Jacomatsi used it to further his ability to make others bellow with laughter. He'd rear back his head, show his teeth and whinny with his two arms groping in midair. I'd laugh so hard with the others that my side would often end up hurting. When Jacomatsi didn't show up for class - which was often - I knew it would be a dull day. When he was in class, I couldn't wait to see the next thing he'd do. Once, when I sat four rows behind him, the students close to him were completely helpless with hilarity leaving them banging their heads on their desks. While Jacomatsi appeared seriously intent on the lesson being taught that day, I couldn't understand what was making the kids around him so crazy with laughter. Brother Paul was losing his patience, especially since Jacomatsi was obviously not a part of this silliness. Even Jacomatsi himself would look over at the hysterical students with disgust pictured on his serious horse face. When Brother Paul's patience finally snapped, he invited the laughing students into the wardrobe where he would whack their behinds ten times each with a bamboo stick for their disruption of the classroom.
It was then Jacomatsi finally revealed to the rest of the wondering classroom the reason those hapless students had gotten into trouble with their merriment. With a book in front of him, his face serious with study, his penis was free of his pants and lofting inside the confines of his desk banging effortlessly from side to side. It was enormous and seemed to have a mind of its own as it went up and down, side to side, banging the desk with a dull thud. With a serious look etched on his horse like face, he continued to pretend studying as the sound of bamboo rushing through air whacked yet another student's behind in the darkness of the wardrobe.
Growing Pains
When we were growing up, I guess we were very naive to the world that existed beyond the safety net of our neighborhood. Within our small environment we knew what to expect from each other; we never had strong personalities that dominated our domain. For the most part, in our little section of Brooklyn in the Late Forties, we were on an even keel with our peers. So it was seldom when the unexpected ever occurred.
What happened when for the first time they invaded us from some group outside our neighborhood was traumatic. They seemed wiser, worldlier, tougher and grittier. We, on the other hand, were still innocent and could never believe that some stranger would wish to harm us or take away something that belonged to us. However, as in all civilizations throughout time, no matter how primitive or sophisticated, it's inevitable that innocence will eventually be lost.
There were two of us and there were two of them. An even match? Only on paper as a mathematical equation would it have been equal. There, under the street lamp of our own block in Brooklyn, under the safety of the houses that had familiar people we knew, one would favor our two as having the odds on our side. Nevertheless, we all learn that things that may look favorable or things that by figuring with pencil and paper show to be on your side, not always are. There are factors, such as the element of surprise that leap out from statistics and completely upset all logic. At first we weren't scared. They approached us, sized us up and stopped us in our tracks. Determining their age was difficult since they acted a lot older than us. We liked to laugh, tease and rank each other out. They seemed too serious and were more like adults than kids our age. For one thing they were neat in appearance. Both had black glossy shoes that came to a fine point at the toe. Their gabardine pants were draped at the knee sloping down to a tight peg at the ankles. They wore colors that were bright and got our attention. Both of them had jackets without lapels. They seemed to block and dominate the sidewalk we shared leaving us shocked and unable to pass them by without facing an undesired confrontation. All we could do is look at each other in amazement since this definitely was a new and uncomfortable experience.
That was the first time in my life that my mouth had completely dried up from fear. Both of us had lost the ability to speak. I noticed one of them had a long gold chain that nearly reached the curb. We couldn't have been more shocked had Martians landed to greet us. It was an amazing feeling of loneliness and emptiness that had prevailed for me. It seemed there wasn't a living soul in the whole neighborhood around at the time. I could sense eeriness and knew that both of us were feeling fear. My first impulse was to run home and lock the door behind me. They couldn't know the neighborhood as well as me, but I was thinking of my friend, Jerry. Suppose he stayed? Would he then suffer the consequences of my running? So out of friendship I stayed along with Jerry to face these strangers from another neighborhood.
"Do you walk lo-chain dude?" The one closest to the curb spoke to both of us. He could have been speaking a foreign language, for I had no idea what he was asking, nor did Jerry. "You gait lo-chain, chubbies?" Apparently, whatever he said was funny, both laughed at our expense. Although I didn't understand I faked a laugh, Jerry picked up on the laugh as well. "Whad ar yu fuckin' comedians my darlings?" Again we laughed, but our timing was all wrong since this last remark left them stone serious. "Hey Ace we in a comedy village." They adjusted their hi-rise pants. " Let's break us some chubby face." The second one spoke in a voice that seemed filtered in gravel. As previously explained, we laughed a lot and were silly kids. Well, the sound of the second ones voice hit us both directly in our funny bones. In desperation we bit our lips trying not to let a laugh escape. They just stood there driving their right fist into the palm of their left hand. "You chubbies got a clique?" The first one came toward me, directing the question at my forehead. His face came within inches of my own. My heart began beating faster. I could smell what seemed like peppers and bananas on his breath. "No sir, we don't have a clique," I mumbled. "What's a clique?" Jerry retorted. "We wastin' our time. Let's go shoot some Chicago, cuz." "Dey ain't shit," gargled gravel throat. "The first one was still inches from my face. "Hold time ace we gotta collect insurance money." "I want to shoot Chicago. We wastin' our fucking time with these chubbies." I prayed that the first one would listen to gravel throat. He remained, unblinkingly, inches from my face, paying no attention to gravel throat, "These chubbies are darlings and needs protection. Us bad boppers can provide this service for them."
"Lets go hustle Chicago." "Later Ace. How much money you got girl skin?" The question was directed to me. I wanted to flinch from the strong pepper smell. I didn't care for peppers at all in those days. It took many years for me to acquire a taste for them. I think it was mainly due to the combination of sausage and peppers and the aroma they created together down in Little Italy some years later that caused me to change. Now as far as the money situation went, in 1949 if you were a kid in Brooklyn and had twenty-five cents in your pocket you were well off. Well, as luck would have it, I had cleared the kitchen of all deposit bottles earlier that day to net myself the grand sum of forty-five cents. Now in a matter of minutes I was about to lose it all to a couple of young thugs from another neighborhood. I would lose it without putting up a Fight. All my dreams for that money would go up in smoke. The double feature at the Colonial theater, the candy bars and sodas, the brand new Spaulding to play stoop ball - all gone.
"Hand over your money or you you're gonna be without protection chubby tits." "You betta do it fast before I rub your faces with my fist." Gravel was kind enough to show his rings that had half inch spikes protruding from his knuckles. In a matter of seconds I handed over my forty-five cents and Jerry added an additional thirty cents to the insurance policy. In less than ten minutes they earned themselves seventy-five cents at our expense. Of course, we now had the benefit of their protection to ward off any other intruders with ideas of extorting money from us. Yet deep inside I felt that their protection was as contrived as wrestling at the Broadway Arena. Unless we would learn to defend ourselves, it would be open season for any thug to come in and help themselves to whatever we had.
After we handed over our money, they left us immediately, laughing all the way to the corner, disappearing from our neighborhood. Jerry and I stood almost motionless refusing to believe what happened. Financially, they wiped us out with one blow. We were ashamed of ourselves for letting it happen, so neither of us spoke. What a shock! The familiarity of our street would never be the same. It would no longer be the safe haven we'd come to take for granted. From now on we'd have to learn the meaning of caution.
Colonial Sam
We called him Colonial Sam because he was a part-time usher at our neighborhood theater. The Colonial. Later on, we also pinned him with the nickname: Chicken-in-the-pot, for what reason I never knew.
Colonial Sam was shell shocked. He had fought in Germany during the Second World War and, as rumors had it, was involved with a good deal of hand-to-hand combat on more than one occasion. They said that Colonial Sam had lain in a a tight foxhole for twenty four hours, with his dead buddy by his side while the Germans prowled about above him, looking to finish off anyone or anything that moved. There was even talk about Sam being captured and tortured by the Germans, saying that they had stuck pins in the head of his penis to try and force information from him. But Sam had never divulged any intelligence to the enemy, as he withstood all of their cruel tortures. When discharged from the Army, he was awarded the Purple Heart by General Eisenhower himself. They said that while on the troop ship coming home from the war, Sam had flung the Purple Heart overboard and had never spoken to another person ever again.
When Colonial Sam walked up our street he did so in a strange fashion. It seemed almost impossible that he could ever get to wherever he was going. Sam would take three steps forward and than two backward. He would continue this with two forward and three backward. It could take him almost an hour just to get to the street corner! Whenever he reached the curb to cross the street his foot would go down ever so cautiously, then quickly he would retreat it. This was the walking pattern of Colonial Sam.
If Colonial Sam passed us by when we weren't doing anything special he would become completely oblivious to what would then follow in his wake. We would all fall in step behind Sam's intricate walking patterns. Old Mrs. Huber would have a fit and become enraged at us from across the street, ordering us to stop our nonsense at once or she'd have the police after us. We'd just continue: two steps back, three forward, all the way up to the street corner. Most of the older people along the way would give us scornful looks and shake their fingers at our bad and crude behavior. Finally, when Sam would reach the curb at the corner and was about to step off, one of us would whistle an incendiary sound for about five seconds before the inevitable blast sound sending Sam scampering off in a delirious run all the way down the block. We thought that was great fun. By doing this, Colonial Sam would turn one of our boring adolescent days into a fun-filled one. Just to see him run down the street in his broken fashion was well worth the effort of the whole prank.
But, as it is when growing up, all good things soon come to an eventual end. After a long period of time passed without having seen Colonial Sam at his usual usher's post at the Colonial Theater, one of us finally asked the theater manager for his where abouts. It seemed that they had taken Sam to a hospital for the insane, the manager informed us. Sam's mother could no longer keep him under control as his behavior had gotten worse and was beyond the control of this frail and broken woman. One day when coming home from grocery shopping, she found Sam on the floor, the furniture all smashed in the living room, the mattress ripped open and Sam lying in a mass of feathers babbling away incoherently about the hurt that was destroying his heart.
As time passed on without Colonial Sam, the best we could do for entertainment was for one of us to imitate his familiar gait,three steps backward and two forward routine. But that didn't last too long. It soon became boring and would hardly muster anyone's attention or get a laugh. Somehow we'd survive; something else was bound to soon catch our attention as the memory of Colonial Sam faded like the late afternoon sun sinking down somewhere behind the old, brown Colonial Theater casting all other things into the shadows of darkness.
Chocolate for Strawberry
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Kids are always doing strange things, and we weren't different. I can remember walking along the curb pretending to be a train, going as far as having stations at designated stops. There was another kid who'd put his pajamas on the moment he arrived from school. If he was to come out to the street to play, it would be in pajamas. |
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The strangest thing I remember was what Mike used to do. Every night in the winter, we would spend some time at the local candy store reviewing our lives and making plans for the future. When it came time for us to disperse, Mike would go through his usual routine. They sold ice cream in bulk containers at the candy stores. The proprietor would scoop out the ice cream into pint, quart or half gallon cartons. For my taste, it was better than the prepackaged variety we buy today. You could mix the flavors as you wished. Well, Mike would always order chocolate and strawberry specifically requesting that the chocolate be placed at the bottom of the container. This practice went on for months before someone asked why the chocolate was placed on the bottom. "That's easy," was Mike's reply. "I love chocolate so much and hate strawberry as much, that the chocolate tastes that much better after I've had to struggle through that awful tasting strawberry." |
The Jazz Drummer
There was a time when Jerry's cousin, a repudiated runner for the Mafia, came to visit with him. He was a lot older than us and a lot tougher. He knew that Jerry and I both liked jazz, so he brought his drums with him for us to hear how good he was. Actually, he was terrible. Doing nothing more than banging away rattling Jerry's windows, he had absolutely no sense of rhythm. Of course, we never told him, out of fear for our lives. His cousin was also a record collector. He always boasted about possessing some scarce and very rare Louis Armstrong Seventy Eights. He told us this while Jerry and I were in the back seat of his car. He told us to be careful some of those recordings were on the back seat with us. As he said this, I could feel the separation of wax from beneath my buttocks. I then nudged Jerry silently pointing to the broken records. "Those records are my life. They're more than my life: Those records are my blood, the air that I breathe; I cherish those records." Jerry's bottom lip began to bleed because of his teeth digging into the flesh to hold back a sudden gush of laughter.
The Day My Grandmother Died
It was when I was in Miss Langen's class in the second grade of Our Lady of Lourdes school when my grandmother died. Prior to school, with my Mother going to work, I spent most of the day with her. She was a very warm and sanguine person who always seemed to have flour stuck to her fingers. She'd cook everything we ate from scratch and by hand. Rolling pin in hand, I still visualize her in the kitchen Sunday mornings, crafting out the delicious macaroni we'd have for early supper. Sunday dinners were special and she'd cook for a large family surrounding the huge table that dominated the entire dining room. We ate big then. Sunday meals were three-hour affairs that usually had at least eight full courses.
Coming home from school on the day she'd died started out ordinary. It wasn't until I turned the corner of Chauncey Street and was suddenly greeted by Mrs. DeRose that things began to change. Mrs. DeRose told me I was to spend the next couple of days at her house. Although I was good friends with her son Brother, I had no desire to spend the next two nights living inside their house. I didn't understand why Mrs.DeRose was telling me this. Why hadn't my mother or father confronted me and what was the reason? These thoughts raced through my young mind.
That evening, while in bed in the spare room of the DeRose house, my curiosity for having to sleep in this strange room distressed me. Going to their rear window, I strained trying to see what I could of my house; it was only a few doors away. For the hour, it was brightly lit with people milling and talking out front. This was extraordinary and out of place, so I realized I had to leave to see for myself what was going on.
Tip toeing to the front door, I quietly opened it and went out to the sidewalk to view the assemblage in front of my house. People, some I'd not recognized, were milling in small groups. It was upon seeing the bouquet of flowers pinned to the front door that I realized something awful happened. Remembering last summer, flowers in front of Ronnie's house, learning someone had died on the first floor immediately terrified me. Fear raced through my young body. I felt horror realizing the worst must have happened.
Without thinking, I bolted for the front door to the surprise of those standing around. I briefly recognized aunts, uncles and cousins. Flowers were attached to the bannister leading to the second floor, giving the brief feeling of peacefulness. The scent reminded me of my Grandmother's garden in early Spring. As I approached the second landing, I heard women sobbing and the incoherent chatter of hushed and somber conversation. Finally, I saw the dark, shiny box, with my grandmother peacefully sleeping inside. My thoughts were, was she asleep or had she died?
When my mother finally noticed me, I thought I'd be scolded for leaving the DeRose house without permission. Instead, she consoled me, telling me Grandma had gone to be with God. The sound of my mother's voice seemed calming to me. It would be later into the night I'd realize my grandmother would no longer be there with me. Pain and sorrow would touch me for the first time in my life. The world would no longer be the same again. I'd have to learn to adjust to the fact that she'd no longer be with me.
I was allowed to sleep in my own bed that night. Below me, on the second floor my grandmother was peacefully resting. With my uncle sitting up all night talking to late visitors and drinking endless cups of coffee, I quickly felt secure again finally falling asleep.
Famous Freddie Brooks
Down the block, on the other side of the street from where we lived, there were a couple of houses different from the rest. In appearance, they had big stoops leading up to a two-story building. The brickwork was lighter in color from the rest of the block and gave off a warmer feeling. The front windows were rounded,turret types,usually found in Norman style architecture. Living in one of the houses was an amazing old man. With a parrot-like nose, a diamond stickpin on his tie, walking with a cane, he wanted to be called Famous Freddie Brooks. When he sat outside his house, taking fresh air, it was the fun place to be.
Famous Freddie Brooks told us that wasn't his real name. When he pitched for the Giants many years ago, he went by the name Rube Marquard. Only because of his "bum leg," he used to say, his baseball career came to a quick end. He loved to tell us stories about his fabulous life and we enjoyed hearing them all. He lived with a woman named, Ella Callahan. It was never clear to us why they had different last names. Obviously, they weren't married. On Chauncey Street, all men and women that lived together were married to each other. Ella was big and fat and had false teeth. When out of her mouth, her face would get rubbery and shrink dramatically like a shrivled ballon. She often told Famous Freddie to shut up and stop lying to the kids. For that reason, we really didn't like her. We preferred it when she wasn't around to interrupt one of Famous Freddie's stories.
Across the street from Famous Freddie, in one of the better houses on the block, lived Doctor Balderson. He no longer practiced medicine and had become a chronic alcoholic. The stories about him said he once failed during an operation on a patient, causing the patient to die. From that day on he sank into a depression, drank and hadn't seen another patient since. His shingle still stood in front of the house. It was a shiny gold sign that read "Doctor Balderson, Family physician."
Famous Freddie Brooks didn't like Dr. Balderson. He said he was crazy. Whenever Dr. Balderson left the house, Famous Freddie would bolt for his front door. The few times when he couldn't make it in time, Doctor Balderson would come across the street and deliver a tirade of incoherent insults. Till this day the only verbiage I could understand was something like: "Shit, comes out of your asshole."
Famous Freddie was the first in the neighborhood to own a television set. He'd invite all the guys up Friday nights to watch the "Gillette Cavalcade of Sports." It featured prize fights from Madison Square Garden and the Saint Nicholas Arena in New York City. We would sit in his living room, much to Ella's dismay, and root for our favorite fighter while Freddie gave us soda and potato chips. He loved the fights and liked being around us kids. We'd really crowd ourselves into his living room with myself, Brother DeRose, Artie, Cosmo, Jimmy, Phil Nolan, Ducky, whom Ella would keep an eye on, and many more. When Milton Berle had the first one hour comedy show, the streets would be empty of kids Tuesday nights at eight p.m. We’d watch Uncle Miltie at Famous Freddie's. When Milton Berle premiered, Famous Freddie decided to buy a TV magnifier. It was a glass that went over the screen to magnify the set. It was fine if you sat in the center of the room. However, those sitting on the sides would have to contend with severe distortion. So, to insure a good seat, it was always wise to be at his house before they sang the Texaco jingle at the beginning of the show.
One day when I'd arrived before the others, Famous Freddie misplaced his eyeglasses and Ella was in the bathroom. Since it was difficult for him getting up and down because of his "bum leg," he asked me to get them for him. They were in the top drawer of his dressing table in the bedroom. While looking for them, I stumbled on a deck of cards that were out of the box and scattered in the drawer. I'd never seen playing cards like them before. They were of naked men and woman in unusual positions. The women had mounds of black hair between their legs and under their arms. It fascinated me and I forgot all about bringing Famous Freddie his glasses. I guess I didn't even hear him calling me. Finally, getting up to see what the delay was, he took the cards from me and nervously said they belonged to Ella. He said they weren't for me to look at. It didn't matter.The images would be ingrained in my mind for some time to come.
One winter day with much snow and ice on the ground, he asked me to run an errand for him to pick up some groceries at the Deli. I'd never refuse doing a favor for Famous Freddie and jumped when the opportunity presented itself. After picking up the things he wanted, the snow had turned to a watery slush. It was a miserable day but, at my young age, I could maneuver in any kind of weather. When Famous Freddie came to the door to receive the groceries there was suddenly a commotion at Doctor Balderson's house. His wife was screaming at him. She had begun hiding his shoes to avoid him going to the liquor store. This was Mrs. Balderson's way to get him to stop drinking. In spite of it, Famous Freddie and I couldn't believe what we saw. Doctor Balderson was leaving the house in his bare feet! Looking back at his screaming wife, he continued telling her to, "go to hell!" Famous Freddie quickly dragged me inside his house for safety, trying not to get the Doctor's attention. Through the misty glass pane in the vestibule, I could see Doctor Balderson walking in the cold, slushy mess, falling at times. His wife continued screaming at him at the top of her lungs. Soon, he disappeared around the corner in the direction of the liquor store.
It wasn't too long after, Doctor Balderson died of pneumonia. Not long after his death, we hadn't seen Famous Freddie again. Although Ella still lived in the same house we never bothered asking about Freddie's whereabouts. There were many speculations and rumors about him that flowed through the neighborhood. Some people said he was sent to a hospital because his leg worsened. Others said that Ella, his common-law wife, threw him out. Another rumor, one which I refused to believe, was that he too died. He was too pleasant a man to have to die. Nevertheless, as each day passed, he'd fade from our memories like a forgotten film. Most of us began owning our own televisions. More programs came on the air to continually keep us longer in our homes, completely relaxed and entertained by the images glowing on the cathode-ray tube.
We had a doctor living on our block named Calabro. He had two sons, Frank and John. Frank, the youngest, was nicknamed Ducky. The reason for this, as his father claimed, when swimming, Ducky hated to leave the water and so they nicknamed him Ducky.
Ducky, by our standards then, was rich. Many times, while we hung around the candy store, his father would often stop by asking if he needed money. Ducky would always say yes. His father would usually peel away five or ten dollars from an enormous wad of bills rolled in a ball, held together by a rubber band. The rest of us stood by with our agape mouths, our jealous eyes and our empty pockets.
Ducky was spoiled. I mean, he would pull practical jokes on anyone and get away with it. If any of us had the misfortune of being with him while he pulled off one of his pranks, chances were we'd be blamed. John DeRose lived next door to Ducky. Socially speaking, they lived many miles apart. John - or "Brother" - as we called him was timid, shy and naive. His parents were poor working class, his father a struggling butcher. The DeRose house was the last of a three family type brownstone about three quarters of the way down the block. The house that followed the De Rose house, beginning with the Calabros, were more contemporary and elegant looking with softer colored bricks and marbled balconies extending from the master bedroom. Although we didn't realize it, a definite class structure existed in our small neighborhood.
During that time the most feared and hated name anyone would dare utter, was the name Adolph Hitler. We knew he was bad because he was always shown to clearly be our enemy. He was ugly with a weird mustache and hair falling unto his brow when he extended his right arm in a salute to himself. We would often do imitations of him to get a few laughs. I used to do a very good goose step. Anyway, for some unknown reason, Brother De Rose was deathly afraid of Hitler. His mother would say that Brother would have terrible nightmares of him. Perhaps it was the frightening newsreels that made this impression on young Brother.
So, when Ducky picked up on Brother's fear, he began to plan what would become his pièce de résistance of practical jokes. In the basement of Ducky's house was an old shortwave radio setup that his older brother John used to tinker with. Ducky was able to set up a microphone to the set from another room and speak into it, creating the impression that the voice was coming from an actual broadcast. For authenticity, Ducky was able to leave in the static. After several testings with Ducky's friends he was ready to spring his trick on the hapless lad, Brother.
After inviting all of us down to his basement to listen to the marvels of his shortwave set he prompted us to what was in store for Brother. As we stood around the radio listening to the squawking voices coming from a distant land, Ducky excused himself and went into another room. After a minute or two the voice over the shortwave became louder and more audible. The voice, with its thick German accent, was addressing itself to none other than Brother De Rose.
"Brother DeRose, you are a swinehund and I never liked you," the voice with an exaggerated German accent said. With this,Brother turned pale and nearly collapsed. "I vill come to Amerika and I vill bring you to der Fatherland where I vill teach you to march in my army." Brother suddenly became violent with fear. He was trapped in Ducky's basement not knowing where to turn. I've never seen anyone so afraid. I wanted to tell him it was only one of Ducky's tricks, not to worry. The words would not form. I stood by with the rest as Ducky continued in his relentless way. "You, Brother DeRose, vill serve me or I vill kill you! Heil HItler." At last, Brother was reduced to tears and hearing the commotion upstairs was finally saved by Ducky's perplexed mother. "What are you hoodlums doing to this poor boy?" she asked. "Where is my Ducky?" She wanted to know. "I tried to stop them mother, but I'm just one against the many." Ducky appearing from the other room looked as innocent as a Catholic alter boy. "I know my sweetheart. Now maybe you'll see why mother always asks you not to associate yourself with these bad boys from up the block."
Humiliated and unable to stand up for our innocence, we sheepishly filed out of the basement of Doctor Calabro's house. Brother, left behind consoled with ice cream from Mrs. Calabro and Ducky, continued weeping. Soon after we'd again be joined by Ducky as he would flaunt his reward of twenty dollars from his mother for being such a good and deserving angel.
Jerry and His Big Mouth
It seemed every time I found myself in trouble, Jerry wasn't far behind. Not that he was a trouble maker or a tough guy, he only had a big mouth. On the contrary, Jerry, like me, was one for ducking a fight or fleeing the scene if there was a dilemma. It was just his mouth that usually got us into a jam. Being influenced by silver screen tough guys of the era had an adverse affect so strong on Jerry. It became frightening to be in his company whenever confronted by strangers outside our neighborhood. Jerry could run on in outrageous exaggeration about his leadership in prestigious gangs with terrible reputations. Jerry could dazzle them with factual accounts about gang wars so brutal, even the police shied away for fear of their lives. If Jerry saw they were swallowing his story this would encourage him to lay it on even thicker. I could only stand by wishing that he'd stop while ahead. Still, on he'd go, driven by the motor of his imagination, building up a buffer so strong that no one in their right mind would challenge him. Finally, on one warm day in July, Nineteen Fifty, he almost went too far.
It had started innocently enough. Jerry had a cousin who lived on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. She, like Jerry, was part of a musical family. Jerry, taught by his father, was learning to play jazz trumpet in the style of Henry (Red) Allen, while his cousin Marie, sang operas and had a job in the Metropolitan Opera chorus. One hot July Saturday, Jerry asked me if I'd like to take the subway to the city to go visit his cousin Marie. Here, I became the victim of Jerry's wild imagination again. He told me that his cousin, four years older than he, was on her own in an apartment not far from Greenwich Village. The apartment was always frequented by a whole bunch of loose, free thinking, girls. Now, although I knew Jerry was bullshitting me, I let my imagination win out over logic. At sixteen years old in 1950, the thought of being alone in an apartment full of Eighteen and nineteen-year-old girls, loose and free, down in the village, would raise my blood pressure by twenty points, among other things. So, I said yes I would escort him to the exotic environs of the Lower East Side, hoping deep within myself that today my dry wildest fantasies would become wet with reality. I soaked in a half-hour bath and later doused myself with my father's English Leather, praying this time Jerry was telling the truth. Maybe now we'd be delivered from the restive boredom of adolescence. Maybe now I would find that perfect girl that would understand and love all the complexities of my life. She'd just want me, sweeping away all of my pressures and problems under the satin sheets beneath us.
After the long subway ride from Brooklyn, we arrived in Lower Manhattan late that afternoon. It was the first time in my life that I'd been in this part of the city. It was as foreign as Newark New Jersey or Los Angeles California. The houses looked darker and seemed tightly pressed together. The streets were spilling over with people seeking air from their stifled apartments. It seemed that some of them were staring at us forcing us to feel alienated. When we arrived at his cousin's house, I quickly became nervous with the thought of all those girls hanging around. I hoped I'd say the slick right things men said to girls back then. The last thing I wanted to be was too cool to turn them off. It all turned out my worries were in vain.
Not only did Jerry's cousin still live with her parents, on this hot and sticky Saturday we found her wailing in the middle of an opera lesson. At sixteen, given all the musical forms, I cared least for the opera. Now, being duped by Jerry's lie and having to sit through this tedious and long vocal exercise session, I was ready to murder him for having used me. As it turned out, the real reason Jerry went to see his cousin was to deliver an errand from his mother. He only asked me along for company. But wait, the real outrage was yet to come.
When we left his cousin's apartment, I cursed him all the way down the four flights of stairs. It didn't faze him one bit. When we reached the hallway leading to the street, five of the meanest, nastiest looking hoods I'd ever seen in my life suddenly confronted us. Abruptly the venom I felt for Jerry drained itself from my body and was replaced by a shaking fear in the pit of my stomach. But wait, Jerry was going through his tough guy routine! "Good God!" l thought I'd never see the sunlight on the street again.
"Hey, my man, where you from?" One of them addressed Jerry.
"We're from bad-assed Brooklyn."
Why the hell did he have to include me in this insanity?
"It takes a lot of balls to come on a strange turf without the support of your boys."
"Yeah, well my boys are too itchy, they wanna bust skulls and kick ass and shit like that."
There was no visible means of my making an escape. This suicide mission that Jerry was creating for us hemmed me in. The tenser the situation became the cockier Jerry was.
"How come your boy don't talk much?" Oh shit, he was finally referring to me.
"He does all his talking with his hands."
I suddenly had ten of the meanest looking eyes studying and checking me over. If they looked hard enough, they would see I was shaking like a leaf. Unfazed, Jerry continued to talk outrageously.
"What happens if we decide to kick you and your buddy's ass right now in this hallway?"
Jerry thought for a moment. He was still cool and calm in the ninety degree heat and humidity and hadn't even raised a sweat.
"Then we'd have a gang war to deal with. Our boys would have to cross the river to bust some New York City heads. Your boys would have to come over to Brooklyn to try and find us on some complicated and unfamiliar turf."
I had six dollars in my pocket and wondered if that would be enough to buy my freedom from this terrible mess Jerry was getting us into. Finally, one of them, who might have been the leader, spoke in a calm tone.
"You talk good sense and what's more I admire your bravery. It takes a lot of balls for you two dudes to come into a strange neighborhood with nothing more than your nerve for weapons. I'm gonna let you two go. Let me tell you, I don't wanna see you around here anymore."
"Rest assured," Jerry measured each word with his finger, "if you see us around here again it would have to be under the conditions of a full scale gang war.
"Now the two of youse get the fuck out of my sight."
We left, and until this day forty-four years after that frightening afternoon, I have never ventured within ten blocks of that neighborhood on foot alone.
All the way home on the subway ride back to Brooklyn, I didn't say a word to Jerry. In fact, it was weeks before he even called me. We never talked about that Lower East side incident again. We just continued as before living through those awful unendurable days of adolescence, hoping tomorrow would fulfill the dreams that captured our young restless nights and things would begin to make sense of the meaning of life.
Johnny on the Pony
They called one of the earliest group games we learned to play: "Johnny- on-the-pony." How the title ever came about is beyond my comprehension. A group of cockney youths probably invented it somewhere on the East Side of London during the late Nineteenth century. It was a rough game, especially for the one appointed, the pony. This was usually the stockiest member in the group. He'd be expected to support up to ten leaping cowboys on his back. If he could pull off this stunt, he'd probably be the winner, depending on how better the opposing side did. It would be interesting doing research on former ponies to see how many later in life went on to suffer severe back problems.
Now, the idea of the game was to have two teams on opposite sides of the street. One man would support the head of a pony by leaning against the wall, with the pony bent over his head into the stomach of the support. This method has probably prevented many potential concussions. When the support was satisfied that all was secure he would then signal the runners on the other side of the street to begin the charge. The runners were usually the lighter members of the group. One by one they'd finally charge, piling up upon the pony until he could no longer support any further runners.
Cosmo was a good runner. He was a lightweight with glorious speed and could make room where it seemed impossible. This was why he'd be the last chosen to run. If a team wanted to squeeze another body, someone like Cosmo was who you'd send. Cosmo had one small problem; he was near sighted and would often run without his glasses. On this one event, which had gotten off to a late start, darkness had settled in without notice. Fat Artie, the pony, was doing his usual remarkable job. He had eight wobbling runners on his back desperately trying to stay on board by balancing themselves any way they could. Cosmo's brother Jim was the next scheduled runner. He dug himself in, studied the situation and put into his mind where he was going to land on Artie. Off he went, sprinting like a gazelle, leaping into the air at his self-appointed spot. Down he came, crashing on hapless Artie, sending the unbalanced bodies flying every which way unto the hard surface of the sidewalk.
That was it. The game was over. The team began to disband, complimenting each other for a valiant effort. However, they'd forgotten Cosmo across the street, glasses off, scraping his right foot like El Toro ready to charge to a pony no longer there. Before anyone finally realized about Cosmo, it was too late. There he was frozen in midair about ten feet away from a vacant brick wall unable to reverse gears. He was only a fraction of a second away from eminent disaster. His teeth highlighting the grimace expressed on his face, the palms of his hands spread out as if to soften the inevitable blow, we stood, holding our breath awaiting that moment when flesh would meet brick. I've often wondered what thoughts raced through Cosmo's head during that brief fraction of a second. Did he feel pain before finally making contact? Would this be his last game of Johnny-on-the-pony? Losing Cosmo would be a sad cost to the game. Nevertheless, as in any other sport, careers must end sometime. I can still picture Cosmo, frozen in mid air, just ten feet from the wall. I think we all knew it was all over for him and Johnny-on-the-pony. As any other hero, in the future, he'd sit by the fireside with his grandchildren recalling to them the times when he became the tenth man on Fat Artie's strong and magnificent back.
Mildred
There comes a time in every young man's life when he's struck by love. In my case it was almost a group thing as all of us were hit at the same time. Her name was Mildred and she was a few years older than us. We thought her perfect in every possible way. No matter what it was we were doing, when she walked past us, everything came to a dead halt. In our minds she was perfection, a gift from the gods. When she walked, she seemed to ethereally float, her feet never touching the ground. Her smile was radiant. She could brighten the cloudiest of days. Her skin was clear and pure that to touch it would be worth dying for. None of us could contain ourselves when she passed. Our mouths would dry and we'd do clumsy things like tripping over our own feet. No one would speak out of fear that our adolescent voices would break or crack. We would only freeze in place captured by Mildred's radiance. If her eyes were to ever meet any one of ours, it would mean not eating anything for the rest of the day.
Once, during a hot stickball game, my life nearly ended. We played our games out in the street, ducking traffic and pedestrians. When a game was important to us, we played hard to win. You'd of thought we were getting paid for our efforts. I usually played the infield but on this day I went to the outfield because our regular outfielder didn't show up. I had much trouble judging towering fly balls and would sometimes circle needlessly for a catch that would be simpler for the regular outfielder. Artie, who was short and stocky, hit a high fly that seemed to get lost up in the clouds. My first instinct was to run in for it. I ran back I moved to the left; I moved to the right, my eyes never leaving the pink Spaulding. It seemed as if the wind played with the ball. However, I was determined to catch that ball as it constituted an important out and a sure victory for our side. Finally, I realized, as the ball began its descent, I had to go back and quickly; the ball was over my head. I'd misjudged it. Head down, back I went with a new burst of speed, my left arm up in the air ready to spear the ball before it touched the ground. It was then I collided. Someone in my path went down in a heap with me. I fell on top of this hapless victim, while the ball bounced uncaught and dribbled away far enough for all runners to score. When I turned to see who it was I knocked over, I nearly died. My blood drained into my head with a sudden surge. It was Mildred! I had fallen on top of her and humiliated her. Her dress was ripped and was up over her waist revealing her beautiful underwear. I was fascinated, embarrassed and sick all at once. Soon after that both teams made a circle around us and just gawked at the mess I'd created.
She lifted herself without any of us offering any help. Trying to smooth out her appearance as best she could, she hobbled away on only one heel. The other had dislodged itself during the free fall. After taking three steps, she turned and gave me a look that had sent shock waves throughout my young body. I felt, from that moment on I would never be worthy to look upon her loveliness again. In the future, when she'd walk past, I would have to hide and never show my clumsy self to her.
How wrong I was. It wasn't long after that infamous incident when I turned a corner on my way to the store and almost ran into her again! She looked at me startled, then smiled warmly, saying, "Hi." I couldn't believe my ears! She said hello and even smiled! I was elated and saved. The world was a great place again. After all, I later reasoned, she was not an ordinary woman, she was a gift from the angels. I would be able to, again, set my eyes upon this vision of eternal beauty without having to shy away ever again. I was grown up and becoming a man at last.
Chauncey Street
Now, a few words about the street I grew up on. Closing my eyes to recall all I can about my street, I remember…
There were many big old trees lined up and down the street. On a late Spring day, the wind making gentle sounds through the leaves, was a sound of peacefulness. When I was very young, it seemed as if our houses were nestled in a forest. As time passed, the trees died of a disease, slowly one by one.
All the faces, at first, were familiar ones. In later years the faces of our neighbors were to become different. Houses had hallways that were identifiable by their own unique smell. Houses with people of German descent had smells of polish on the wooden steps or cabbage emanating from the kitchen. Italian houses had the aroma of tomatoes, garlic and sausages cooking. Occasionally, houses that were unkempt and musky had odors I'd like not to recall. Endless plants forested some houses. To walk through was to walk through a jungle. There were freshly painted houses with clear windows bringing through an explosion of sunshine into their parlors, while other houses shunned the daylight entirely with dark and heavy drapes to block the daylight hours. These were neighbors wanting to be left alone. I recollect houses with the scent of camphor. Enclosing all clothing in moth balls then wasn't uncommon. Still, there were other houses with the antiseptic odor of vicks or mustard plasters for someone getting over an illness. On the outside, all our houses looked alike. It was on the inside, with its own qualities and warmth, that made each individual.
Our block was our own private island. To venture from it without reason was rare. In those pre television days, penetration from the outside was not a deep one, since we weren't seeing instant images happening from all over the world. Once a week, a fifteen minute newsreel at the Colonial Theater was all we had to bring us up to date. It seemed that whatever happened beyond the limits of our block had no particular effect on our daily lives. That's how it seemed for someone who was young and growing up on Chauncey Street.
On our street we had our friends. We had access to their houses by the pressing of a button in their hallways. We'd enter their lives swept by the fragrances of the foyer. An older sister might just be getting up from bed. We'd see her in her pink robe, her eyes adjusting to the glare of the day. Maybe we would see a mother with the kitchen window open putting out a wash, rubbed from an actual washboard, on a clothesline sagging in its middle like a physically neglected middle-aged man. Our eyes would scan each room we were permitted access to. Old photos would always be revealing grandfathers and uncles with serious looks ingrained on their faces. The dining room table would have a hand crocheted table cloth, while the huge console radio dominated the head of the room like a stocky dictator who demanded everyone's attention - and always got it. The radio and newspaper were the only media for news and entertainment. Small backyards were each its own miniature park, a place where one went to escape the uneasiness of the street. Here one could garden, take the sun, seek solitude or think undisturbed. A fence usually separated each backyard. We understood and honored the boundaries set by the fence. While we knew the people living to the right and left of us, those living directly in front were usually unknown.
Knowing one's direction was important on the block. You would go either up the block or down the block. If you choose to go a full circle, then you'd be going around the block. Each knew his place on the block. For example, if you hung around with the guys up the block, chances were that you'd hardly ever be seen down the block, unless for good reason. Now, if you were the type that didn't hang up or down the block, or occasionally went either up or down the block, then chances were that you hung around the middle of the block. This is not to say that there were hard fast rules saying where you should be on the block. As to the location of where I was staying on the block the decision was mine to make.
On our block, the big guys, as we called them, almost dominated the upper part of the block. I was among the ones in the middle of the block. However, from time to time, I'd venture up the block to be among the big guys. When you ventured down the block, there was an overlapping from the upper part of the next block; a sort of cross-culture, if you will. The down-the-blockers were the youngest and most passive of all the groups, but the fact that they hung around with the next block's upper blockers didn't make it an unbalanced mix. It's just that not every block had the same makeup as our own. On the other side of our upper blockers, the down-the-blockers of the next block were more sophisticated than all of us. Sophisticated, in the sense that their group hung around bars, pool rooms and frequented the race track and had even been to Jersey City to see a Burlesque show.
On our block it made a difference which side of the street you lived on. For some unknown reason, all my friends, some of which I'm still in touch with today, lived on the same side of the street as me. Which is not to say that all those living on the other side of the street were rivals. It was as if the street itself dividing the two sides of the block were a great body of water separating two distinct cultures. At least that was my impression of life on my block.
Mr. Kantus, The Poem
Trying to recall the atmosphere of a time past is like the rushing waves, at once pounding with strength of the present, then breaking and spreading harmlessly against the sloping smoothness of the shore until finding its way back into time with only a few granules of memory to haunt us.
2
Finding myself as a constant wanderer on the lost streets of yesterday, I reconstruct the vision of something I once held in my hands. Like golden sand, it filters through my fingers, forgotten and imagined.
3
4
I rise in the morning, tired from a journey to the place I can't remember and I continue searching in vain for the dimming light that keeps drawing me closer with each blink. I'm exhausted from the search far from my pulsating grasp. I'm alone as the past slips from my fingers.
5
There was an old man, Mr. Kantus was his name. In 1945 he was eighty-three years old. He lived next door to us most his life. He said it was all farm country when he was a boy. His parents had cows and chickens. Ringling Brother's Summer headquarters was a mile away. He told me how he'd sneak under the circus tent to get a peek of the performers.
6
As time passed, Mr. Kantus had seen the metamorphosis of Chauncey Street from farmland to city. I wonder what his nights were like when restless moments kept him from sleep as he searched in vain for that image of the circus tent somewhere beyond the grasp of his old and trembling hands.
Fat Sal and His Big Date
Fat Sal was in a state of euphoria. Although a man of few words, it was becoming impossible to approach him lately. Fat Sal hung out with the big guys up the block. A good deal older than even the oldest of the big guys, to us he was ancient. Fat Sal was fat. He wore bright, flashy clothes and was fussy about being extra neat. His attitude toward the younger kids on the block was that we didn't exist. When we were in his company, he'd give us the Fat Sal snub. Lately, he'd been in a great mood and for good reason. Somehow, beyond the comprehension of any of us, Fat Sal had gotten a date with none other than Mildred. This fat old man was going to go out with the angel of our hearts - she who walked so delicately on the soft clouds of our dreams. This beauty with a smile that could penetrate a cloudy day and make the Sun shine through was going out with Fat Sal! How could she do this? What could she see in Him?
Whatever the reasons, it was true, Mildred was going to date Fat Sal. This became the main topic of conversation up and down the block. Jerry said they were even talking about it on the next block. Even though there was a hot pennant race going on between the Giants and Dodgers, the Fat Sal and Mildred date completely overshadowed all conversation about baseball. Of course, none of us had enough courage to approach Mildred to ask how this could happen. Instead, we tried formulating our own theories. The most popular, that she was doing it out of pity for fat people. Another theory put forth by Artie was that Fat Sal paid Mildred a good sum of money for this date. This theory did not hold any water with us, so it was quickly ruled out. The truth was we were deeply jealous of Fat Sal's good fortune.
On the afternoon of the big date Fat Sal waited nervously on Cosmo and Jimmy's front stoop. I'll never forget the way he dressed for it with colors so bright it was easy to spot him from down the block. His pants had bold white pinstripes creased to perfection, forming a perfect drape from his knees down to his cuffs barely touching the tops of his clean white shoes. His shirt was Hawaiian, it had green,blue and yellow patterns of the surf, Sun and a girl doing a hula dance in a grass skirt. Wearing it outside his pants, he probably thought it showed less belly. His hair was slicked back with a bright brilliant shine. Occasionally, he nervously twirled a gold key chain. Fat Sal was ready for his date with Mildred.
Meanwhile, unknown to Fat Sal, on the roof of Cosmo and Jimmy's house were Ducky and Cosmo. They knew in advance that Mildred was to meet Fat Sal in front of Cosmo's house. In front of Mildred, they'd formed a plan for attacking and humiliating him. At a given moment during the rendezvous, Cosmo and Ducky would unleash an array of water bombs to be aimed at Fat Sal's head. This would teach him a lesson he'd never forget. Maybe it would keep his fat self away from our neighborhood, since he lived five blocks away. After all, none of us liked him anyway. So why should he be the one to have a date with our Mildred? Cosmo and Ducky, because of their actions, thought they'd emerge from this as neighborhood heroes.
At that moment Fat Sal, unaware of his fate, was truly gleaming with joy. He was singing: "Got a date with an angel; gonna meet her at seven; I've got a date with an angel and I'm on my way to heaven."
Suddenly Mildred turned the corner; she looked beautiful. She wore a pale blue, summer dress while turning the corner, she was caught in a sudden gush of wind sweeping up from down the block. The wind's impact on her dress forced it to cling tightly, revealing the wondrous shape of her legs. We stood, across the street in complete awe.
Meanwhile, on the roof above, Cosmo and Ducky readied themselves for the attack on Fat Sal. Ducky used to sneeze a lot, he said it was because of an allergy. The sudden swift breeze that captured Mildred's dress when she rounded the corner also caught Ducky, throwing him into an uncontrollable fit of sneezing. Those of us that were around Ducky knew that these fits would last for several minutes at a time. He'd become completely helpless and could not be a part of the water attack on Fat Sal. Ducky's first sneeze landed directly on Cosmo's eyeglasses, spraying them so badly that everything Cosmo saw became blurred. This, coupled with the fact that Cosmo's eyesight was poor, made the attack on Fat Sal a difficult one .
The moment came. The victim was in place. However, one small technical problem arose. Mildred was standing too close to Fat Sal. It would have taken the marksman's aim of Ducky to get the water bomb right on target. Instead, we were at the mercy of Cosmo without eyeglasses. He released the bags of water, five bags in all. Each of them found their mark, unfortunately, the mark was Mildred in all five cases. She was drenched while Fat Sal hardly received a drop of water. Mildred became furious and blamed this on Fat Sal. He swore he knew nothing of this terrible act, waving his fist to the empty roof above. By this time, Cosmo and Ducky were safe at home acting as if nothing unusual ever happened. Mildred, her hair suddenly stringy and formless, her beautiful dress now limp from dampness, stormed away, cursing Fat Sal and all the immature punks of the neighborhood. Meanwhile, Fat Sal continued to stand motionless, with a ribboned box of chocolates under his arm, helpless and disbelieving this incident happened to him. After a long while he finally walked away, the colors of his clothing fading, as he turned the corner never to return to our neighborhood again.
Mike Tells His Most Famous Bushwick
It's true, Mike believed in ghosts. His memory for his father's macabre tales brought over from Italy was indeed uncanny. He'd gather us together on Cosmo's stoop to spin some of the scariest yarns about everything from graveyards to toothless hags. His delivery was good enough to have me go home after a story session, put my head safely under the covers with the lamp on all night for artificial protection. He'd always finish each story saying: "And that's the God's honest truth, so help me."
His most famous story was about a cousin of his driving home late one Saturday along the Interboro Parkway, in the direction of Brooklyn. There's a section on the Parkway that twists around a cemetery causing motorists to slow down to negotiate the dangerous curves. The story continues something like this:
_______________________________________________________________
While driving home one Saturday night from a dance at St. Andrews, in Kew Gardens, the strangest thing happened to me. It was a clear night and I was tired from all the dancing I'd done. My clothes were damp from sweating and the open side vent blowing in some humid, August air felt refreshing.
Approaching the curves near the cemetery, a sudden fog crept in like a sneaky intruder over the parkway. I slowed and cautiously drove through one of the bends. Before me was this beautiful woman standing alone in a bright white gown that seemed to illuminate the dense fog. Since I did poorly with the ladies at the dance, I felt this goddess in the haze must have been placed for me by the angels. I never thought it strange her standing near a cemetery. Being young and feeling virile, I believed an opportunity like this would never happen again. So I stopped on the road's shoulder watching my rear view mirror as she approached the car. She was more than beautiful; she was stunning. As she walked, her long gown swayed to the rhythm of her sensual movements. During the brief moments when her gown clung to her I could see the outlines of her body with curves that sent my blood rushing and my palms sweating. I opened the passenger side to let her in. She was so beautiful I no longer could speak. My words were stuck somewhere in my throat."Can you take me to Jamaica Avenue?" she asked.
The sound of her voice seemed to be coming from somewhere else. It was almost as if it were playing through my rear speaker. She said:
"I'm alone now. I never did cheat on him before this."
I moved my lips as if I were speaking, but no sound came. She smiled at me, as though she understood my dilemma. I nearly lost control of the car, as my left front tire rubbed and squealed in protest to the center divider.
"You need not be afraid of me. I'll never harm you."
"What were you doing out there in..." Some how my words became audible again, and I was surprised to hear the sound of my voice. She then asked me to pull the car over to the side of the parkway, again reminding me not to be afraid. My heart felt as if it were going to pop out of my shirt, it was beating so hard.
What happened next only happened in the best of dreams. She took my face in her hands and began kissing it ever so gently. I suddenly wondered if she might be an escaped lunatic; I was completely defenseless. She began to unbutton my shirt and was kissing me sweetly from my chest down to my stomach. The scent of her hair had a subtle fragrance of evergreen. I associated it with the Evergreen cemetery, where I picked her up.
The next few moments were total ecstasy. She'd completely undressed me and her lips kissed and caressed every part of my young body. I thought, suppose the cops come. How will I explain what was going on inside my car? The waves of pleasure that I experienced immediately pushed all worldly thoughts from my head, as I was completely in rapture from this strange, yet beautiful woman.
When I finally dropped her off at Jamaica Avenue, I made a meek attempt at asking for her phone number.
"You'll see me again very shortly, goodbye." "But how...?" Before I knew it, she vanished into the darkness of Jamaica Avenue. That was it! I shut the engine and tried to replay this incredible event that just happened to me. Was this real or did I fall asleep at the wheel and just fantasize the whole thing?
Hoping they'd still be there, eating their late night brisket of beef sandwich and discussing today's Brooklyn Dodger victory, I wanted to share my good fortune with the guys at the diner.
As usual, they were there, sitting in a semicircular booth in the heat of a big discussion. Before I greeted them, something caught the corner of my eye. It was her! In that same white flowing gown, the same beautiful face and sensual body, there were no mistakes about it. Believe me, ten years could pass and her lovely features would still be ingrained in my mind. Î raised my eyes to the headline glaring at me from the front page of the Daily News: BEAUTY SLAIN IN BIZARRE CEMETERY MURDER" I took the newspaper and raced back to the car before any of the guys could see. The story on page three read: "Yesterday, at Evergreen cemetery, a caretaker making a final check on a freshly dug grave discovered the body of beautiful model and actress, Yvonne Simmons, slain and thrown into it with a note pinned to her chest reading, 'You've cheated on me for the last time."
I was confused and shaken. She was real and very much alive, back there near the cemetery, just a short while ago, the evidence of which still stuck to my legs. I could never tell anyone about this; they'd have serious cause to have me committed. Please believe me it all did happen; it was real. That's the God's honest truth, so help me.
Ducky's Ultimate Trick
Ducky wasn't going to let Mike get off easy. He had big plans for our, ghost fearing, story teller. The details of Ducky's diabolical plan were elaborately worked out down to the smallest detail. We put everything into place. He scheduled three full rehearsals, two of which were dress. He'd even given Brother De Rose a major role to play in the caper, which had sent Brother reeling ecstatically with the joy of finally being accepted. All of us had a part to play in this bizarre trick on Mike.
The location for this prank was being held at the Evergreen cemetery. It was the custom for us to walk through the cemetery at dusk to prove our bravery. If Mike were in the group, you'd be sure he'd fill our heads with his scariest ghost tales. Nevertheless, Ducky, far too clever for us, on that night would finally try to break Mike of ever telling another tale again.
The set up went like this: Cosmo, Jim, Mike and I were ready to take our evening stroll through the cemetery. As we'd walk along a prearranged trail, Brother and Artie, dressed in white sheets, would pop out from behind a tombstone and rush across our path about eighty feet in front of us. Cosmo would then turn to me and say, What was that? The rest would go automatically, as we'd just wait and watch Mike's reaction to really seeing ghosts.
When the actual moment came, Cosmo and I took it upon ourselves to embellish the original dialogue with a bit of improvisation. When Brother and Artie ran across our path in their white sheets, Cosmo replied:
"What was that?" just as we previously rehearsed. I then countered with:
"My God, it looks like ghosts!"
It was on Cosmo's next line that the ad-libbing began.
"Ah, come on anyone with common sense knows that ghosts don't exist."
Meanwhile, Mike froze with fear. His eyes bulging and skin milk white, the victim of Ducky's prank was had. I continued, acting as cool as I possibly could.
"I suppose you're right Cosmo, obviously what we saw was merely a figment of our imagination."
At that moment Mike did an about face, pointed to his feet and blurted out his most famous line:
"He who speeds and runs away, lives to speed another day."
With that he took off like a fired shot and within seconds disappeared into the night. When it was finally over, the remaining three laughed our way back to the corner candy store. This was our prearranged rendezvous spot. Ducky, along with Brother and Artie were there waiting for us as planned.
"God, it went great, I wish I'd had a camera to film it," said Jim.
"You should have seen his face, you'd think he really saw a ghost."
I added.
"I'll never forget this night as long as I live," was Cosmo's contribution. Ducky looked at us with a peculiar expression on his face.
"What the hell are you talking about?" he quizzed us.
"Mike! The plan worked better than we could have imagined it would," said Cosmo.
"What plan?" Ducky surprisingly returned. "The whole thing was called off. Stupid Brother DeRose who was supposed to supply us with sheets forgot to tell his mother about it. So what happens? She goes to the store, and Brother can't come up with a single white sheet."
"It's not all my fault," Brother cried.
"Wait a minute, there were definitely ghosts out there tonight," I said in unison with Cosmo and Jim, nodding their heads in agreement.
"Well if there were, they weren't ours," said Ducky, looking at us as if we were crazy.
The question that's always plagued me through the years was whether we were all duped by Ducky Calabro, or did we really have a brush with the supernatural. That was our last evening walk in the cemetery. The only time we'd ever return would be for actual funerals.
As for Mike, he'd always feel it really happened. When we later tried explaining Ducky's scheme, he was never convinced. That whole occurrence would become a part of his ghost story repertoire. And that's the God's honest truth, so help me.
Brother Goes to Pennsylvania
Brother DeRose was a few years younger than the rest of us. My impression of him was he usually acted even younger than his age. He was the youngest in his family and spoiled by three older sisters and his mother. That the case, he'd usually catch the brunt of the practical jokes from his older peers - kids can be the cruelest individuals on Earth.
Because Brother's father spoke with an Italian accent, we once decided to accuse him of not paying taxes. I couldn't believe how seriously Brother believed our nonsense, as though our accusations were founded on facts. By being naive, he only succeeded in putting more fuel on the fire. This would drive us beyond, until the whole mess would get completely out of hand. Brother would get red with aggravation usually resulting in tears. With his voice cracking, out of love for his father, he'd condemn us for these cruel and untrue remarks. By then I'd feel disgusted with myself for having been a part of this. I enjoyed jokes on others, but could never stomach them whenever they'd go too far. My type of joke was one where all parties could come away with a good laugh. However, some of our peers chose to pursue jokes until their prey would break.
I once pulled what I thought to be a harmless joke on Brother. In my mind, I thought it cute. Once underway, it too had gotten out of control. As a result, to the best of my memory, it became the last joke I'd ever pull on Brother DeRose.
In our little neighborhood world it was rare for us to venture beyond a three or four-block limit. Brother never stepped beyond those boundaries. With malicious influence on my part, I successfully persuaded him to a little adventure walk outside the perimeter of our confines. I promised him at Chauncey street's end, some six blocks away, he'd see railroad trains almost at street level. That was exciting stuff for kids that never moved any distance from their block. In fact, I was telling the truth, there were train tracks just beyond the dead end. I'd succeeded in stirring Brother's imagination. Further, I told him we could walk the tracks if we wanted. However, this didn't go over big because of a legendary figure we created who supposedly patrolled the tracks; we called him Beanbelly. Although I never saw him, I was never sure if he existed. So I didn't push Brother too much about walking the tracks. Beanbelly was supposed to be armed with a high-powered b.b. gun to be used on kids venturing on railroad property. The only description of him that I received was that he was a mean looking man with a big beer belly - I guess that's how his name came about.
After much convincing, Brother was ready to make the big plunge into the beyond. Looking back, this was probably as adventuresome as an astronaut exploring outer space. Brother was nervous with excitement, so much so that it began to rub off on me.
As we walked past the familiarity of the blocks we knew, I could sense Brother's pulse quicken as we began to enter beyond what we knew. There was a sudden silence between us. All we did was look around and record all the unfamiliar things we saw. The styles of the houses were different and things seemed quieter. Some gardens in front of the house gave off a sweet aroma of roses and daffodils. Most of our houses consisted of concrete fronts. It was as if we'd entered an area where life wasn't the same as a few blocks away. I remember the astonishment when we passed a big Public School with a playground twice the size of ours. We hadn't known of that school's existence until that moment. How strange and fascinating this was becoming for us. It absolutely infatuated brother. Finally on the last block of Chauncey Street, some factories replaced the private homes. I remember one to be a paper manufacturing plant. The black asphalt on the street ran only one third of the way up, the remainder of the block was old lumpy cobblestones. That whole event was incredible. Finally, we saw the dead end, although there was still a little street left with one or two old houses. There was a slight incline with a fence and beyond that the train tracks. We hurried to the top of the hill and with excitement in our hearts we saw the tracks, at least eight of them. Some were for the railroad trains, while others, enclosed and unpassable, were electrified subway tracks. We stood for some time and even watched while a few trains passed.
After a while I was ready to spring my practical joke on Brother. I'd almost considered forgetting it since I too was having a great time. Yet I guess the devil would not let me back down; the temptation was hard to resist. I almost felt shame pulling this cruel joke on gullible Brother. He was on top of the world. For the first time in his life he was on his own and enjoying it to the hilt, and now I was about to spoil it all. What unknown trait is it that allows us to do things we shouldn't? So, without thinking, I let Brother have it:
"Do you know where we are?" I asked him.
"I don't think so," was his reply.
"Brother, have you ever heard of Pennsylvania?" I asked.
"I think so and do remember studying about it in school. Isn't that where coal comes from?"
It still wasn't too late. I could still gracefully back out of this wrong doing. You couldn't imagine the internal struggle I went through. I was literally tearing myself apart. Wisdom told me to leave it alone, while adolescent folly said, do it. Finally, without any further thought I blurted it out!
"Brother," I said, "we're in Pennsylvania. We've crossed the State border and are now in Pennsylvania."
I felt relief and nausea at the same time.
"What?" was his simple but pleading reply. "How can that be? What will we do? We'll never be found. God! I don't wanna be lost. Why have you done this?" During his hysterical tirade getting a word in was impossible for me. It was too late. I'd done it. Afraid he'd panic and go berserk, I started to fear for his welfare. I tried telling him it was all right and I'd have him home soon. He didn't believe nor trust me anymore, and for good reason.
When we returned, and began seeing the familiar landmarks, he started settling down. Finally, approaching his house, he spoke calmly and with confidence.
"Tell me the truth, were we really in Pennsylvania?"
I learned my lesson, vowing never to play jokes again. Nevertheless, I had pulled it off perfectly and according to plan. I hated to wipe it away clean, so I compromised and told him:
"Well, we weren't really in Pennsylvania, But I guess we must have come damn close to it."
"Wow!" he flushed with excitement and, sensing the security of the proximity of his house, replied, "that was a really good adventure. I can't believe I actually did it."
He took a deep breath and whistled his way up the stoop two steps at a time. Ironically, as it turned out, I made his day. Although young Brother's geography was a little confused and immature, he at last calmed and would probably lie down in the darkness of his bedroom to recreate his first adventure that took him far away, almost into Pennsylvania.
Beanbelly Hill, where Chauncey Street began
World War Two ended and for a while there were some happy times. Brothers, uncles, cousins and friends returned and reunited with those they'd missed for too long. it was a time of celebration. Block parties emerged with the smell of frying sausages, fried dough and hot dogs permeating the neighborhood air. Chestnuts were roasting, people were dancing, flags and banners waved over confetti and decorations, symbolizing the end of a long agony. Honor rolls were inscribed by local artisans in memory of those that didn't return. The tensions that existed for parents and wives were finally over. They'd no longer huddle around a console radio listening to late war bulletins. The war was the only way of life for a long time and gloom shadowing hope,the expression in the homes. The same lifted feeling of jubilation existed in the stores, churches and schools around the neighborhood.
Soon after the war's end, we'd never touch each other the same way again. We'd never dance together or lose our inhibitions during the delirium of happiness, as my aunt did when she performed a mock strip tease in the middle of Chauncey Street upon learning of the truce in Europe. Now, they'd slowly lock their doors and begin receiving images through a glass tube that was usually located somewhere in their living room. The pure happiness of war' s end was short lived. A new war was starting to brew, a strange war that didn't make sense. It wasn't a war being fought overseas, instead it had fomented right here in the neighborhoods.
The name of the street I lived on was Chauncey Street. It was unique in that it began and ended near a cemetery. At its eastern most point were its better and more affluent homes and neighborhoods. The homes were unattached and didn't look alike as ours did. Continuing west to its terminus on Fulton Street,the homes gradually became older, less attractive and the neighborhoods poorer.
Beanbelly Hill, where Chauncey Street began was like the country for us. Railroad trains ran on top of a hill. The streets were wider with big cobblestones and the blooming trees in summer shaded the streets and cooled the quiet air of that peaceful neighborhood. My parents always talked how they'd of loved living there; we could never afford it.
Starting from Beanbelly Hill the streets crossing Chauncey had lovely sounding names like Elm, Evergreen, Maple and Cornelia. Reaching Broadway, where the heavy iron rails of the B.M.T. elevated trains crossed, the row houses began. Each house was the same, with paper thin walls leaking sounds from the people next door. Most of the houses were cold water flats, meaning there was no installed heating system. Commonly, dangerous kerosene stoves were the only appliance that heated those drafty homes. My father would put tangerine skins on top of the stove to try and kill the fumes. It took a while before the owners started installing safer, more efficient, oil furnaces. Going west, they named the streets after famous American leaders such as, Sumpter, Marion, Bainbridge and Halsey and finally ending at its westernmost point, Fulton street. That extreme western direction was a strange world, one we hardly ventured into. They told us more children were playing in the streets all hours of the day and night. Police cars were a constant part of the movement of their lives. The people that lived in that western part of Chauncey Street were primarily black. They told us they were different and dangerous. They said they came up from the poor south in search of financial relief provided by the State of New York. This was puzzling for most young minds to comprehend.
Our parents told us to stay close to our neighborhood. If we ventured into Beanbelly Hill, we were bound for trouble. Mothers there would sneer at us through curtains. Doors would crack open and they'd call neighborhood children home from playing. Police cars would cruise and cops wanted to know why we weren't in front of our houses. We, sort of understood why we were out of place at Beanbelly Hill. Our parents told us the people there didn't want our type mingling with their children. Yet, we never had a clear explanation about why we were banned going in the other direction where the black kids were. This would later affect our young adult lives and the way we'd accept or reject prejudice.
Slowly as time passed, our block changed dramatically. It started when a family from the corner sold their house and were the first to move to Long Island. As far as I'd known, it was the first time a house was sold on our street. The family's name that sold, was Kelly. I would never forget them. They enjoyed calling their Italian neighbors wops. After they sold their house, we weren't allowed to mention their name at the dinner table. This was something terrible in the eyes of most parents. It was sold to a black family. They'd never be welcome on Chauncey Street again, and they never returned.
The liberal minded in our neighborhood tried to calm the other homeowners. They urged them to try and be patient and understanding. Nearly begging,they attempted to educate the others on the acceptance of change. They asked that good sense prevail over emotion, but it was useless. Out of fear, more houses went up for sale in record time. The new war was spreading at a rapid rate. Most families had their lives invested in their homes. Fueled by the greed of real estate block busters, they feared their future dwindling with decreased values caused by a terrified element motivating them to run away in blindness.
Looking back on that street, years later, when I returned from the Army, I begin remembering. The block appeared empty. Beanbelly Hill was replaced by a home for wrecked cars. The only cemetery still remaining, overgrown with sad looming weeds, was near Beanbelly Hill. I often wondered what happened to the other one near Fulton Street. At the time, I may have only imagined it there in my young mind.
After the Kellys sold their house, Chauncey Street had changed rapidly and dramatically. The evening cooking smells had changed - new spices and odors clashed with the older ones. For myself, I became curiously enveloped into a meshing of new cultures. White parents and grandparents lived their daily lives behind locked doors. They hoped one day to follow the steady stream of their fleeing neighbors to the beautiful promises of Long Island. Some were leaping three thousand miles, over plains, mountains and desert in quest of the enigmatic blue shores of the Pacific Ocean. It wasn't totally prejudice that suddenly had them running. It was more not being able to understand the sudden extreme changes.
Communication between the races was a flat failure. I continued listening, smelling and hearing the new sounds and tastes that began spreading around us. I remember the fruit and vegetable store that became a Gospel Church. It was my Friday night fascination. My Sunday, Catholic Church routine was always filled with boredom and predictability. I was in awe of the black spirit that sweated and swayed, rolled and clapped on Friday nights. The smell of fried chicken lingered in the air as they moved to the swinging procession.
I quickly became interested in their music. Jazz would become a strong part of my life. The drums, the improvised chanting, it puzzled me how an oppressed people could be so free in their musical expression. At Our Lady of Lourdes, the organ and choir were pale and stiff in comparison. I purchased a conga drum. It was a flirtation that had begun on my mother's pots and pans. Yellow and scratched with a faded sombrero painted on it, it had a good tone. Having an immediate feeling for it, I could always sense the rhythm somewhere in the back of my head. Most of the neighbors had a different response to the new rhythms. To them, we were entering a jungle atmosphere that was taking over their respectable block.
Saturday night became party night. Double parked, big and expensive cars had women maneuvering their round, tightly bottomed figures from them. Swishing by, they'd go down the stairs of the newly finished basements that served as after hours clubs. The women smelling of sweet flowers and pomade were the most elegant thing that ever happened to Chauncey Street. It was difficult falling asleep on those nights. There were times we'd be startled by a sudden argument or the sounds of spontaneous laughing previously unheard in the neighborhood. On occasion, I 'd see shining steel blades glistened by the dull glow of the overhead streetlight. Bodies, hunched like cats, swiped at each other with switchblades. My mother would shiver and become pale with fear. Strangely, I was excited to the point of wanting to take the conga drum to accompany the colorful scene below. Because of the tension in my house, I didn't dare try. It seemed no one was ever hurt during those Saturday night flare-ups; it was more like a spectacle. My mother would knell before the statue of the Virgin, praying for our moving far away from all this.
There were many new sounds in the neighborhood. Under neon lights from Goodman's Drug Store, four black teenagers would harmonize a cappella to some Rhythm and Blues while we stood by in fascination. Chauncey Street was changing fast. Three family houses now had six crammed into the small railroad rooms. An old brownstone on the corner became a house of ill repute. We'd get a strong lecture from our parents if they ever saw us near that vicinity. With so many expensive cars it became difficult to continue to play stickball.
Sometimes one of the expensive looking cars would stop in the middle of the block and three or four black men would exit and a crap game would commence. Sharply dressed, with white suits and "Mister B" shirts, their fingernails clicked and popped with the roll of the dice on the curb of the street. Gold and silver glistened against the contrast of their black fingers. It seemed everything they did had a smooth style that was uniquely theirs and it fascinated me.
"Roll baby, make some eyes for your papa."
"Do it! Do It! Do it! sheet man."
Money moved and fingers clicked at such a rapid rate, it was near impossible for me to follow the action. Crumpled five, ten and twenty dollar bills were dropped down and picked up at a dizzying pace. When they finished, they picked up their things and silently drove away to pick up the action someplace on another block.
I was coming of age. Enchanted by the new rhythms the Blacks were giving to our block; I was changing. Because of the radical transformation going on around me, I too was anxious. The pressures from parents were difficult to disregard. They generally centered the talks at the dinner table around one subject: the fear of staying behind and falling deeper into this new culture. However, the fascination and freshness of the Black Expression were intriguing to me. Although it was something I knew little about nor had any control over, my innocence was vanishing. It was almost the same as the white families in pursuit of the serenity offered by the distant suburb of a Valley Stream.
We weren't different. I purchased a new Simca
Aronde and drove away
with my mother and sister, until we ran out of
land. We arrived late at night,
six days later, in the city of
angels. Someone told us, I can't remember the
person, they didn't
allow niggers on the streets of Glendale after five p.m.
None of us
had a clue about California. We could have traveled to
another
planet, not knowing what awaited us on the other side. For me, the
era
of Chauncey Street was swiftly ending. All the memories, friends
and