On April 20, 2010 the Deepwater Horizon sustained an explosion and a subsequent fire. The cause is not completely understood, but may have to do with the buildup of natural gas at the well head. Eleven workers were killed, others injured. Within two days, the rig toppled into the Gulf of Mexico and it now sits under 5000 feet of water. It is located about a quarter of mile from the well head. That well head continues to spew out oil, natural gas and who knows what else. Today is May 21, 2010 and it does not appear that the flow of oil and gas from this site has slowed or been slowed. Yes, indeed, President Obama has visited the site. Twice.
The Deepwater Horizon was built by Hyundai Heavy Industries, a South Korean conglomerate. Most Americans know Hyundai as the maker of cheap cars. Initially, Hyundai autos sold in America were poor, but they have gotten better. Hyundai cars proved not to be Yugos. The Deepwater Horizon construction was started in 1998 for R&B Falcon. Falcon was subsequently bought by Transocean. The rig was finished in 2001 and delivered to Transocean. Two semisubmersible drillers of this class have been built. The other is the Deepwater Nautilus. The Nautilus has not yet been put into full action.
Transocean has leased the Deepwater Horizon to British Petroleum. The contract was recently renewed thru 2013 at a cost of $496,800 a day. At the time of the explosion, the well extended to a depth of 35,055 feet. This nearly seven mile well is the deepest oil well ever drilled in the history of the world. Consider, the well was started thru approximately 5,000 feet of water and then the drill continued downwards another six miles, more or less, thru lots of earth. Lots.
BP has tried to stop the oil flow. All efforts have failed. There is no experience capping off six mile deep leaking wells on a seafloor, which is a mile from the surface of the water. It's cold, dark and highly pressurized at that depth. A couple of Rube Goldberg devices have been tried. Thinking of what has been done could make a sane person laugh. Odd looking metal domes, various muds, cements, glues and gunks and now a mile long tube in the well itself. The tube is sucking some of the gas and some of the spillage. Nobody knows how much is being spewed out and nobody knows how much is being sucked. Nobody knows where this stuff is going to go. Not even Obama.
We do know there is this large pocket of gas and oil some seven miles from the surface of the Gulf Of Mexico. Maybe the reserves are one billion or ten billion or more barrels of oil and untold natural gas. We don't know what the pressure in this pocket is and we don't know whether the leak can be staunched. There has never been a well this deep before. And what happens to the pocket once the pressure and oil and gas are released? Who knows. Will it collapse?
World citizens can hope that the well peters out with minimal ecologic harm. They can hope that BP can solve the problem on its own. Politicians are most interested in blaming, fining and punishing BP, Transocean and Halliburton. Perhaps those politicians, who are always running for office, will recognize the problems for what they are. Short term, stop the leak. Call in the Navy, use all powers available. Ask for help from the rest of the world. This is an emergency. Spare no efforts. Fly over visits are insufficient.
High risk adventures such as this one are the result of energy hunger. It is time to prioritize newer, safer, cleaner and more efficient sources of energy. Politicians need to stop their quests for office and do something meaningful, really do it. Stop talking, stop bickering, pass legislation and place economic incentives where they belong. Mr. President and Congress, wake up!
Friday, May 21, 2010
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Sconce
"It'll be $80 for the service call and $45 for the diagnostic." responded Serafino Picataggi. Mrs. Constance McManus had called Picataggi's, Fin's TV Repair. Fin, who got calls from old people all the time, loved to ding them a buck and a quarter. He had expenses and he was in business, after all. People like Constance had out dated console TV sets, which were well beyond their useful lives. Sadly, they couldn't part with them and consequently they paid too much money to keep them going. Fin knew that it would cost Constance at least $300 by the time he finished with her. For that kind of money, she could get a high definition 32 inch Vizio at Wal Mart. So what if Vizio's are made in China. Isn't everything?
"And you have to pay for the parts and repair time. My hourly rate is $100 per hour." added Fin. Pause and more pause. The sixty-seven year old cerebrum was tallying. Fin thought Constance would figure it out. But no, she asked, "Does that include sales tax?" Fin smiled hard, he tried not to guffaw, he didn't want to insult the thrifty Mrs. McManus. With his thin lips pursed so as not to let out too much air and noise, he replied in the affirmative. She explained to Fin that her twenty-seven inch Sony Trinitron, which she bought with her late husband, Karl, in 1997, had a picture so clear that newer TV's couldn't compare. Her sister, Paulette, had a fifty-six inch Samsung 9000 thin flat mount on her great room wall. Connie told Fin that the Samster didn't even look like a TV and that the picture was distorted. Mr. Repairman reasoned Constance was riding on a one horse buckboard while Paulette was cruising in an air conditioned BMW. And that Constance must have cataracts, too.
Constance explained that she was going on vacation for a week starting tomorrow. She pressed Fin to make the house call this afternoon. It was a slow day so Fin decided to go out to Connie's place for a look see. At a minimum, it would be $125 cash money. Generally Fin only reported about forty per cent of his income. As Fin's father, Girolamo, always taught his son, cash is king. Fin only dealt in cash, no plastic, no cheques. The McManuses, well now the McManus, had a nice house in an upscale development. Fin guessed the houses went for half a mill and up. The lawns were fine trimmed and there must have been five or six lawners mowing and trimming. Even the lawners trucks were shiny, new and clean. Upscale lawners! It looked like nobody in Whispering Meadows did their own outside maintenance. Fin knew he was going to pad this bill. Connie could afford it.
The Sony wouldn't power up. No picture, no nothing. Fin put on a dilatory show for Constance. He complimented her on her beautiful home and her tasteful decorating. Connie, who was short on attention without Karl, sucked it up like a Hoover in a dust bowl. He carefully and meticulously tore the Sony down. He saw the problem almost immediately, two solders had broken down. Time is the enemy of electronics, although this appeared to be a problem of little magnitude. Rather than resoldering right there and then, he screwed up his brow and continued to test out the TV. After twenty minutes, he confabulated that the Sony needed a new circuit board. He explained he would try to get a new one, but there may only be refurbished ones available. Since the TV was over ten years old, parts were scarce and expensive. He estimated that the board would cost $200 and that the job could be done in about an hour. The estimate was $300 plus sales tax of 7%.
Shyster repairman had a dead Sony KV27 at the shop. He told Connie he would pick up the part at Goldenrod's Electronic Supplies and return in an hour or two. He sashayed to home base, pulled the board from the donor Sony and returned. Fin was so clever, he had a receipt book from Goldie's. He was in a romantic hook up with Sally Spurling. She did the books for Sid Goldenrod and she purloined a receipt book for Fin's use. If pressed, he could produce a receipt for the circuit board. But Constance never asked.
Fin was a good looking man and he had a way with women. Constance was happy to have some company. She was a talker. It took Fin an hour to learn that Karl had been an engineer and that he designed sconce security systems. He worked for Invisaline, not Invisalign, a company which specialized in discrete set ups for both private and commercial customers. Invisalign was a company that straightened teeth. Fin couldn't understand why Karl would have such an out of date TV. Constance didn't explain and Fin never asked, but Karl never watched TV. Connie also let on that Karl left her in fine shape, he made a lot of money as an original fan and investor of Berkshire Hathaway.
Slimey Fin exchanged the circuit boards, did the resolders and voila! It was PM 4:30 and Oprah was talking with Jada Pinkett. Jada is hot and Oprah is not. Jada was explaining how she and Will Smith harmonized. Will, who was sitting next to Jada, was feigning embarrassment. Constance was captivated while Fin thought it was stupid. He knew Jada and Will were married. Harmonized, ha! They were married.
At a commercial break, Constance ran upstairs and returned with $455. The four hundreds were crisp and flat and new. They even smelled good. The two twenties, the ten and the five were equally pristine. Fin joked and asked whether Constance had just printed these bills. With a serious look, she said Karl thought money was dirty, dirty with germs, dirty with secretions and even dirty with drugs. Fin knew that at least the latter was true. Almost all US money has been tainted with cocaine. He told Connie to call him if she had any trouble with the TV. He wished her a nice vacation and he stuffed the dough in his shirt pocket, right next to the receipt for a circuit board from Goldenrod's Electronics.
Two nights later, Saturday, Fin Picataggi was drinking Grey Goose and Red Bull at his neighborhood tavern, Salmon's. Milt Salmon, the proprietor, was a customer of Fin's. Since Milt had seven old box TV's hanging perilously from the ceiling corners and upper walls of the bar, Fin had lots of work. He bartered TV maintenance for his bar tab. Fin only had two and he announced he had something to do. Milt was surprised, usually Fin hung out on Saturdays. Milt thought Fin might be double timing Sally. Milt did note that Fin was dressed in black and as Fin was leaving, he kidded him and asked if he was going to a funeral. Fin sarcastically blurted, "Haha."
The back sliding door was easy. Constance did not use a resistance bar. He knew that. He had cased the house the other day. It was a simple lock and Fin was in the kitchen in less than five seconds. He headed straight for the bedroom. Constance had left a table lamp on in the living room as well as wall mounted lights on the stairwell and in the upstairs hallway. Since Connie had left the lights on, he realized he could turn more lights on without attracting attention. He flicked the switch for the master bedroom. There were actually two switches. The one closest to the door jamb didn't do anything. Fin thought it probably controlled an outlet, so that if a lamp were plugged into that outlet, the lamp would go on. There must not have been a lamp plugged into that outlet. The other switch juiced three wall lights, like the lights in the hall and the stairwell. They were attached to the wall with no other supports holding them in place.
It didn't take long. He found a stash of cash. Bottom drawer of a five drawer dresser, Bass Weejun shoebox, black, size 11. Neatly stacked, clean, hundreds, maybe twenty-five K, maybe more. Fin found four more boxes, same Bass Weejuns, black, size 11. Karl must have liked these preppy shoes. Of the four additional boxes, one was like the first with hundreds, two all fifties, three all twenties and four mixed with tens and fives. Unbelievable! Fin figured seventy-five grand, at least. Cash is king. Phew!
He looked for jewelry. He found two Rolexes, his and hers. They were inscribed. "Love, Constance" and "Love You More, Karl". These must have been volley gifts. They would be hard to move. He left them. Fin was no fool. There were some earrings, necklaces and bracelets; some with diamonds. Sally would like these. He could dole them out for holiday gifting. He would have to get some nice jeweler's boxes. He took two trips up and down taking three and then two shoe boxes with him. He had worn latex gloves. He was smart. There would be no fingerprints. He turned off the bedroom switch that controlled the lights. He forgot to hit the other switch, the one closest to the jamb.
And so it went. Nothing much happened for two weeks. The detectives had to look at a lot of blank images of an empty room. They reviewed the security images backwards to forwards. It was only at the end, which was the beginning, that they saw Fin, plain as day, entering the room, turning on the three sconce lights and proceeding to find the Bass boxes and the jewelry. They remarked that he was neat and tidy and that he left the bedroom just as he found it. Well, except for the shoe boxes and the jewelry.
Constance, who had forgotten to turn on the bedroom sconce surveillance when she left for Florida, was thankful that Fin hit that switch for her. It is the switch closest to the door jamb. Karl would never have forgiven Constance if Fin got away with his crime. When the detectives showed Connie the camera's images, she identified Fin. The detectives arrested and cuffed Fin. Poor Fin, poor Fin. Like John Edwards, Fin is scared silly about going to jail. Connie had told him Karl designed sconce security systems. Maybe he misheard her, maybe he wasn't listening, maybe he had no idea what a sconce was. He does now.
"And you have to pay for the parts and repair time. My hourly rate is $100 per hour." added Fin. Pause and more pause. The sixty-seven year old cerebrum was tallying. Fin thought Constance would figure it out. But no, she asked, "Does that include sales tax?" Fin smiled hard, he tried not to guffaw, he didn't want to insult the thrifty Mrs. McManus. With his thin lips pursed so as not to let out too much air and noise, he replied in the affirmative. She explained to Fin that her twenty-seven inch Sony Trinitron, which she bought with her late husband, Karl, in 1997, had a picture so clear that newer TV's couldn't compare. Her sister, Paulette, had a fifty-six inch Samsung 9000 thin flat mount on her great room wall. Connie told Fin that the Samster didn't even look like a TV and that the picture was distorted. Mr. Repairman reasoned Constance was riding on a one horse buckboard while Paulette was cruising in an air conditioned BMW. And that Constance must have cataracts, too.
Constance explained that she was going on vacation for a week starting tomorrow. She pressed Fin to make the house call this afternoon. It was a slow day so Fin decided to go out to Connie's place for a look see. At a minimum, it would be $125 cash money. Generally Fin only reported about forty per cent of his income. As Fin's father, Girolamo, always taught his son, cash is king. Fin only dealt in cash, no plastic, no cheques. The McManuses, well now the McManus, had a nice house in an upscale development. Fin guessed the houses went for half a mill and up. The lawns were fine trimmed and there must have been five or six lawners mowing and trimming. Even the lawners trucks were shiny, new and clean. Upscale lawners! It looked like nobody in Whispering Meadows did their own outside maintenance. Fin knew he was going to pad this bill. Connie could afford it.
The Sony wouldn't power up. No picture, no nothing. Fin put on a dilatory show for Constance. He complimented her on her beautiful home and her tasteful decorating. Connie, who was short on attention without Karl, sucked it up like a Hoover in a dust bowl. He carefully and meticulously tore the Sony down. He saw the problem almost immediately, two solders had broken down. Time is the enemy of electronics, although this appeared to be a problem of little magnitude. Rather than resoldering right there and then, he screwed up his brow and continued to test out the TV. After twenty minutes, he confabulated that the Sony needed a new circuit board. He explained he would try to get a new one, but there may only be refurbished ones available. Since the TV was over ten years old, parts were scarce and expensive. He estimated that the board would cost $200 and that the job could be done in about an hour. The estimate was $300 plus sales tax of 7%.
Shyster repairman had a dead Sony KV27 at the shop. He told Connie he would pick up the part at Goldenrod's Electronic Supplies and return in an hour or two. He sashayed to home base, pulled the board from the donor Sony and returned. Fin was so clever, he had a receipt book from Goldie's. He was in a romantic hook up with Sally Spurling. She did the books for Sid Goldenrod and she purloined a receipt book for Fin's use. If pressed, he could produce a receipt for the circuit board. But Constance never asked.
Fin was a good looking man and he had a way with women. Constance was happy to have some company. She was a talker. It took Fin an hour to learn that Karl had been an engineer and that he designed sconce security systems. He worked for Invisaline, not Invisalign, a company which specialized in discrete set ups for both private and commercial customers. Invisalign was a company that straightened teeth. Fin couldn't understand why Karl would have such an out of date TV. Constance didn't explain and Fin never asked, but Karl never watched TV. Connie also let on that Karl left her in fine shape, he made a lot of money as an original fan and investor of Berkshire Hathaway.
Slimey Fin exchanged the circuit boards, did the resolders and voila! It was PM 4:30 and Oprah was talking with Jada Pinkett. Jada is hot and Oprah is not. Jada was explaining how she and Will Smith harmonized. Will, who was sitting next to Jada, was feigning embarrassment. Constance was captivated while Fin thought it was stupid. He knew Jada and Will were married. Harmonized, ha! They were married.
At a commercial break, Constance ran upstairs and returned with $455. The four hundreds were crisp and flat and new. They even smelled good. The two twenties, the ten and the five were equally pristine. Fin joked and asked whether Constance had just printed these bills. With a serious look, she said Karl thought money was dirty, dirty with germs, dirty with secretions and even dirty with drugs. Fin knew that at least the latter was true. Almost all US money has been tainted with cocaine. He told Connie to call him if she had any trouble with the TV. He wished her a nice vacation and he stuffed the dough in his shirt pocket, right next to the receipt for a circuit board from Goldenrod's Electronics.
Two nights later, Saturday, Fin Picataggi was drinking Grey Goose and Red Bull at his neighborhood tavern, Salmon's. Milt Salmon, the proprietor, was a customer of Fin's. Since Milt had seven old box TV's hanging perilously from the ceiling corners and upper walls of the bar, Fin had lots of work. He bartered TV maintenance for his bar tab. Fin only had two and he announced he had something to do. Milt was surprised, usually Fin hung out on Saturdays. Milt thought Fin might be double timing Sally. Milt did note that Fin was dressed in black and as Fin was leaving, he kidded him and asked if he was going to a funeral. Fin sarcastically blurted, "Haha."
The back sliding door was easy. Constance did not use a resistance bar. He knew that. He had cased the house the other day. It was a simple lock and Fin was in the kitchen in less than five seconds. He headed straight for the bedroom. Constance had left a table lamp on in the living room as well as wall mounted lights on the stairwell and in the upstairs hallway. Since Connie had left the lights on, he realized he could turn more lights on without attracting attention. He flicked the switch for the master bedroom. There were actually two switches. The one closest to the door jamb didn't do anything. Fin thought it probably controlled an outlet, so that if a lamp were plugged into that outlet, the lamp would go on. There must not have been a lamp plugged into that outlet. The other switch juiced three wall lights, like the lights in the hall and the stairwell. They were attached to the wall with no other supports holding them in place.
It didn't take long. He found a stash of cash. Bottom drawer of a five drawer dresser, Bass Weejun shoebox, black, size 11. Neatly stacked, clean, hundreds, maybe twenty-five K, maybe more. Fin found four more boxes, same Bass Weejuns, black, size 11. Karl must have liked these preppy shoes. Of the four additional boxes, one was like the first with hundreds, two all fifties, three all twenties and four mixed with tens and fives. Unbelievable! Fin figured seventy-five grand, at least. Cash is king. Phew!
He looked for jewelry. He found two Rolexes, his and hers. They were inscribed. "Love, Constance" and "Love You More, Karl". These must have been volley gifts. They would be hard to move. He left them. Fin was no fool. There were some earrings, necklaces and bracelets; some with diamonds. Sally would like these. He could dole them out for holiday gifting. He would have to get some nice jeweler's boxes. He took two trips up and down taking three and then two shoe boxes with him. He had worn latex gloves. He was smart. There would be no fingerprints. He turned off the bedroom switch that controlled the lights. He forgot to hit the other switch, the one closest to the jamb.
And so it went. Nothing much happened for two weeks. The detectives had to look at a lot of blank images of an empty room. They reviewed the security images backwards to forwards. It was only at the end, which was the beginning, that they saw Fin, plain as day, entering the room, turning on the three sconce lights and proceeding to find the Bass boxes and the jewelry. They remarked that he was neat and tidy and that he left the bedroom just as he found it. Well, except for the shoe boxes and the jewelry.
Constance, who had forgotten to turn on the bedroom sconce surveillance when she left for Florida, was thankful that Fin hit that switch for her. It is the switch closest to the door jamb. Karl would never have forgiven Constance if Fin got away with his crime. When the detectives showed Connie the camera's images, she identified Fin. The detectives arrested and cuffed Fin. Poor Fin, poor Fin. Like John Edwards, Fin is scared silly about going to jail. Connie had told him Karl designed sconce security systems. Maybe he misheard her, maybe he wasn't listening, maybe he had no idea what a sconce was. He does now.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Chickens
Four chickens dead, dead as a result of eating lawn fertilizer. That seemed implausible to Lenny. Helen looked weepy and sad. Her face had that swollen look of someone who had been crying. Red eyes and a thick upper lip were giveaways. He sympathized with Helen's misery. He hugged her and told her anyone could make a mistake like that. Besides, he offered, they were only chickens. Chickens!
Helen's friend Bunny Derisio had decided to take a vacation at Disney. On the east coast, people who say Disney mean Orlando, FL. Lenny hated Disney and everything it represented. Lenny always sarcastically says that made up plastic scenarios, artificial smiles and long lines are magical. Bunny and her three bunettes, Mindy, Mikey and Moses needed someone to feed their pet chickens while away on their three day sojourn. Helen volunteered. The bunster told H that the chicken feed would be in the shed. She went on to say it was in a yellow and green bag and she told H to spread the feed around the yard. She told Helen she need only feed the fowl for two days, the Derisios would be back to pick up the pet care thereafter. Helen, who was from Iowa, knew about farm animals. No problem. Or so it seemed.
Helen and Lenny had history. They had a romance once. The romance failed when Lenny brought home crabs. Not for dinner crabs, but the kind that hang out in pubic hair. Lenny went to an Asian massage joint ostensibly for a rub down on a dreary Thursday night. Madame Yang hooked him up with a happy ending girl called Oonie. She was the transmitter. Sid Margone, a trucker, had stopped in for release earlier Thursday, before Lenny arrived. Sid left some insect DNA in the form of crab lice with Oonie. He had picked these guys up at a full service truck stop in Maine three days before. Itch, itch.
When Helen began digging into her thick, overgrown triangle, she thought it was dermatitis. After a day or so, she noticed Lenny was attacking himself as well. So for a few days thereafter the two of them were both scratching until finally Helen confronted Lenny. Lenny denied he was itchy, denied he could have picked something up and denied and denied some more. Helen visited her family doctor, Sinblat Patel. Sinblat, who oddly enough had crabs himself last year, examined her thatch with a hand lens and saw some bad boys jumping about. "Yup", he said, "you got Pthirius pubis." Helen had no idea what he meant. He then went on to explain they were crab lice, transmitted venereally, usually through close contact, most commonly intercourse. He prescribed Elemite 1%. And for more of an odd twist, Patel, himself, enjoyed an Asian massage from time to time. Go figure, a doctor even.
Helen shared the Elemite with Lenny. She knew he was her infector. She cleaned all of the bed linens, towels, clothes and everything else in hot water and strong detergent. It took a few more days, but Lenny finally caved. He confessed. Helen felt betrayed and she was deeply hurt. She hated Lenny for a while. It was lucky for Lenny, Helen didn't feed him poison or bop him on the head. As time went on though, Helen and Lenny became best friends.
When Helen visited the chickens on day one she remembered the chickens on her farm in Iowa. She always thought them to be ugly, dirty creatures. These New Jersey chickens were equally unkempt and homely. Simon Derisio, Bunny's ex and the father of the three M's, gifted four cute, yellow chicks to the ex family on Easter Sunday, about a month ago. The kids took to these "pets" and Bunny had no choice but to go along with the petard. Bunny wanted to kill Simon. People, who buy pets for other people, should ask beforehand, especially when kids are involved. So in four weeks, the chickens went from cute yellow to ugly brown. Ah yeah.
Helen tried to get the feed from the shed. She thought the shed was locked because she couldn't open the door. The door wasn't locked. It was jammed. Simon had built this shed some years ago. Suffice it to say, he was no handyman. The door fit the door opening like eleven feet in a pair of nine shoes. Tiiiiight. Helen pulled and pulled, but she couldn't open the door. She ASS-u-med it was locked. As bad luck would have it, a half full bag of 30-10-10 lawn fertilizer was propped against the chain link fence enclosing the chickens. And more bad luck, the bag was mostly yellow with some green pictures of grass. And Helen ASS-u-med that the yellow and green bag was the feed. She spread it around, the foursome went for it and she left.
When she returned the next day the quartet seemed sluggish. Helen thought they hadn't slept well. Helen was sometimes obtuse. She refreshed their water bowls and she spread more fertilizer. The idiot birds went at it. You had to wonder just how dumb chickens can be. Helen left the Derisio hacienda with the feeling you get when you've done a good deed. Helen has known Bunny a long time and she loved Bunny like a sister. They both shared a passion for quilting. Quilting was a big hobby these days and the girls often gave free quilting clinics and classes as a service to the community. Quilting was a good pass time for shut-ins and other disadvantaged folk.
On the third day the Derisios came home. They were all wearing nonsensical pins and other Disney glitter for which they paid a pirate's ransom. This stuff will be in drawer bottoms and trash cans in no time. Lenny wonders why people waste their money on crap like this. But understand, he hates Disney, all of it. When M-M-M rushed out to greet their pets, they couldn't believe it. The four birds were on the ground, motionless, here and there in the yard. No symmetry just helter skelter. They ran up to the birds, but they were cold dead. Moses gave mouth to beak. You can't appreciate how hard and pointy a beak is until you lip lock it. It's a feeling Moses will never forget.
Bunny, who had already dealt with the death of her parents and two dogs, was unemotional. She comforted the kids, each in turn. As it turned out, Moses had his cut tongue from his mouth to beak resuscitation and she had to clean his tongue with peroxide. She told the children that the chickens probably came down with strep throats and that the untreated infections killed them. Since the kids were familiar with strep throats, they were able to understand the deaths of their pets. Although they were sad, the four people buried the four chickens. Moses even attached his Disney pin of Pluto to the blanket of his chicken (the one he beaked up with). Each chicken was laid to rest in a quilted blanket. Ah, to have a quilter in the family is a good thing at a time like this.
The following day Bunny called Helen. Bunny knew that the chickens didn't get strep throat. Helen was taken aback by the awful news. H explained that the birds were sluggish, but otherwise well when she left them two days ago. Nothing made sense until she related that she couldn't get into the shed. When Helen said it was locked, Bunny knew otherwise. The door was always getting jammed. Then it hit Bunny. If Helen couldn't get into the shed, what did she feed the pets. When Helen said she used the food in the yellow and green bag by the fence.....
Lenny told Helen that the dumb chickens would have pecked into the fertilizer sooner or later. They would have poisoned themselves in due time. Lenny blamed Bunny for leaving the fertilizer out. He blamed Simon for building the shed with a jammed door. Helen was inconsolable. She blamed herself.
It all ended well. Helen bought six new chicks for the kids. They were happy, six was better than four. Bunny was happy because the kids were happy. Helen was happy that they were all happy. And Lenny was happy. too. He fixed the shed door. All's well that ends well. Aha!
Helen's friend Bunny Derisio had decided to take a vacation at Disney. On the east coast, people who say Disney mean Orlando, FL. Lenny hated Disney and everything it represented. Lenny always sarcastically says that made up plastic scenarios, artificial smiles and long lines are magical. Bunny and her three bunettes, Mindy, Mikey and Moses needed someone to feed their pet chickens while away on their three day sojourn. Helen volunteered. The bunster told H that the chicken feed would be in the shed. She went on to say it was in a yellow and green bag and she told H to spread the feed around the yard. She told Helen she need only feed the fowl for two days, the Derisios would be back to pick up the pet care thereafter. Helen, who was from Iowa, knew about farm animals. No problem. Or so it seemed.
Helen and Lenny had history. They had a romance once. The romance failed when Lenny brought home crabs. Not for dinner crabs, but the kind that hang out in pubic hair. Lenny went to an Asian massage joint ostensibly for a rub down on a dreary Thursday night. Madame Yang hooked him up with a happy ending girl called Oonie. She was the transmitter. Sid Margone, a trucker, had stopped in for release earlier Thursday, before Lenny arrived. Sid left some insect DNA in the form of crab lice with Oonie. He had picked these guys up at a full service truck stop in Maine three days before. Itch, itch.
When Helen began digging into her thick, overgrown triangle, she thought it was dermatitis. After a day or so, she noticed Lenny was attacking himself as well. So for a few days thereafter the two of them were both scratching until finally Helen confronted Lenny. Lenny denied he was itchy, denied he could have picked something up and denied and denied some more. Helen visited her family doctor, Sinblat Patel. Sinblat, who oddly enough had crabs himself last year, examined her thatch with a hand lens and saw some bad boys jumping about. "Yup", he said, "you got Pthirius pubis." Helen had no idea what he meant. He then went on to explain they were crab lice, transmitted venereally, usually through close contact, most commonly intercourse. He prescribed Elemite 1%. And for more of an odd twist, Patel, himself, enjoyed an Asian massage from time to time. Go figure, a doctor even.
Helen shared the Elemite with Lenny. She knew he was her infector. She cleaned all of the bed linens, towels, clothes and everything else in hot water and strong detergent. It took a few more days, but Lenny finally caved. He confessed. Helen felt betrayed and she was deeply hurt. She hated Lenny for a while. It was lucky for Lenny, Helen didn't feed him poison or bop him on the head. As time went on though, Helen and Lenny became best friends.
When Helen visited the chickens on day one she remembered the chickens on her farm in Iowa. She always thought them to be ugly, dirty creatures. These New Jersey chickens were equally unkempt and homely. Simon Derisio, Bunny's ex and the father of the three M's, gifted four cute, yellow chicks to the ex family on Easter Sunday, about a month ago. The kids took to these "pets" and Bunny had no choice but to go along with the petard. Bunny wanted to kill Simon. People, who buy pets for other people, should ask beforehand, especially when kids are involved. So in four weeks, the chickens went from cute yellow to ugly brown. Ah yeah.
Helen tried to get the feed from the shed. She thought the shed was locked because she couldn't open the door. The door wasn't locked. It was jammed. Simon had built this shed some years ago. Suffice it to say, he was no handyman. The door fit the door opening like eleven feet in a pair of nine shoes. Tiiiiight. Helen pulled and pulled, but she couldn't open the door. She ASS-u-med it was locked. As bad luck would have it, a half full bag of 30-10-10 lawn fertilizer was propped against the chain link fence enclosing the chickens. And more bad luck, the bag was mostly yellow with some green pictures of grass. And Helen ASS-u-med that the yellow and green bag was the feed. She spread it around, the foursome went for it and she left.
When she returned the next day the quartet seemed sluggish. Helen thought they hadn't slept well. Helen was sometimes obtuse. She refreshed their water bowls and she spread more fertilizer. The idiot birds went at it. You had to wonder just how dumb chickens can be. Helen left the Derisio hacienda with the feeling you get when you've done a good deed. Helen has known Bunny a long time and she loved Bunny like a sister. They both shared a passion for quilting. Quilting was a big hobby these days and the girls often gave free quilting clinics and classes as a service to the community. Quilting was a good pass time for shut-ins and other disadvantaged folk.
On the third day the Derisios came home. They were all wearing nonsensical pins and other Disney glitter for which they paid a pirate's ransom. This stuff will be in drawer bottoms and trash cans in no time. Lenny wonders why people waste their money on crap like this. But understand, he hates Disney, all of it. When M-M-M rushed out to greet their pets, they couldn't believe it. The four birds were on the ground, motionless, here and there in the yard. No symmetry just helter skelter. They ran up to the birds, but they were cold dead. Moses gave mouth to beak. You can't appreciate how hard and pointy a beak is until you lip lock it. It's a feeling Moses will never forget.
Bunny, who had already dealt with the death of her parents and two dogs, was unemotional. She comforted the kids, each in turn. As it turned out, Moses had his cut tongue from his mouth to beak resuscitation and she had to clean his tongue with peroxide. She told the children that the chickens probably came down with strep throats and that the untreated infections killed them. Since the kids were familiar with strep throats, they were able to understand the deaths of their pets. Although they were sad, the four people buried the four chickens. Moses even attached his Disney pin of Pluto to the blanket of his chicken (the one he beaked up with). Each chicken was laid to rest in a quilted blanket. Ah, to have a quilter in the family is a good thing at a time like this.
The following day Bunny called Helen. Bunny knew that the chickens didn't get strep throat. Helen was taken aback by the awful news. H explained that the birds were sluggish, but otherwise well when she left them two days ago. Nothing made sense until she related that she couldn't get into the shed. When Helen said it was locked, Bunny knew otherwise. The door was always getting jammed. Then it hit Bunny. If Helen couldn't get into the shed, what did she feed the pets. When Helen said she used the food in the yellow and green bag by the fence.....
Lenny told Helen that the dumb chickens would have pecked into the fertilizer sooner or later. They would have poisoned themselves in due time. Lenny blamed Bunny for leaving the fertilizer out. He blamed Simon for building the shed with a jammed door. Helen was inconsolable. She blamed herself.
It all ended well. Helen bought six new chicks for the kids. They were happy, six was better than four. Bunny was happy because the kids were happy. Helen was happy that they were all happy. And Lenny was happy. too. He fixed the shed door. All's well that ends well. Aha!
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Jiffy Lube
He hadn't been there for a while. When the price for an oil change topped thirty-four dollars, Ed decided to extend his mileage interval to 7500 rather than 3000. As a result, his visits to the Jiffy Lube diminished by more than half. The "the" is not a mistake. Ed is from Trenton and people there like to "the" things, names and places. For example, Ed's mother, Teresa, says the Shop Rite and the Harrah. In the "the" vein, the final "s" of a name is often dropped. The casino, Harrah's, becomes the Harrah. If this were Italian, this practice might be considered part of a dialect.
Eddie's Jeep Cherokee has 167,875 on the clock. Since he began the longer oil change intervals 30,000 miles ago, he has noted no differences. He also noted that the oil wasn't really blacker or gunkier when he used it longer. He did wonder about the 3000 mile interval recommendation. Where did that come from? Of course, fear is a powerful tool. When his four liter six banger finally gives out, he knows he will think it would have lasted longer only if... Oh well, you pays your money and you takes your chances.
It was a so-so May day. A little too humid, a little too cloudy, but at least it wasn't raining. He pulled the Cherko into the receiving zone of the Mount Laurel, NJ JL. A wide stanced woman, with roots from equatorial somewhere, waddled over. He half laughed. She looked like one of those bottom heavy characters he sees from time to time on reruns of Saturday Night Live. Her Jiffy Lube shirt was being pushed out in all directions. Oddly she had small tits. When she oozed into the Jeep to position it in the queue, Ed was certain her heft would collapse the seat. Why would someone uber fat being doing such a job?
Jiffy Lube is a wholly owned subsidiary of Pennzoil. Pennzoil bought the company in 1990. There are approximately 2000 outlets throughout the United States and Canada. JL services 27.5 million vehicle a year. Man, that's a lot of oil, maybe enough to fill the Gulf of Mexico. All the outlets are franchisee owned. The concept of Jiffy Lube was born in 1974. Ed Washburn coined the name and he started the service spots, the first in Ogden, Utah. In 1979, Jim Hindman bought Washburn's business and he formed Jiffy Lube, International. The concept of the quick oil change is about thirty-five years old and if you think about it, the quickie comports well with the American do everything fast construct. Utah, by the way, is no stranger to start ups. Both Kentucky Fried Chicken in 1952 and Merrill Shoes in 1981 claim Utah starts.
The JL approach is getting slicker and slicker. Used to be in the old days, Ed would pull up to the service bay entrance himself, say oil change and pull out fifteen minutes later. Today he met the equatorian, who queried him as to which services he desired. She drove the Jeep to the bay entrance. He was then guided to a well worn waiting area by another woman. She had flared nares and wild eyes. Within a minute of waiting, a red bearded service advisor assured him everything was fine. Then he proceeded to recommend a radiator flush, transmission fluid change and new wiper blades. It made Ed feel like he went for a teeth cleaning and ended up with a set of caps. Naturally these additional services would ring the register. Ed said no, no and no to the red beard. The red man looked used to being rejected, like a door to door vacuum cleaner salesman. Ed, himself, was getting red.
Concurrent with all of this, a waiting soccer mom was being pitched by Chaz, the Jiffy Lube glass consultant. GLASS CONSULTANT? The Chazzer had diagnosed several chips in her minivan windshield. Mom was weak. Ed could see she was going to be a payday. Chaz explained how windshields can crack from these weak spots. He told her the cracks could spread in seconds, could spread while she was driving. Ed could sense how this woman, who was programmed to protect her young, was being rendered scared shitless. Oh man.
Amelia, that was the name on the Stride Rite Shoe badge around her neck, was delighted when Chaz told her it was all covered by her auto insurance. After all, she had State Farm. Once Amelia waffled, in seconds, another woman, who looked similar to the wild eyed escort, appeared. Although Ed didn't know it, she was the progenitor of those eyes. She had Amelia's insurance cards in hand. Eddie guessed that the Lube team had already hit the minivan glove box. The two woman hovered over a mess of papers. Amelia signed a couple of times. Eddie was getting more irritated.
Eddie decided to take a piss. The unisex bathroom was dark and a little stinky. It had wings or handles or something that people who had disabilities might use, affixed to the toilet. Ed wondered what bacteria might be living on those. Since Ed was a boy, he was a spiteful pisser. It started when he was visiting his Aunt Flo overnight. He was maybe five. Bed space was short and he had to sleep with his girl cousin, Kimmie. She was five too. In protest, he responded to the urge to piss on the toilet seat before bedtime. How was Eddie to know Kimmie would be sitting on that seat minutes later. Through the years, Ed has hosed lots of seats. Today was no different.
Chaz was there again, only this time he wanted the Jeep owner. Before Ed could say anything, Chaz introduced himself as the glass consultant. Eddie figured the guy was a flamer. Didn't he realize that Eddie had just witnessed this gig? Of course chips were diagnosed, harmful, nasty, dangerous chips, chips which were ready to cause a windshield explosion. Chaz was good. He surmised the old Cherko wasn't fully insurance covered and he was right. The mark here wasn't State Farm, but Eddie. Chaz offered a full windshield glaze for $65 and it was guaranteed. Eddie was glad he hadn't washed his hands after he pissed. He used his right hand, his holding hand, to shake Chaz's hand in declining the glaze. Eddie chuckled.
The Jeep was rolled out, ready to go. Eddie got the oil change he wanted but he hated the experience. Is this what Washburn had envisioned in 1974? The once clever concept was over the top and Eddie thought he might have to find a new quickie oil change place. As he got into the Jeep, he was relieved that the seat was ok. The equatorian was one big mithio. He looked to his right and saw the woman, the one who had Amelia do the paperwork, using a buzzing device on the minivan windshield. Eddie knew a scam when he saw one. Just as he was turning the Jeep ignition key he heard a woman scream. It was Amelia. Did she figure it out? Was she enraged? Was she going to kill Chaz, the glass consultant? Nah, she just sat down.
Eddie's Jeep Cherokee has 167,875 on the clock. Since he began the longer oil change intervals 30,000 miles ago, he has noted no differences. He also noted that the oil wasn't really blacker or gunkier when he used it longer. He did wonder about the 3000 mile interval recommendation. Where did that come from? Of course, fear is a powerful tool. When his four liter six banger finally gives out, he knows he will think it would have lasted longer only if... Oh well, you pays your money and you takes your chances.
It was a so-so May day. A little too humid, a little too cloudy, but at least it wasn't raining. He pulled the Cherko into the receiving zone of the Mount Laurel, NJ JL. A wide stanced woman, with roots from equatorial somewhere, waddled over. He half laughed. She looked like one of those bottom heavy characters he sees from time to time on reruns of Saturday Night Live. Her Jiffy Lube shirt was being pushed out in all directions. Oddly she had small tits. When she oozed into the Jeep to position it in the queue, Ed was certain her heft would collapse the seat. Why would someone uber fat being doing such a job?
Jiffy Lube is a wholly owned subsidiary of Pennzoil. Pennzoil bought the company in 1990. There are approximately 2000 outlets throughout the United States and Canada. JL services 27.5 million vehicle a year. Man, that's a lot of oil, maybe enough to fill the Gulf of Mexico. All the outlets are franchisee owned. The concept of Jiffy Lube was born in 1974. Ed Washburn coined the name and he started the service spots, the first in Ogden, Utah. In 1979, Jim Hindman bought Washburn's business and he formed Jiffy Lube, International. The concept of the quick oil change is about thirty-five years old and if you think about it, the quickie comports well with the American do everything fast construct. Utah, by the way, is no stranger to start ups. Both Kentucky Fried Chicken in 1952 and Merrill Shoes in 1981 claim Utah starts.
The JL approach is getting slicker and slicker. Used to be in the old days, Ed would pull up to the service bay entrance himself, say oil change and pull out fifteen minutes later. Today he met the equatorian, who queried him as to which services he desired. She drove the Jeep to the bay entrance. He was then guided to a well worn waiting area by another woman. She had flared nares and wild eyes. Within a minute of waiting, a red bearded service advisor assured him everything was fine. Then he proceeded to recommend a radiator flush, transmission fluid change and new wiper blades. It made Ed feel like he went for a teeth cleaning and ended up with a set of caps. Naturally these additional services would ring the register. Ed said no, no and no to the red beard. The red man looked used to being rejected, like a door to door vacuum cleaner salesman. Ed, himself, was getting red.
Concurrent with all of this, a waiting soccer mom was being pitched by Chaz, the Jiffy Lube glass consultant. GLASS CONSULTANT? The Chazzer had diagnosed several chips in her minivan windshield. Mom was weak. Ed could see she was going to be a payday. Chaz explained how windshields can crack from these weak spots. He told her the cracks could spread in seconds, could spread while she was driving. Ed could sense how this woman, who was programmed to protect her young, was being rendered scared shitless. Oh man.
Amelia, that was the name on the Stride Rite Shoe badge around her neck, was delighted when Chaz told her it was all covered by her auto insurance. After all, she had State Farm. Once Amelia waffled, in seconds, another woman, who looked similar to the wild eyed escort, appeared. Although Ed didn't know it, she was the progenitor of those eyes. She had Amelia's insurance cards in hand. Eddie guessed that the Lube team had already hit the minivan glove box. The two woman hovered over a mess of papers. Amelia signed a couple of times. Eddie was getting more irritated.
Eddie decided to take a piss. The unisex bathroom was dark and a little stinky. It had wings or handles or something that people who had disabilities might use, affixed to the toilet. Ed wondered what bacteria might be living on those. Since Ed was a boy, he was a spiteful pisser. It started when he was visiting his Aunt Flo overnight. He was maybe five. Bed space was short and he had to sleep with his girl cousin, Kimmie. She was five too. In protest, he responded to the urge to piss on the toilet seat before bedtime. How was Eddie to know Kimmie would be sitting on that seat minutes later. Through the years, Ed has hosed lots of seats. Today was no different.
Chaz was there again, only this time he wanted the Jeep owner. Before Ed could say anything, Chaz introduced himself as the glass consultant. Eddie figured the guy was a flamer. Didn't he realize that Eddie had just witnessed this gig? Of course chips were diagnosed, harmful, nasty, dangerous chips, chips which were ready to cause a windshield explosion. Chaz was good. He surmised the old Cherko wasn't fully insurance covered and he was right. The mark here wasn't State Farm, but Eddie. Chaz offered a full windshield glaze for $65 and it was guaranteed. Eddie was glad he hadn't washed his hands after he pissed. He used his right hand, his holding hand, to shake Chaz's hand in declining the glaze. Eddie chuckled.
The Jeep was rolled out, ready to go. Eddie got the oil change he wanted but he hated the experience. Is this what Washburn had envisioned in 1974? The once clever concept was over the top and Eddie thought he might have to find a new quickie oil change place. As he got into the Jeep, he was relieved that the seat was ok. The equatorian was one big mithio. He looked to his right and saw the woman, the one who had Amelia do the paperwork, using a buzzing device on the minivan windshield. Eddie knew a scam when he saw one. Just as he was turning the Jeep ignition key he heard a woman scream. It was Amelia. Did she figure it out? Was she enraged? Was she going to kill Chaz, the glass consultant? Nah, she just sat down.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Shimkus and Ida
Shimkus was stunned when Mrs. Pecsatore told him she was leaving. They were standing along side the fence between their houses. The old bird had tears welled up in her eyes, eyes which were once deep brown, but now grayish. She had developed a grayish-white ring in her peripheral corneas. This is a common ocular finding in older people. It is called arcus senilis. Her arcus extended inward several millimeters and formed a complete circle. Shimkus looked into her old eyes and he could feel her desolation. Ida's son, Nally, was taking her to his house in Mt. Holly, NJ to live. As she put it, "...to live out her days."
Shim and Ida are neighbors, good neighbors at that. The live in adjacent small, shore bungalows on lots not much bigger than the bungalows themselves. Houses are like that at the Jersey shore. Shimmy moved in in '06, but Ida was an old timer. She and her long gone husband, Nalifero, bought into the Ventnor scene in 1955. Ida was thirty years old that year and Ike was the president. Shim moved to Ventnor after his long time partner, Richard, died from Pneumocytis carnii pneumonia. Pneumocystis is a common infection in people immunosuppressed from AIDS. Richard and Shimkus had been living in Collingswood, NJ when Richard passed on. Dubya was president then.
They did nice little things for each other. Neighborly things, like trash cans in and out, sharing sale finds, buying an extra this or that, frequent talking and even an occasional beverage on Ida's awning covered porch on warm summer nights. Ida drank Sambuca and Shim did white wine. Never red, it made him headachey. Shim was a fit man at the age of sixty-one, so he would shovel Ida's walk when it snowed and trim her junipers when they needed it. Neither property had any grass, just some white stones where there was a foot or two of unoccupied ground.
Both Ida and Shim were retired school teachers, she Math and he History. Their respective teacher benefits packages were great. They shared a private laugh when the stock market plummeted and other retirees they saw around town were freaking out about their losses. Ida's and Shim's benefits flowed like the mighty Mississippi, they just kept coming. They were unaffected by economic turmoil. Ida had been collecting for thirty-one years, she only taught for twenty-five. Shimmy has cashed in for five years so far. But he is hopeful.
Nalifero Pescatore Jr. is Ida's only living child. She did deliver a stillborn daughter. Some people think if you're stillborn, you're not officially a person. Not Ida. She named the stillborn, Luka. Ida baptized the baby herself and she and Nally the First had a proper Catholic burial. When Nally pushed off, he joined Luka. Ida's spot, next to them, awaits her. Ida has spent many hours at All Souls Cemetery hanging out. They have a nice plot, high, with above par drainage. Good view of a stand of tall cedars, too. Nobody wants to be planted in a swamp. The granite stone adorning the plot is enhanced with all of the words of the prayer, Hail Mary. Ida's name and birth date have already been chiseled in,
Ida Rubino Pescatore
February 17, 1925-xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Nally Jr. was born in 1956. He is a good, albeit phlegmatic, son married to a shrew. The Shrew, Sylvia, controls Nally's every move. When you see them together, the portly Nally, jiggles like Jell-O when Sylvia talks. It's like he is a tuning fork, which vibrates at her tonal range. Nally Two is fifty-four and ready to retire from Rancocas High School. He, too, will be collecting a teacher's pension. Does anybody ever wonder how the state of New Jersey can afford all of these retired teachers? Surely not Ida nor Shimkus nor Deuce! Shrew included.
Ida has taken a few dives over the last six months. Falls are common in the aged. She hit her face on the corner of the coffee table about three weeks ago. At first, Dr. Sadhil Patel, thought she fractured her zygoma. The left half of her face was ecchymotic and swollen. A CT was negative. It turned out it was just bruising and below the skin bleeding. As it healed, it turned from red to red-blue to maroon to greenish to greenish yellow to yellow and then normal. Cool, if you're into colors or if you're into hemoglobin degradation. It was the pseudo-broken zygoma incident that cost Ida her house and her independence. She looked so bad after that fall that N-2 insisted she move in with him and the Shrew.
It's not that Nails made the decision quickly. Ida had been failing to some degree over the last year. Besides the falls, she had picked up two new heart medications and a drug for a weak bladder. He had discussed it with her and at least in principle, she agreed. In reality, she wanted to stay at 237 North Melbourne, stay till she joined N-1 and Luka. With old folks it's always hard. The kids become the parents and the parents become the kids. Sadly, the oldies aren't as cute as kids and they don't progress in a positive way. With kids, joy looms, with oldies, it's misery and death. Yuck!.
The Shrew doesn't like Ida, in fact, she doesn't even much like Nally. Sylvia is attractive in a cougar-like way. Her hair is over dyed black, but she has a fine set of store bought boobs. Brazilian clean, she is lean and mean. That's how the lizards at Nightcaps describe her, Brazilian clean, lean and mean. Well she really is a cougar, that is, if a cougar can be married. She had hopped off Nally's bone years ago. She uses him more as a $$ supporting pillow than anything else. She has been jumping the bones of her nutritionist for more than a year. Besides Mr. Vitamin, she fools around with any willing XY at the lizard lounge. Sylvia thinks that if Ida comes to live with them, Nally will have to spend more time with his mom. Sylvia looks at this as an opportunity to party down more at Nightcaps Lounge. Sylvia has already told Nally she will not pick up after Ida nor will she "wipe her butt". Sweeeet girl.
Ida knows that the end is near. Sometimes she wishes she knew Kevorkian. But she's always been the sort of person who thinks suicide is a sin, a mortal sin at that. That's a ticket straight to hell. She misses the first Nally so much. When he was around, her life was good, she had a purpose, she was part of a team. When he died, so did most of her. You never recover from the death of your partner, unless you're a shrew.
Shimkus cried, just a little, real tears. Ida had turned to go back into her house before she could see his tears. He, too, hadn't had much of a life since Richard died. Some people think that gay people can't love and feel like non gays. This is not true, people are people, love is love and human emotions are gender neutral. Shim would miss Ida and he rues the day when she will leave. He thinks maybe he could help her more and let her live in her house longer. Shim realizes that this is not plausible. After all, he reckons, its only a matter of time till the anti retroviral drugs stop working and he gets Pneumocystis or some other ugly complication of AIDS.
Shimkus goes in the house. He's tired. He has a fitful nap. He awakens agitated and sweaty. He had a nightmare. In it, Ida had given him a chain, a gold chain with a small gold medallion in the shape of Italy. He was wearing it around his neck. It was a bright October morning. The sun was just above a stand of cedar trees. There were some people standing around in a semi circle. He couldn't make out their faces, but he could see the store bought boobs in an inappropriate black lounge lizard dress. After all, it was a grave site. The date was scratched into the stone. October 23, 2010. But wait a minute, it's May 13, 2010. Wait a minute!
Shim and Ida are neighbors, good neighbors at that. The live in adjacent small, shore bungalows on lots not much bigger than the bungalows themselves. Houses are like that at the Jersey shore. Shimmy moved in in '06, but Ida was an old timer. She and her long gone husband, Nalifero, bought into the Ventnor scene in 1955. Ida was thirty years old that year and Ike was the president. Shim moved to Ventnor after his long time partner, Richard, died from Pneumocytis carnii pneumonia. Pneumocystis is a common infection in people immunosuppressed from AIDS. Richard and Shimkus had been living in Collingswood, NJ when Richard passed on. Dubya was president then.
They did nice little things for each other. Neighborly things, like trash cans in and out, sharing sale finds, buying an extra this or that, frequent talking and even an occasional beverage on Ida's awning covered porch on warm summer nights. Ida drank Sambuca and Shim did white wine. Never red, it made him headachey. Shim was a fit man at the age of sixty-one, so he would shovel Ida's walk when it snowed and trim her junipers when they needed it. Neither property had any grass, just some white stones where there was a foot or two of unoccupied ground.
Both Ida and Shim were retired school teachers, she Math and he History. Their respective teacher benefits packages were great. They shared a private laugh when the stock market plummeted and other retirees they saw around town were freaking out about their losses. Ida's and Shim's benefits flowed like the mighty Mississippi, they just kept coming. They were unaffected by economic turmoil. Ida had been collecting for thirty-one years, she only taught for twenty-five. Shimmy has cashed in for five years so far. But he is hopeful.
Nalifero Pescatore Jr. is Ida's only living child. She did deliver a stillborn daughter. Some people think if you're stillborn, you're not officially a person. Not Ida. She named the stillborn, Luka. Ida baptized the baby herself and she and Nally the First had a proper Catholic burial. When Nally pushed off, he joined Luka. Ida's spot, next to them, awaits her. Ida has spent many hours at All Souls Cemetery hanging out. They have a nice plot, high, with above par drainage. Good view of a stand of tall cedars, too. Nobody wants to be planted in a swamp. The granite stone adorning the plot is enhanced with all of the words of the prayer, Hail Mary. Ida's name and birth date have already been chiseled in,
Ida Rubino Pescatore
February 17, 1925-xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Nally Jr. was born in 1956. He is a good, albeit phlegmatic, son married to a shrew. The Shrew, Sylvia, controls Nally's every move. When you see them together, the portly Nally, jiggles like Jell-O when Sylvia talks. It's like he is a tuning fork, which vibrates at her tonal range. Nally Two is fifty-four and ready to retire from Rancocas High School. He, too, will be collecting a teacher's pension. Does anybody ever wonder how the state of New Jersey can afford all of these retired teachers? Surely not Ida nor Shimkus nor Deuce! Shrew included.
Ida has taken a few dives over the last six months. Falls are common in the aged. She hit her face on the corner of the coffee table about three weeks ago. At first, Dr. Sadhil Patel, thought she fractured her zygoma. The left half of her face was ecchymotic and swollen. A CT was negative. It turned out it was just bruising and below the skin bleeding. As it healed, it turned from red to red-blue to maroon to greenish to greenish yellow to yellow and then normal. Cool, if you're into colors or if you're into hemoglobin degradation. It was the pseudo-broken zygoma incident that cost Ida her house and her independence. She looked so bad after that fall that N-2 insisted she move in with him and the Shrew.
It's not that Nails made the decision quickly. Ida had been failing to some degree over the last year. Besides the falls, she had picked up two new heart medications and a drug for a weak bladder. He had discussed it with her and at least in principle, she agreed. In reality, she wanted to stay at 237 North Melbourne, stay till she joined N-1 and Luka. With old folks it's always hard. The kids become the parents and the parents become the kids. Sadly, the oldies aren't as cute as kids and they don't progress in a positive way. With kids, joy looms, with oldies, it's misery and death. Yuck!.
The Shrew doesn't like Ida, in fact, she doesn't even much like Nally. Sylvia is attractive in a cougar-like way. Her hair is over dyed black, but she has a fine set of store bought boobs. Brazilian clean, she is lean and mean. That's how the lizards at Nightcaps describe her, Brazilian clean, lean and mean. Well she really is a cougar, that is, if a cougar can be married. She had hopped off Nally's bone years ago. She uses him more as a $$ supporting pillow than anything else. She has been jumping the bones of her nutritionist for more than a year. Besides Mr. Vitamin, she fools around with any willing XY at the lizard lounge. Sylvia thinks that if Ida comes to live with them, Nally will have to spend more time with his mom. Sylvia looks at this as an opportunity to party down more at Nightcaps Lounge. Sylvia has already told Nally she will not pick up after Ida nor will she "wipe her butt". Sweeeet girl.
Ida knows that the end is near. Sometimes she wishes she knew Kevorkian. But she's always been the sort of person who thinks suicide is a sin, a mortal sin at that. That's a ticket straight to hell. She misses the first Nally so much. When he was around, her life was good, she had a purpose, she was part of a team. When he died, so did most of her. You never recover from the death of your partner, unless you're a shrew.
Shimkus cried, just a little, real tears. Ida had turned to go back into her house before she could see his tears. He, too, hadn't had much of a life since Richard died. Some people think that gay people can't love and feel like non gays. This is not true, people are people, love is love and human emotions are gender neutral. Shim would miss Ida and he rues the day when she will leave. He thinks maybe he could help her more and let her live in her house longer. Shim realizes that this is not plausible. After all, he reckons, its only a matter of time till the anti retroviral drugs stop working and he gets Pneumocystis or some other ugly complication of AIDS.
Shimkus goes in the house. He's tired. He has a fitful nap. He awakens agitated and sweaty. He had a nightmare. In it, Ida had given him a chain, a gold chain with a small gold medallion in the shape of Italy. He was wearing it around his neck. It was a bright October morning. The sun was just above a stand of cedar trees. There were some people standing around in a semi circle. He couldn't make out their faces, but he could see the store bought boobs in an inappropriate black lounge lizard dress. After all, it was a grave site. The date was scratched into the stone. October 23, 2010. But wait a minute, it's May 13, 2010. Wait a minute!
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
4 4 2
Odd hobby, Lefty, that is one odd hobby. Lefty Princemetal has heard this comment maybe a million times, or so it seems like a million times. Some guys collect stuff like coins or baseball cards or stamps or beer memorabilia. Other guys do stuff like ski or dirt bike or scuba or fish or whatever. Not Lefty. He combs auto recycling yards. He seeks out an interesting car down on its luck and researches its history. If the car is an appealing model and the history suits him, he wheels and deals and tries to buy the junker. In the event that he can make a deal, he then restores the vehicle to OEM (original equipment manufacturer specs). It's like a courtship, a romance and a marriage wrapped into one adventure.
Right now he is perambulating in El-Roy's UPULL in Weymouth New Jersey. The upull-it lots are not the best spots, since the cars are generally picked over to varying degrees, making a restoration more difficult and more involved. But it's a nice May afternoon and for a buck admission, the junk yard is a better place than the Left Bank. Lefty hates Paris. He visited once, got pick pocketed and then he developed symptoms of the clap on the plane ride home. He even paid more francs to go bareback. He was peeing like a madman on his return flight to Kennedy. But you play, you pay and sometimes pay even more. When you have that green drip-drip-drip and the micturation pain, you are happy to pay a medic for antibiotics. Ah, the flesh.
A couple years ago Lefty found a 1969 Olds 442 post coupe sitting in El-Roy's UPULL yard. The car was intact and original, but it was in poor shape. Everything needed a to be redone, but the four speed chrome 4 speed shifter, with 4-4-2 on the shaft, was shiny and new. The color was forest green with a similarly colored green interior. Even the key was in the ignition. The key was worn down. The silver plate was gone from use and the brass under metal was showing. But it was an original key. Just for fun, Lefty turned the key, nothing happened. No surprise, none of the junk yard cars had batteries, way too dangerous.
Remarkably the 442 had an the original engine and 4 speed transmission. Lefty knew a 400 cubic inch Rocket engine when he saw one. Even the chrome air breather and gold valve covers were there, but covered in a grease-dirt coat. The coup d' grace was the presence of a pair of chrome trumpet exhaust tips, yes dirty and attached to a rusted out dual exhaust system. Lefty copied the VIN and he made a deal with 3 Finger Peniero. 3 ran the lot for the Florida rooted El-Roy. Oh yes, he has three fingers on his right hand. The pinky finger and ring finger had been removed by a rogue tire changing machine ten years ago.
The deal was straightforward. Lefty gave 3 a double saw, cash. In turn 3 would hold the car for 24 hours for Lefty. Nobody touches or strips the Olds during this time. Within the 24 hours, Lefty could decide to buy the 442 for $580 more for a sale price of $600. Alternatively, Lefty could opt to pass on the Olds and 3 is twenty dollars richer. Although Lefty wanted the car, he never bought without checking the history. For Lefty to get engaged, the history had to be right. It was his way.
3 had a title for the car. A junk car is always worth more with a title. Although illegal, some yards will sell titles without the car. One can only imagine what that could lead to. It's surely a good way to legitimate a vehicle with a shady past. But that's not what happened here. Most interesting, the title was the original, issued in 1969 by the NJ Department of Motor Vehicles. This 442 was a one owner car. Indeed! 3 begrudgingly photocopied the title and he gave the streaky over inked paper to Lefty.
Lefty loved to investigate. He rushed home to his side street mini house. The house was at best nine hundred square feet, with a small everything including kitchen, bath, single bedroom and living room. The adjacent garage could hold eight cars, four across and two deep. There was way more garage than house space. As soon as he got home, he sat at the sticky, cluttered table and he stared at the title copy. This would be an easy investigation, at least he was hoping it would be. He was most interested in this car.
The title said the owner was:
Frederick Denison
556 Philadelphia Avenue
Egg Harbor City, New Jersey 08215
The date of transfer was May 14, 1969. Wow, that was almost thirty-eight years ago. The car had been sold by a local Hammonton Olds dealer, Arena. Arena has a pie shaped showroom and it is a local landmark. There was no lien, so it appeared that Fred paid cash. Lefty couldn't be sure of the sales price, but it was probably around four grand. A lot of cash in those days.
Lefty googled Fred, nothing came up. He researched the Philadelphia Avenue address. It was now occupied by Linda Perlmutter. He tried to get a phone number, but the only connection he could make was a number no longer in service. The Perlmutter woman is thirty-five according to Intelius and her middle name is Denison, Linda Denison Perlmutter. Although Lefty didn't know Fred's age, he guessed he would be between sixty and seventy-five now. The 442 is a fast, muscle car and Lefty reasoned that the buyer would have to have been someone between twenty and thirty-five. Since Linda is now thirty-five and her middle name is Denison, he further reasoned she must be Fred's daughter or niece, but not his wife. Is Fred still alive? Lefty forgot to check the mileage on the 442. He made a note to do that the following day. It was getting late so Lefty downed three Buds and a bag of Doritos. Fred can do this anytime he wants. He is not married.
The next day was cool and gray. Lefty, who lived right off the White Horse Pike in Hammonton, near the now shuttered Kessler Hospital, drove his Jeep Comanche pick up east towards Egg Harbor City. This broken down stamp of a place is notable for two White Horse Pike adult entertainment centers on either end of town. Lefty visited the western center once. Live entertainment was featured. After dropping over forty in tips, he left some spew in a wad of toilet paper and slunk out. In his mind, Egg Harbor City was that kind of place. Good place to leave your spew.
Lefty steered into the parking lot of the Harbor Diner. The place could be described as not bad, but then again, not good either. Lefty had a short stack of blueberry pancakes. As soon as he downed them, he knew they were bloaters. They were made with the kind of batter that blew him up, blew him up bad. His belt tightened, his bowels rumbled and he had to visit the facilities three times before he could get out of the door. Lefty would have been sent to a doctor if he had been married. He bloated every day. A good wife would have dragged him in for a physical. Celiac disease would have been diagnosed. This condition is caused by an allergy to wheat protein called gluten. A proper diet would have been recommended. But Lefty, who had an aversion to medical people, bloated, evacuated and lived on.
Philadelphia Avenue is the main drag of EHC. It is wide with lots of store fronts, some alive some dead. It was mid morning and some of the locals were moving about. The people seemed to be short in stature. House number 556 was down a few blocks on the left. The small cottage was well kept but worn in the sort of way that gave it a more appealing curb presence. It was the kind of house where you would visit and get a nice, hot cup of tea and a fresh shortbread. The front door was green, dark green, like the color of the 442. Well, like the color the 442 was when Fred picked it up so many years ago from Arena Olds. Probably coincidence.
Lefty rapped the knocker three times. Nothing. Three more. Nothing. He was about to get into the Comanche when the green door opened. A full figured lady looked out. She spotted Lefty. He turned, smiled and introduced himself as Wesley Princemetal. He explained about the 442, the title, the address and more. Linda introduced herself, but Lefty already knew her.
She smiled, but it was a sad smile. She was teary when she learned the Olds was in El-Roy's, ready to be stripped. Yes, she explained, her father was the only owner. He kept the 442 garaged and it was a second car. No rain, no snow and only the best fluids. She said the car only had fifty thousand miles. Fred, her dad, died in 2001. He had contracted a bad disease, one where he lost a lot of weight and he had high fevers and odd infections. The doctors at Kessler told Fred and Linda that Fred had contracted AIDS from a blood transfusion. Fred had gotten blood after he hemorrhaged from a stomach ulcer in 1990. The doctors said it was odd, because blood in 1990 was checked for the virus. Nothing is perfect, the doctors said, nothing is perfect. Indeed.
Fred's symptoms began in 1998. He received all sorts of expensive drugs. Linda also hooked Fred up with a naturopath and an aroma therapist. The disease marched on despite any and all roadblocks that were thrown at it. After Fred passed, the car sat and sat except for Sid. The Olds deteriorated from lack of love and devotion. Linda's husband, Sid Perlmutter, abused the car. He mostly raced it up and down the Pike. After twenty-one points, the state took his license and the car, worse for wear, went back into the garage. Sid left Egg Harbor City one night a couple of years ago. He said he was going to walk down to get a loaf of bread, yeah the old loaf of bread story. He has not been seen since.
The tires flattened, the battery died and Linda went back to work as a social worker. About three months later Linda put the car up for sale on Craig's List. She thought she was selling the car to a nice man, who said he was going to restore it. Linda wanted the best for her Dad's Olds. She should have known better, the man who bought it had perfect nails. What man, who restores cars has perfect nails? Since the car wasn't running, she let it go for $300. Lefty couldn't believe it, but what is a middle aged woman going to with an old jalopy? The guy who bought it, Jim Fisch, works for El-Roy's. He was always looking to pick up old steel. A 1969 Olds would bring in between $800-$1200 in parts and scrap. Nice return on investment!
No tea, no shortbread, just lots of good information. Fred was a decent guy. He had worked hard building boats until the boat plant closed. He took good care of his family, his 442 and his cottage. Lefty was sold. He hot footed to Weymouth and he handed cash $580 to 3. 3 told Lefty he could make more on this piece. Lefty laughed and begged off but he knew 3 was cutting him a break. The 442 was towed out to Lefty's garage #2, back bay and for the next eighteen months, piece by piece Lefty made Fred proud. The car sits in the garage now waiting for a sunny day. It runs and looks as good as the first day Fred pulled out onto the Pike from Arena's and drove it home to EHC.
Today as Fred perambulates in El-Roy's junk yard, he is hoping to find another interesting car like his 1969 Olds 442. The stuff in the yard is picked over like the bones of a deer after the vultures have had their fill. Besides, the likelihood of striking it again at El-Roy's is remote. No matter. He will always continue looking. Lefty's real thrill is the thought that he somehow has kept the spirit of a kindred soul alive. Lefty and Fred. They would have been friends if they had only met. An odd hobby indeed.
Right now he is perambulating in El-Roy's UPULL in Weymouth New Jersey. The upull-it lots are not the best spots, since the cars are generally picked over to varying degrees, making a restoration more difficult and more involved. But it's a nice May afternoon and for a buck admission, the junk yard is a better place than the Left Bank. Lefty hates Paris. He visited once, got pick pocketed and then he developed symptoms of the clap on the plane ride home. He even paid more francs to go bareback. He was peeing like a madman on his return flight to Kennedy. But you play, you pay and sometimes pay even more. When you have that green drip-drip-drip and the micturation pain, you are happy to pay a medic for antibiotics. Ah, the flesh.
A couple years ago Lefty found a 1969 Olds 442 post coupe sitting in El-Roy's UPULL yard. The car was intact and original, but it was in poor shape. Everything needed a to be redone, but the four speed chrome 4 speed shifter, with 4-4-2 on the shaft, was shiny and new. The color was forest green with a similarly colored green interior. Even the key was in the ignition. The key was worn down. The silver plate was gone from use and the brass under metal was showing. But it was an original key. Just for fun, Lefty turned the key, nothing happened. No surprise, none of the junk yard cars had batteries, way too dangerous.
Remarkably the 442 had an the original engine and 4 speed transmission. Lefty knew a 400 cubic inch Rocket engine when he saw one. Even the chrome air breather and gold valve covers were there, but covered in a grease-dirt coat. The coup d' grace was the presence of a pair of chrome trumpet exhaust tips, yes dirty and attached to a rusted out dual exhaust system. Lefty copied the VIN and he made a deal with 3 Finger Peniero. 3 ran the lot for the Florida rooted El-Roy. Oh yes, he has three fingers on his right hand. The pinky finger and ring finger had been removed by a rogue tire changing machine ten years ago.
The deal was straightforward. Lefty gave 3 a double saw, cash. In turn 3 would hold the car for 24 hours for Lefty. Nobody touches or strips the Olds during this time. Within the 24 hours, Lefty could decide to buy the 442 for $580 more for a sale price of $600. Alternatively, Lefty could opt to pass on the Olds and 3 is twenty dollars richer. Although Lefty wanted the car, he never bought without checking the history. For Lefty to get engaged, the history had to be right. It was his way.
3 had a title for the car. A junk car is always worth more with a title. Although illegal, some yards will sell titles without the car. One can only imagine what that could lead to. It's surely a good way to legitimate a vehicle with a shady past. But that's not what happened here. Most interesting, the title was the original, issued in 1969 by the NJ Department of Motor Vehicles. This 442 was a one owner car. Indeed! 3 begrudgingly photocopied the title and he gave the streaky over inked paper to Lefty.
Lefty loved to investigate. He rushed home to his side street mini house. The house was at best nine hundred square feet, with a small everything including kitchen, bath, single bedroom and living room. The adjacent garage could hold eight cars, four across and two deep. There was way more garage than house space. As soon as he got home, he sat at the sticky, cluttered table and he stared at the title copy. This would be an easy investigation, at least he was hoping it would be. He was most interested in this car.
The title said the owner was:
Frederick Denison
556 Philadelphia Avenue
Egg Harbor City, New Jersey 08215
The date of transfer was May 14, 1969. Wow, that was almost thirty-eight years ago. The car had been sold by a local Hammonton Olds dealer, Arena. Arena has a pie shaped showroom and it is a local landmark. There was no lien, so it appeared that Fred paid cash. Lefty couldn't be sure of the sales price, but it was probably around four grand. A lot of cash in those days.
Lefty googled Fred, nothing came up. He researched the Philadelphia Avenue address. It was now occupied by Linda Perlmutter. He tried to get a phone number, but the only connection he could make was a number no longer in service. The Perlmutter woman is thirty-five according to Intelius and her middle name is Denison, Linda Denison Perlmutter. Although Lefty didn't know Fred's age, he guessed he would be between sixty and seventy-five now. The 442 is a fast, muscle car and Lefty reasoned that the buyer would have to have been someone between twenty and thirty-five. Since Linda is now thirty-five and her middle name is Denison, he further reasoned she must be Fred's daughter or niece, but not his wife. Is Fred still alive? Lefty forgot to check the mileage on the 442. He made a note to do that the following day. It was getting late so Lefty downed three Buds and a bag of Doritos. Fred can do this anytime he wants. He is not married.
The next day was cool and gray. Lefty, who lived right off the White Horse Pike in Hammonton, near the now shuttered Kessler Hospital, drove his Jeep Comanche pick up east towards Egg Harbor City. This broken down stamp of a place is notable for two White Horse Pike adult entertainment centers on either end of town. Lefty visited the western center once. Live entertainment was featured. After dropping over forty in tips, he left some spew in a wad of toilet paper and slunk out. In his mind, Egg Harbor City was that kind of place. Good place to leave your spew.
Lefty steered into the parking lot of the Harbor Diner. The place could be described as not bad, but then again, not good either. Lefty had a short stack of blueberry pancakes. As soon as he downed them, he knew they were bloaters. They were made with the kind of batter that blew him up, blew him up bad. His belt tightened, his bowels rumbled and he had to visit the facilities three times before he could get out of the door. Lefty would have been sent to a doctor if he had been married. He bloated every day. A good wife would have dragged him in for a physical. Celiac disease would have been diagnosed. This condition is caused by an allergy to wheat protein called gluten. A proper diet would have been recommended. But Lefty, who had an aversion to medical people, bloated, evacuated and lived on.
Philadelphia Avenue is the main drag of EHC. It is wide with lots of store fronts, some alive some dead. It was mid morning and some of the locals were moving about. The people seemed to be short in stature. House number 556 was down a few blocks on the left. The small cottage was well kept but worn in the sort of way that gave it a more appealing curb presence. It was the kind of house where you would visit and get a nice, hot cup of tea and a fresh shortbread. The front door was green, dark green, like the color of the 442. Well, like the color the 442 was when Fred picked it up so many years ago from Arena Olds. Probably coincidence.
Lefty rapped the knocker three times. Nothing. Three more. Nothing. He was about to get into the Comanche when the green door opened. A full figured lady looked out. She spotted Lefty. He turned, smiled and introduced himself as Wesley Princemetal. He explained about the 442, the title, the address and more. Linda introduced herself, but Lefty already knew her.
She smiled, but it was a sad smile. She was teary when she learned the Olds was in El-Roy's, ready to be stripped. Yes, she explained, her father was the only owner. He kept the 442 garaged and it was a second car. No rain, no snow and only the best fluids. She said the car only had fifty thousand miles. Fred, her dad, died in 2001. He had contracted a bad disease, one where he lost a lot of weight and he had high fevers and odd infections. The doctors at Kessler told Fred and Linda that Fred had contracted AIDS from a blood transfusion. Fred had gotten blood after he hemorrhaged from a stomach ulcer in 1990. The doctors said it was odd, because blood in 1990 was checked for the virus. Nothing is perfect, the doctors said, nothing is perfect. Indeed.
Fred's symptoms began in 1998. He received all sorts of expensive drugs. Linda also hooked Fred up with a naturopath and an aroma therapist. The disease marched on despite any and all roadblocks that were thrown at it. After Fred passed, the car sat and sat except for Sid. The Olds deteriorated from lack of love and devotion. Linda's husband, Sid Perlmutter, abused the car. He mostly raced it up and down the Pike. After twenty-one points, the state took his license and the car, worse for wear, went back into the garage. Sid left Egg Harbor City one night a couple of years ago. He said he was going to walk down to get a loaf of bread, yeah the old loaf of bread story. He has not been seen since.
The tires flattened, the battery died and Linda went back to work as a social worker. About three months later Linda put the car up for sale on Craig's List. She thought she was selling the car to a nice man, who said he was going to restore it. Linda wanted the best for her Dad's Olds. She should have known better, the man who bought it had perfect nails. What man, who restores cars has perfect nails? Since the car wasn't running, she let it go for $300. Lefty couldn't believe it, but what is a middle aged woman going to with an old jalopy? The guy who bought it, Jim Fisch, works for El-Roy's. He was always looking to pick up old steel. A 1969 Olds would bring in between $800-$1200 in parts and scrap. Nice return on investment!
No tea, no shortbread, just lots of good information. Fred was a decent guy. He had worked hard building boats until the boat plant closed. He took good care of his family, his 442 and his cottage. Lefty was sold. He hot footed to Weymouth and he handed cash $580 to 3. 3 told Lefty he could make more on this piece. Lefty laughed and begged off but he knew 3 was cutting him a break. The 442 was towed out to Lefty's garage #2, back bay and for the next eighteen months, piece by piece Lefty made Fred proud. The car sits in the garage now waiting for a sunny day. It runs and looks as good as the first day Fred pulled out onto the Pike from Arena's and drove it home to EHC.
Today as Fred perambulates in El-Roy's junk yard, he is hoping to find another interesting car like his 1969 Olds 442. The stuff in the yard is picked over like the bones of a deer after the vultures have had their fill. Besides, the likelihood of striking it again at El-Roy's is remote. No matter. He will always continue looking. Lefty's real thrill is the thought that he somehow has kept the spirit of a kindred soul alive. Lefty and Fred. They would have been friends if they had only met. An odd hobby indeed.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Tomato Pie
Nineteen, must be something about being nineteen. Maybe because it's your last teenage year, maybe because your wings are spreading, maybe because your hormones are on top of their game, maybe, maybe.... Yeah, it seems like these and many more reasons can be posited to account for why nineteen is such a great age. Steely Dan, a group named after a dildo in William Burrough's Naked Lunch sang Hey Nineteen,
Way back when in 67
I was the dandy
Of Gamma Chi
Sweet things from Boston
So young and willing
Moved down to Scarsdale
And where the hell am I
Hey Nineteen
No we can't dance together
No we can't talk at all
Please take me along
When you slide on down
Hey Nineteen
That's 'Retha Franklin
She don't remember the Queen of Soul
It's hard times befallen
The sole survivors
She thinks I'm crazy
But I'm just growing old
Hey Nineteen
No we got nothing in common
No we can't talk at all
Please take me along
When you slide on down
The Cuervo Gold
The fine Colombian
Make tonight a wonderful thing
We can't dance together
No we can't talk at all
Amanda Plum is nineteen and little does she know. By the end of this summer, she will shake her head, smile and return to Rutgers a different girl. Here's what happened.
Classes ended on May 2nd and exams were completed by May 13th. Mandy's summer plans to study six weeks in Italy were quashed when her Dad, Mort, lost his Wall St. job. Mort was old at fifty-five, was dispensable, and was replaced by a twenty-three year old graduate of Pace-Manhattan. Mort had brittle, dry and ugly gray rim hair surrounding a chrome dome. The Pacesetter had a shiny, full crop of black hair. Good hair always beats bad hair. Youth always beats age. New ideas always beat stale ones. So it goes. And the kid's salary is half of Mort's. Nice company that Morgan and Stanley. Keep it fresh.
With cash tight at the Plums, the sixty-two Benjamins for a summer frolic in Italia, got reassigned. Mandy had no choice but to pick up a summer job. The Plums had a sea cottage. At least that's what they called it. It was a fifteen hundred square foot, unheated and poorly built, house located on Fifth Ave, in Ocean City, NJ. Mandy, who could put two and two together, made the best of her situation. She declared that she would move to the shore and work on the boardwalk. Since Mandy had already been living in New Brunswick for two years, neither Mort nor his ux, Mindy, gave a hoot. Besides, Mandy could be a PIA day in and day out. Living with a nineteen year old daughter, once she moves out, is a challenge.
In Ocean City, Passengula's Pizza is an Ocean City institution:
Vincenzo Passengula's great grandfather, Salvatore, emigrated from Sicily in 1912 on the Sicilian Prince, a rust bucket of a ship. He landed in Trenton and he began a small tomato pie store. Passengula's went from a small one oven establishment to two stores by the time he retired and he left the business to his son, Dominic. In 1970 Sal was long retired and Dominc was ready to retire too. They were eighty and sixty respectively. In that year Pietro, Vincenzo's father and Dominic's son, started the business in Ocean City. Pietro had a summer house there. He saw a need for good tomato pie. He also wanted to set his son up in a business. Vincenzo had tomato sauce in his veins. He worked hard and he has established two storefronts on the boardwalk. Passengula's Tomato Pies, PTP, has stores at Sixth and at Thirteenth Streets. The Thirteenth Street store is open year round. On the neon signs in front of the stores, in green, flashes, "Backed by Four Generations of Know How".
Yes, indeed, PTP prided itself on Trenton tomato pie. It is a thin crusted pie, not at all doughy. The toppings are simple, tomato sauce with a good dose of oregano and other herbs and cheddar cheese. Some other pizzas are better with enhanced toppings of various sorts. Not PTP. When you fold a cut of pie and hold it at a angle, with the tip downward, the oils of the cheese drip, drip on a well placed napkin. This pizza must be eaten hot, warm is ok, but cold sucks. And because the crust is so thin and crunchy, eating half a pie or four cuts is easy. Sooo easy.
Mandy stopped in for a cut at the Thirteenth Street location. She ordered a birch beer as well. It was around two on an overcast, seasonably cool Thursday afternoon. Three people working, the twirler, a red headed middle aged server with a melted face and Dominick. The pizza maker was about twenty-five. He had sinewy arms, good shoulders and a hint of a gut. He was wrapped up in the dough, pizza dough. He was moving trays of unbaked loaves around. Angie, who was well past her prime, peaked twenty-five years ago. Dominic was the manager. It said so on his tag. About forty-five, sparkly blue eyes and playful. Dominick took her order. He was wrapped up in dough, too, green dough.
The pizza was hot and good. The birch beer soda, which Mandy drank only at PTP's, complemented the pie nicely. She was thinking maybe another cut when Dom began to chat. Mandy is a looker. Nice everything would sum it up. Smart, too, not that that mattered to most. Dom, a man in a three kid lock down with Ginger, was always looking. It wasn't that Ginger didn't do her darn best to satisfy Dom, she did. Marriage with three kids, eight-twelve-fourteen, and a wife with some miles on her clock, bored Dom. No excuses for Dom, just lust.
Dominick worked out. He had no gut. He had a hint of an upper ab insertion on the right. Good hair, salt and pepper, albeit a shade towards kinky, and an olive complexion made his baby blues jump. He wasn't tall, the kind of southern Italian five-eight look so common in the lower boot. He would have been a real hairy bear but for the fact that he trimmed and shaved himself every day. Amanda would find this out in due course.
In no time at all, Dom offered Mandy a summer job. The joint would be jumping shortly. Memorial Day weekend, the tip off of the summer season at the Jersey shore, was a week away. Mandy bargained for $8 an hour plus tips. Dominick explained that the average tip take was $60 a day on weekdays, $90 on weekends. He went on to explain that he could schedule her for all weekend work. Mandy took the deal; she reasoned having off Mondays and Tuesdays would be ok. Since her shifts ended at midnight, she would have plenty of time to socialize afterwards. When you're nineteen, the evening doesn't start till midnight.
And so it went. Angie trained Mandy and she trained her well. PTP is an all cash business. No plastic. Get the money when you deliver the pie. Always give change in ones and keep a wad of ones in your pocket. Always work the men, they are the bigger tippers. Be quick, move the customers in and out. Upsize the drinks if possible. PTP prided itself on fast, efficient service and hot pies. Smile. Smile.
Mandy did notice an odd thing with the two cash registers. Both were old, not antiques, but not electronic, not computerized, the kind of money tills where you might expect to get a paper receipt. Neither register spit out any receipt. Amanda thought initially that they were simply out of paper. There were no receipts! Besides nobody wanted or ever asked for a receipt. It's not that PTP was doing a corporate lunch business! Hmmm.
The pizza business is pretty simple, especially when there is a limited menu, to wit, pizza and drinks. PTP had no other offerings, no burgers, no fries, no salads, no bottled drinks. The menu included pizza, one size, with some toppings like mushrooms, sausage, pepperoni but nothing like buffalo chicken, pineapples, ham, meatballs and other silly stuff. The drinks were all fountain type. At $2.50 a cut and eight cuts to a pie, that's $20 per pie. Mingya. If you bought a whole pie, the price was reduced to $16. Each topping added 20% to the price of a cut or a pie.
Mandy came to learn that the significant inputs to the business were flour, yeast, sauce, cheese, toppings, fountain drinks and some herbs for the sauce and the tables. Other supplies included paper plates, napkins, plastic utensils and waxed cups. The only way to measure sales was by the assessing the inputs. The registers were of no help. For example, so many sacks of flour should yield so much dough, which would yield so many pies, which would yield so much revenue. Mandy did notice that Dominick always signed for the deliveries of supplies. Dom always handed Querino an envelope when he left.
One day Dominick had to leave PTP's unexpectedly. His oldest son had been rushed to the Medic Quick on Ninth Ave. A fish hook was embedded in his thigh. The Quick needed to have a parent sign paperwork and insure payment. Ginger was at her sister's in Marmora with the younger kids, so he had to go. While he was gone, Amanda had to sign for a delivery. She found out that the number of bags of flour and cans of sauce delivered were greater than what the delivery invoice reflected. She counted them after Querino left. It made her wonder. Mandy apologized for not having the envelope for Querino, but he said it was no problem since the supply company was paid directly by bank transfer.
Well the Dominick and Querino thing went on twice a week. Amanda suspected that Dom was making extra cash out of the business. The unaccounted for extra flour and sauce yielded extra pies, the proceeds of which Dom was likely pocketing. Querino was pocketing the envelopes. How and where Q was getting the additional flour and sauce was unknown. The beauties of a cash business cannot be overestimated. If Amanda had been a conniving sort, she might have capitalized on her observations. She wasn't and she didn't. She was having a great summer, getting up late, beaching, working 4-12 and partying. Maybe not Italy, but darn good nonetheless.
Dominick always hit on Amanda, but when you're nineteen and as hot as she is, nearly every guy with a pulse is looking for something from you. She was used to it and she had a nice way of keeping the monkeys in their cages. One day, Dom, shirtless, stopped by the 5th Avenue cottage, while he was biking. Amanda, who was in the yard hanging out some damp beach towels, was surprised by the visit. She couldn't help but notice he had an essentially hairless body, like weightlifters, metrosexuals and some gays have. It's not that it was ugly, just noticeable. Amanda straight out told him she had no interest in him other than that of a server to a manager. Dom, who was not used to such frankness, had no comeback. To his credit, he got the message and he backed off. And so it went.
Towards the end of the summer, Amanda had taken up with Smith Evans. Smith was a regular at the Thirteenth Street PTP. Two cuts and a large coke, every time. He was a pleasant to look at tow head, thin and athletic. He worked for the State of New Jersey and he spent his weekends in Ocean City. Amanda and Smith had a lot in common except she drank coffee and he hated it. Lately, Smith was asking more and more about her job, her pay and her tips. He had also observed the cash registers. He commented how the prices of the cuts and drinks included the 7% NJ sales tax. Amanda said she had no idea about the taxes and the money, just that Dominick kept an eye on things and he handled the cash.
August came and soon it was the 20th. Amanda's last day. Nothing out of the ordinary; busy, good tips. Querino made a drop and left with an envelope. At midnight, Dom, Angie, the twirler and the other temporary hires on duty put a candle on a pepperoni special and they all had a short, but nice farewell. Angie, who had grown fond of Mandy, gave her an Ocean City refrigerator magnet. It wasn't the small cheap one either. It depicted the boardwalk at dusk. Dominic invited her back for next summer. She met Smith afterwards. They drank beer and watched the sun come up. They promised to keep in touch and see each other, although people always say stuff like that. Smith gave Amanda his business card.
Smith Evans
State of New Jersey
Department of Treasury
Sales Tax
Fraud Division
(609) 555-1212
Hmmm. Amanda wondered whether Smith had taken up with her as part of a sting? She wondered whether he was going dig around and investigate formally? She wondered whether Dominick would be exposed? She doubted all of it. She could tell. It was in his kiss. She knew what Smith was interested in. Hey Nineteen.
Way back when in 67
I was the dandy
Of Gamma Chi
Sweet things from Boston
So young and willing
Moved down to Scarsdale
And where the hell am I
Hey Nineteen
No we can't dance together
No we can't talk at all
Please take me along
When you slide on down
Hey Nineteen
That's 'Retha Franklin
She don't remember the Queen of Soul
It's hard times befallen
The sole survivors
She thinks I'm crazy
But I'm just growing old
Hey Nineteen
No we got nothing in common
No we can't talk at all
Please take me along
When you slide on down
The Cuervo Gold
The fine Colombian
Make tonight a wonderful thing
We can't dance together
No we can't talk at all
Amanda Plum is nineteen and little does she know. By the end of this summer, she will shake her head, smile and return to Rutgers a different girl. Here's what happened.
Classes ended on May 2nd and exams were completed by May 13th. Mandy's summer plans to study six weeks in Italy were quashed when her Dad, Mort, lost his Wall St. job. Mort was old at fifty-five, was dispensable, and was replaced by a twenty-three year old graduate of Pace-Manhattan. Mort had brittle, dry and ugly gray rim hair surrounding a chrome dome. The Pacesetter had a shiny, full crop of black hair. Good hair always beats bad hair. Youth always beats age. New ideas always beat stale ones. So it goes. And the kid's salary is half of Mort's. Nice company that Morgan and Stanley. Keep it fresh.
With cash tight at the Plums, the sixty-two Benjamins for a summer frolic in Italia, got reassigned. Mandy had no choice but to pick up a summer job. The Plums had a sea cottage. At least that's what they called it. It was a fifteen hundred square foot, unheated and poorly built, house located on Fifth Ave, in Ocean City, NJ. Mandy, who could put two and two together, made the best of her situation. She declared that she would move to the shore and work on the boardwalk. Since Mandy had already been living in New Brunswick for two years, neither Mort nor his ux, Mindy, gave a hoot. Besides, Mandy could be a PIA day in and day out. Living with a nineteen year old daughter, once she moves out, is a challenge.
In Ocean City, Passengula's Pizza is an Ocean City institution:
Vincenzo Passengula's great grandfather, Salvatore, emigrated from Sicily in 1912 on the Sicilian Prince, a rust bucket of a ship. He landed in Trenton and he began a small tomato pie store. Passengula's went from a small one oven establishment to two stores by the time he retired and he left the business to his son, Dominic. In 1970 Sal was long retired and Dominc was ready to retire too. They were eighty and sixty respectively. In that year Pietro, Vincenzo's father and Dominic's son, started the business in Ocean City. Pietro had a summer house there. He saw a need for good tomato pie. He also wanted to set his son up in a business. Vincenzo had tomato sauce in his veins. He worked hard and he has established two storefronts on the boardwalk. Passengula's Tomato Pies, PTP, has stores at Sixth and at Thirteenth Streets. The Thirteenth Street store is open year round. On the neon signs in front of the stores, in green, flashes, "Backed by Four Generations of Know How".
Yes, indeed, PTP prided itself on Trenton tomato pie. It is a thin crusted pie, not at all doughy. The toppings are simple, tomato sauce with a good dose of oregano and other herbs and cheddar cheese. Some other pizzas are better with enhanced toppings of various sorts. Not PTP. When you fold a cut of pie and hold it at a angle, with the tip downward, the oils of the cheese drip, drip on a well placed napkin. This pizza must be eaten hot, warm is ok, but cold sucks. And because the crust is so thin and crunchy, eating half a pie or four cuts is easy. Sooo easy.
Mandy stopped in for a cut at the Thirteenth Street location. She ordered a birch beer as well. It was around two on an overcast, seasonably cool Thursday afternoon. Three people working, the twirler, a red headed middle aged server with a melted face and Dominick. The pizza maker was about twenty-five. He had sinewy arms, good shoulders and a hint of a gut. He was wrapped up in the dough, pizza dough. He was moving trays of unbaked loaves around. Angie, who was well past her prime, peaked twenty-five years ago. Dominic was the manager. It said so on his tag. About forty-five, sparkly blue eyes and playful. Dominick took her order. He was wrapped up in dough, too, green dough.
The pizza was hot and good. The birch beer soda, which Mandy drank only at PTP's, complemented the pie nicely. She was thinking maybe another cut when Dom began to chat. Mandy is a looker. Nice everything would sum it up. Smart, too, not that that mattered to most. Dom, a man in a three kid lock down with Ginger, was always looking. It wasn't that Ginger didn't do her darn best to satisfy Dom, she did. Marriage with three kids, eight-twelve-fourteen, and a wife with some miles on her clock, bored Dom. No excuses for Dom, just lust.
Dominick worked out. He had no gut. He had a hint of an upper ab insertion on the right. Good hair, salt and pepper, albeit a shade towards kinky, and an olive complexion made his baby blues jump. He wasn't tall, the kind of southern Italian five-eight look so common in the lower boot. He would have been a real hairy bear but for the fact that he trimmed and shaved himself every day. Amanda would find this out in due course.
In no time at all, Dom offered Mandy a summer job. The joint would be jumping shortly. Memorial Day weekend, the tip off of the summer season at the Jersey shore, was a week away. Mandy bargained for $8 an hour plus tips. Dominick explained that the average tip take was $60 a day on weekdays, $90 on weekends. He went on to explain that he could schedule her for all weekend work. Mandy took the deal; she reasoned having off Mondays and Tuesdays would be ok. Since her shifts ended at midnight, she would have plenty of time to socialize afterwards. When you're nineteen, the evening doesn't start till midnight.
And so it went. Angie trained Mandy and she trained her well. PTP is an all cash business. No plastic. Get the money when you deliver the pie. Always give change in ones and keep a wad of ones in your pocket. Always work the men, they are the bigger tippers. Be quick, move the customers in and out. Upsize the drinks if possible. PTP prided itself on fast, efficient service and hot pies. Smile. Smile.
Mandy did notice an odd thing with the two cash registers. Both were old, not antiques, but not electronic, not computerized, the kind of money tills where you might expect to get a paper receipt. Neither register spit out any receipt. Amanda thought initially that they were simply out of paper. There were no receipts! Besides nobody wanted or ever asked for a receipt. It's not that PTP was doing a corporate lunch business! Hmmm.
The pizza business is pretty simple, especially when there is a limited menu, to wit, pizza and drinks. PTP had no other offerings, no burgers, no fries, no salads, no bottled drinks. The menu included pizza, one size, with some toppings like mushrooms, sausage, pepperoni but nothing like buffalo chicken, pineapples, ham, meatballs and other silly stuff. The drinks were all fountain type. At $2.50 a cut and eight cuts to a pie, that's $20 per pie. Mingya. If you bought a whole pie, the price was reduced to $16. Each topping added 20% to the price of a cut or a pie.
Mandy came to learn that the significant inputs to the business were flour, yeast, sauce, cheese, toppings, fountain drinks and some herbs for the sauce and the tables. Other supplies included paper plates, napkins, plastic utensils and waxed cups. The only way to measure sales was by the assessing the inputs. The registers were of no help. For example, so many sacks of flour should yield so much dough, which would yield so many pies, which would yield so much revenue. Mandy did notice that Dominick always signed for the deliveries of supplies. Dom always handed Querino an envelope when he left.
One day Dominick had to leave PTP's unexpectedly. His oldest son had been rushed to the Medic Quick on Ninth Ave. A fish hook was embedded in his thigh. The Quick needed to have a parent sign paperwork and insure payment. Ginger was at her sister's in Marmora with the younger kids, so he had to go. While he was gone, Amanda had to sign for a delivery. She found out that the number of bags of flour and cans of sauce delivered were greater than what the delivery invoice reflected. She counted them after Querino left. It made her wonder. Mandy apologized for not having the envelope for Querino, but he said it was no problem since the supply company was paid directly by bank transfer.
Well the Dominick and Querino thing went on twice a week. Amanda suspected that Dom was making extra cash out of the business. The unaccounted for extra flour and sauce yielded extra pies, the proceeds of which Dom was likely pocketing. Querino was pocketing the envelopes. How and where Q was getting the additional flour and sauce was unknown. The beauties of a cash business cannot be overestimated. If Amanda had been a conniving sort, she might have capitalized on her observations. She wasn't and she didn't. She was having a great summer, getting up late, beaching, working 4-12 and partying. Maybe not Italy, but darn good nonetheless.
Dominick always hit on Amanda, but when you're nineteen and as hot as she is, nearly every guy with a pulse is looking for something from you. She was used to it and she had a nice way of keeping the monkeys in their cages. One day, Dom, shirtless, stopped by the 5th Avenue cottage, while he was biking. Amanda, who was in the yard hanging out some damp beach towels, was surprised by the visit. She couldn't help but notice he had an essentially hairless body, like weightlifters, metrosexuals and some gays have. It's not that it was ugly, just noticeable. Amanda straight out told him she had no interest in him other than that of a server to a manager. Dom, who was not used to such frankness, had no comeback. To his credit, he got the message and he backed off. And so it went.
Towards the end of the summer, Amanda had taken up with Smith Evans. Smith was a regular at the Thirteenth Street PTP. Two cuts and a large coke, every time. He was a pleasant to look at tow head, thin and athletic. He worked for the State of New Jersey and he spent his weekends in Ocean City. Amanda and Smith had a lot in common except she drank coffee and he hated it. Lately, Smith was asking more and more about her job, her pay and her tips. He had also observed the cash registers. He commented how the prices of the cuts and drinks included the 7% NJ sales tax. Amanda said she had no idea about the taxes and the money, just that Dominick kept an eye on things and he handled the cash.
August came and soon it was the 20th. Amanda's last day. Nothing out of the ordinary; busy, good tips. Querino made a drop and left with an envelope. At midnight, Dom, Angie, the twirler and the other temporary hires on duty put a candle on a pepperoni special and they all had a short, but nice farewell. Angie, who had grown fond of Mandy, gave her an Ocean City refrigerator magnet. It wasn't the small cheap one either. It depicted the boardwalk at dusk. Dominic invited her back for next summer. She met Smith afterwards. They drank beer and watched the sun come up. They promised to keep in touch and see each other, although people always say stuff like that. Smith gave Amanda his business card.
Smith Evans
State of New Jersey
Department of Treasury
Sales Tax
Fraud Division
(609) 555-1212
Hmmm. Amanda wondered whether Smith had taken up with her as part of a sting? She wondered whether he was going dig around and investigate formally? She wondered whether Dominick would be exposed? She doubted all of it. She could tell. It was in his kiss. She knew what Smith was interested in. Hey Nineteen.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Mex
PETA would have protested, for sure, thought Sammy. He laughed and realized that Uncle Mex, aka Uncle Glazer, had no idea about People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. And even if he knew what this group stood for, it would matter little to him. When you're ninety there's only so much you care about. For Mex, bodily functions and the Trenton Giants might be one and two. Sammy was visiting the nonagenarian on a bright May morning. Samuel Politieri was waiting for Glazer to complete his seventh mictatory episode of the morning. While waiting for the lavie door to open, Sam was looking at the black and white of the 1950 Trenton Giants hanging in the front room. The Giants were in line standing behind a seated bevy of ladies wearing fur coats. It must have been some sort of minor league promotion.
In old style manual typewriter typeset the photo was dated. Umm, Sammie was ten years from birth and Mex was thirty years old in 1950. The picture was grainy but it was easy to pick the apple of Mex's idolization. Willie Mays was easy to spot.
Mays is arguably the best baseball player ever. He played for the Giants organization from 1951 to 1972. The Giants left New York after the '57 season and Mays played most of his career in San Francisco. The end for Mays was ugly. In May 1972, the Giants traded Mays to the New York Mets, where he spent a season and a half as a shell of his former greatness. He must have needed the money. Sadly, the Glazer still talks about Mays sitting the bench for the Mets. He remembers it so well because Glazer and a few cronies from the Italo-American club went up to Shea to see the Mets and Mays. Mays didn't play. The Mets lost. Mex hated the Mets.
In 1950, Glazer was a married man with two sons. His wife Rita was a spitfire of a woman. She had exaggerated facial features, especially her nose and her lips. They looked like they were Mr. Potato Head attachments that were too big for the potato. All put together, these features made Rita look like a raptor. Sam could never get his eyes off of her whenever he saw her. She was, well, weird looking. Too bad the nose and lips were dominant traits, the sons both looked like Rita. The family portrait that used to hang in the front room depicted a dark straight haired man, looking as if he came from south of the border with three birds of prey. That picture made you think some people just shouldn't breed.
Mex worked at Trenton Pottery. In those days, Trenton was a force in the pottery and china world. He was a glazer. He also worked during the 1950 baseball season at Dunn Field. Dunn was built in 1936. It was a slightly sloped baseball field with wooden stands that looked like they could be aflame at any time. Mex had a green thumb and he was the turf man at Dunn. He kept that grass as green as the back of a sawbuck and as thick as Rita's hair. And Rita was one hairy woman.
Dunn was the home to several teams, but the most famous was the Trenton Giants. From 1946 through the 1950 seasons, the Trenton Giants, played at Dunn Field. Trenton was the Class B affiliate of the New York Giants in the Interstate Baseball League. And it was in 1950 that the Giants signed Willie Mays and assigned him to Trenton. Back then there were few black players. The arrival of Mays got the city going. Mays was so good that the racial issue took a back seat to his ability. Leo Durocher, Mays' first major league manager said of Mays, "...he could hit, hit with power, run, throw, field and light up a room..." Mays captured the city and Mex. Despite the fact that Mays played only one season in Trenton, that one summer lasted Mex a lifetime.
Dunn Field was demolished after the 1950 season. Mex's career as a turf man ended. The Trenton Giants were no more. The Penn Fruit company acquired the land and built a food store on the spot where Mays played. No memorials were placed. Penn Fruit folded and failed and now nothing of note occupies the brightest spot in Mex's memory. And when Mex dies, so will that spot. Life is fleeting and evanescent. So there.
In 1963 Mex took up with a sharp tongued Jewish woman he met at a card game. At forty-three, Mex was still on his game when Judy flashed him that look. That deep, engaging look a woman flashes at a man that causes him to tumess. Judy, herself, had three baked and a soon to be cuckolded, droll husband. No matter the two, the raptor, the three and the cuckold, Mex and Judy dove in head first. Quite a scandal back then, but when the dust settled everyone found their water marks. Sammy has no real recollection of the scandal, but he heard the story so many times from his father, Vito, that he thinks he was there. Vito was Glazer's brother. Glazer was the only one in the family with straight, black hair. Hair like a Mexican.
Judy got a lump, a little lump at first. It seemed to come and go, but this was denial. It never actually went, it just came and stayed. It got bigger and finally when her bra was so ill fitting that anyone could have diagnosed it, she went to get checked out. It was 1998, modern medicine was in place. A mastectomy, lymph node dissection, radiation and chemotherapy. All really useless inasmuch as Judy died in January 2000. Mex says to this day that at least she got to bang pots. She was actually so sick that New Years Eve that she was asleep by PM 9. Mex's memory had some gaps.
The Mexican and Judy never went legal, although most everybody thought they were man and wife. No they were man and woman. Mex was eighty years old at Judy's service. None of their respective five kids came nor did the raptor or the cuckold. In their defense, none of the kids was local, the raptor was in an aerie for the aged and the cuckold had Alzheimers. Mex's few remaining family members and Italo-American compadres made an appearance. Sammy was a rock. Judy had no family, none. It was an empty funeral. At least it went fast, that how Jews did funerals, fast.
For the last ten years Sammy would visit Glazer once or twice a week. Glazer still drove. He had 1988 Buick with faded blue paint and faded seats. The car looked like an ice blue ghost. Geezer dents marked the sides and the front and rear bumpers. A headlight was burned out but it didn't matter. Mex only drove on sunny days at midday. When you're old, you can do what you want. Sam brings Mex to his house for holidays. Mex is lucky to have Sam.
Today Sam is pacing in the front room. Mex has to piss so many times, especially in the morning, that it is hard to get him out of the house. The Borders Book Store on Nassau Park Boulevard in Princeton is having a book signing at noon. The author, James S. Hirsch, will be there with a special guest. The Book is titled, Willie Mays: The Life, The Legend. Sammy hurries Mex out the door and into his car. Once he gets Mex in the car, he runs back into the house. He takes the black and white off the wall. Sammy is hoping to get the special guest to sign a book and the photo. Mex is going to love this! So there.
In old style manual typewriter typeset the photo was dated. Umm, Sammie was ten years from birth and Mex was thirty years old in 1950. The picture was grainy but it was easy to pick the apple of Mex's idolization. Willie Mays was easy to spot.
Mays is arguably the best baseball player ever. He played for the Giants organization from 1951 to 1972. The Giants left New York after the '57 season and Mays played most of his career in San Francisco. The end for Mays was ugly. In May 1972, the Giants traded Mays to the New York Mets, where he spent a season and a half as a shell of his former greatness. He must have needed the money. Sadly, the Glazer still talks about Mays sitting the bench for the Mets. He remembers it so well because Glazer and a few cronies from the Italo-American club went up to Shea to see the Mets and Mays. Mays didn't play. The Mets lost. Mex hated the Mets.
In 1950, Glazer was a married man with two sons. His wife Rita was a spitfire of a woman. She had exaggerated facial features, especially her nose and her lips. They looked like they were Mr. Potato Head attachments that were too big for the potato. All put together, these features made Rita look like a raptor. Sam could never get his eyes off of her whenever he saw her. She was, well, weird looking. Too bad the nose and lips were dominant traits, the sons both looked like Rita. The family portrait that used to hang in the front room depicted a dark straight haired man, looking as if he came from south of the border with three birds of prey. That picture made you think some people just shouldn't breed.
Mex worked at Trenton Pottery. In those days, Trenton was a force in the pottery and china world. He was a glazer. He also worked during the 1950 baseball season at Dunn Field. Dunn was built in 1936. It was a slightly sloped baseball field with wooden stands that looked like they could be aflame at any time. Mex had a green thumb and he was the turf man at Dunn. He kept that grass as green as the back of a sawbuck and as thick as Rita's hair. And Rita was one hairy woman.
Dunn was the home to several teams, but the most famous was the Trenton Giants. From 1946 through the 1950 seasons, the Trenton Giants, played at Dunn Field. Trenton was the Class B affiliate of the New York Giants in the Interstate Baseball League. And it was in 1950 that the Giants signed Willie Mays and assigned him to Trenton. Back then there were few black players. The arrival of Mays got the city going. Mays was so good that the racial issue took a back seat to his ability. Leo Durocher, Mays' first major league manager said of Mays, "...he could hit, hit with power, run, throw, field and light up a room..." Mays captured the city and Mex. Despite the fact that Mays played only one season in Trenton, that one summer lasted Mex a lifetime.
Dunn Field was demolished after the 1950 season. Mex's career as a turf man ended. The Trenton Giants were no more. The Penn Fruit company acquired the land and built a food store on the spot where Mays played. No memorials were placed. Penn Fruit folded and failed and now nothing of note occupies the brightest spot in Mex's memory. And when Mex dies, so will that spot. Life is fleeting and evanescent. So there.
In 1963 Mex took up with a sharp tongued Jewish woman he met at a card game. At forty-three, Mex was still on his game when Judy flashed him that look. That deep, engaging look a woman flashes at a man that causes him to tumess. Judy, herself, had three baked and a soon to be cuckolded, droll husband. No matter the two, the raptor, the three and the cuckold, Mex and Judy dove in head first. Quite a scandal back then, but when the dust settled everyone found their water marks. Sammy has no real recollection of the scandal, but he heard the story so many times from his father, Vito, that he thinks he was there. Vito was Glazer's brother. Glazer was the only one in the family with straight, black hair. Hair like a Mexican.
Judy got a lump, a little lump at first. It seemed to come and go, but this was denial. It never actually went, it just came and stayed. It got bigger and finally when her bra was so ill fitting that anyone could have diagnosed it, she went to get checked out. It was 1998, modern medicine was in place. A mastectomy, lymph node dissection, radiation and chemotherapy. All really useless inasmuch as Judy died in January 2000. Mex says to this day that at least she got to bang pots. She was actually so sick that New Years Eve that she was asleep by PM 9. Mex's memory had some gaps.
The Mexican and Judy never went legal, although most everybody thought they were man and wife. No they were man and woman. Mex was eighty years old at Judy's service. None of their respective five kids came nor did the raptor or the cuckold. In their defense, none of the kids was local, the raptor was in an aerie for the aged and the cuckold had Alzheimers. Mex's few remaining family members and Italo-American compadres made an appearance. Sammy was a rock. Judy had no family, none. It was an empty funeral. At least it went fast, that how Jews did funerals, fast.
For the last ten years Sammy would visit Glazer once or twice a week. Glazer still drove. He had 1988 Buick with faded blue paint and faded seats. The car looked like an ice blue ghost. Geezer dents marked the sides and the front and rear bumpers. A headlight was burned out but it didn't matter. Mex only drove on sunny days at midday. When you're old, you can do what you want. Sam brings Mex to his house for holidays. Mex is lucky to have Sam.
Today Sam is pacing in the front room. Mex has to piss so many times, especially in the morning, that it is hard to get him out of the house. The Borders Book Store on Nassau Park Boulevard in Princeton is having a book signing at noon. The author, James S. Hirsch, will be there with a special guest. The Book is titled, Willie Mays: The Life, The Legend. Sammy hurries Mex out the door and into his car. Once he gets Mex in the car, he runs back into the house. He takes the black and white off the wall. Sammy is hoping to get the special guest to sign a book and the photo. Mex is going to love this! So there.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
The Safe
Summer of 1968, June. A hot, humid and buggy, Friday evening. It was sticky. His skin moisture couldn't evaporate enough to cool Anthony, so he took to fanning himself with a folded up sports section of the Trenton Times. This didn't help much, but he did it anyway. He was off for the summer, having finished his third year at Glassboro State College. He was planning on becoming a biology teacher. Viet Nam, the war, hung over him like a miasma. His cousin, Skipper, graduated from Elizabethtown College last year and now was in Saigon. Ant wanted no parts of Viet Nam. No parts.
Rocco Balasiero was a robust, overweight apple of a man. He had a gut, which poked out and looked a big balloon. It was tight, not fatty. It seemed that if you stuck a pin in his bay window, Rock would fly around the room. Back then people didn't know that the apple body habitus put you at risk for heart disease. And Rocco didn't know then that he would die of a massive heart attack in 1991. Maybe if he did, he would have dieted and stopped smoking cigarettes. Nah, he probably wouldn't have. Rocco was Anthony's dad.
Rock drove a 1965 forest green Oldsmobile Dynamic 88. It was equipped with a 425 cubic inch Rocket engine and a white gut. It got about twelve on a gallon, but who cared. Gasoline was thirty cents for a gallon. As the Rocker pulled into the red stone driveway, the front end of the Olds was up in the air. This was due to the weight in the trunk. Antney thought there was something amiss. He was an observant young fellow. This quality plus his memory were his two claims to above average.
Rocco was red faced and he had beads of sweat on his forehead. He had a habit of sweeping his index finger of his right hand across his forehead and of flicking the sweat water wherever it landed. Since Rock was always sweating, he was always flicking water here and there. He even perspired in the winter. Consequently, he never wore a coat except in the dead of winter, when he donned a Members Only gray windbreaker. The kind of breaker you might wear when it was fifty degrees. When you're a balloon about to burst, you stay hot.
The trunk lid popped open. Rock triggered the remote trunk release button, which the General Motors engineers placed in the glove box. Rocco liked this kind of gadgetry. As the lid rose, the orangish streams of light from the street lamp at the end of the driveway outlined a square, solid looking box, well seated in the cavernous trunk. Back then, cars were big and they had big trunks. This box, upon closer inspection, had a door with a handle and a dial thingy, which was the lock for this safe. A safe?
Security, Lock & Safety Company was embossed on a plate which was affixed to the door. Although Rocco and Anthony didn't know it then, the safe was made of concrete. Anthony would discover this fact in 2008. This turn of events changed what was shaping up as another hum drum evening to a night to remember. Rocco told Anthony he had to chill the safe for a while. No explanation, no description, no nothing, just chill it. Ant had lots of questions, but back then you did what you were told.
The back yard of the Balasiero property extended back one hundred feet. Rockstar's idea of chilling was burying. He wanted to bury the safe. He wanted to bury it at the back end of the property line, as if it wouldn't so much belong to them. Anthony, the observer, reckoned the safe must be hot. Why else did it need to be chilled? The two of them muscled the bulky concrete cube out of the trunk, but they promptly dropped it on the ground. That bad boy must have weighed two hundred pounds. How the safe ever landed so neatly into the trunk was a mystery. Ant did note that when the safe hit the ground, the door, which was unlocked, opened. The safe was empty. He mustered up the courage to ask his Dad about the curiosity on the red stones. The only response he got was a shrug. And that's the only response he would ever get, ever.
Rocco directed Ant to dig a hole, a big hole at that, to plant the safe. In the meantime, he headed over to Arnold Stang's to borrow a hand truck. Stang wasn't Arnold's real last name, but Rocco named everybody something. Arnold Stang was, indeed, a real person. He was a comic actor born in 1918. He died in 2009, one year after the safe was exhumed. Stang, the neighbor, had an appliance delivery business. He carried a hand truck in his delivery truck. He gladly loaned it to Rocco to "move his refrigerator". Rocco's lies flowed freely that night.
Ant dug and dug. He hit water at three feet. The Balasiero property was a swamp. When they pushed the safe into the mud it sank slowly. It didn't go too far down, but enough so that they could cover it with three or four inches of dirt. And there it sat, day after day after month after year for forty years. Neither Rocco nor Anthony ever mentioned it again, not even once. Along the line, Anthony thought that Rocco would take care of it, get rid of it, do something with it. He never did. When Rocco passed in 1991, the safe became the sole inheritance Ant got from Rock. Oh Boy.
The woman of the house, Curina, never knew. She lived in the house until she passed in late 2007. When Ant would visit his Mom, he would look into the yard, the yard where he learned to hit and field, and stare into the far right corner, where the safe reposed. Sometimes in wet weather, that part of the yard would be flooded and Ant would hope that the safe would rust and rust and collapse like the quarter panel of Rock's 1965 Oldsmobile did in 1970. Ant wanted that safe to go away.
When Curina died Antony had to deal with the house. He couldn't do much until the summer of 2008. On a sunny, seasonable June day he attacked. He dug around and after awhile found the safe. It felt hard and firm, not rusted and mushy as he had hoped. Again he hit water, the safe had been floating in this mud mess for forty years! He could see it and it looked like it did when it was planted. He tied a rope around it and he pulled. He forgot he and Rocco could barely budge it, but once he tried to move it, he quickly remember it sitting in the orange light on the red stones. He recollected how heavy it was. Probably heavier now since it was water logged and probably filled with water. Water weighs a lot.
Three college kids were next door, at Stang's old house. Stang, too, was long deceased but his grandson was a student at the College of New Jersey. Stang's widow, Gladys, still lived in the house. Matt and two friends had stopped by for lunch. Anthony stopped in to say hello to Gladys and he double seized. He wolfed down a baloney sandwich on Wonder and he nonchalantly asked the boys for a hand. He explained nothing, the boys asked nothing although they must have been more than a little curious as to how a safe was stuck in the mud. With that youthful muscle, the safe was secured on the rented hand truck and rolled to the curb. Cousin Zeke brought a pick up truck and took the safe away. It was Zeke who told Ant that the safe was made of concrete. Ant didn't ask and Zeke never said where the safe was going.
As Zeke pulled away, all of Anthony's energy drained from him. It was like he had no blood. Ant, who had become a doctor mostly to avoid Viet Nam, couldn't explain his condition. Only later, would he fully grasp the notion of closure. The safe was a link between Rocco and Anthony, a link which lasted longer than Rocco, a link which was now broken. Ant missed Rocco. So it goes.
Rocco Balasiero was a robust, overweight apple of a man. He had a gut, which poked out and looked a big balloon. It was tight, not fatty. It seemed that if you stuck a pin in his bay window, Rock would fly around the room. Back then people didn't know that the apple body habitus put you at risk for heart disease. And Rocco didn't know then that he would die of a massive heart attack in 1991. Maybe if he did, he would have dieted and stopped smoking cigarettes. Nah, he probably wouldn't have. Rocco was Anthony's dad.
Rock drove a 1965 forest green Oldsmobile Dynamic 88. It was equipped with a 425 cubic inch Rocket engine and a white gut. It got about twelve on a gallon, but who cared. Gasoline was thirty cents for a gallon. As the Rocker pulled into the red stone driveway, the front end of the Olds was up in the air. This was due to the weight in the trunk. Antney thought there was something amiss. He was an observant young fellow. This quality plus his memory were his two claims to above average.
Rocco was red faced and he had beads of sweat on his forehead. He had a habit of sweeping his index finger of his right hand across his forehead and of flicking the sweat water wherever it landed. Since Rock was always sweating, he was always flicking water here and there. He even perspired in the winter. Consequently, he never wore a coat except in the dead of winter, when he donned a Members Only gray windbreaker. The kind of breaker you might wear when it was fifty degrees. When you're a balloon about to burst, you stay hot.
The trunk lid popped open. Rock triggered the remote trunk release button, which the General Motors engineers placed in the glove box. Rocco liked this kind of gadgetry. As the lid rose, the orangish streams of light from the street lamp at the end of the driveway outlined a square, solid looking box, well seated in the cavernous trunk. Back then, cars were big and they had big trunks. This box, upon closer inspection, had a door with a handle and a dial thingy, which was the lock for this safe. A safe?
Security, Lock & Safety Company was embossed on a plate which was affixed to the door. Although Rocco and Anthony didn't know it then, the safe was made of concrete. Anthony would discover this fact in 2008. This turn of events changed what was shaping up as another hum drum evening to a night to remember. Rocco told Anthony he had to chill the safe for a while. No explanation, no description, no nothing, just chill it. Ant had lots of questions, but back then you did what you were told.
The back yard of the Balasiero property extended back one hundred feet. Rockstar's idea of chilling was burying. He wanted to bury the safe. He wanted to bury it at the back end of the property line, as if it wouldn't so much belong to them. Anthony, the observer, reckoned the safe must be hot. Why else did it need to be chilled? The two of them muscled the bulky concrete cube out of the trunk, but they promptly dropped it on the ground. That bad boy must have weighed two hundred pounds. How the safe ever landed so neatly into the trunk was a mystery. Ant did note that when the safe hit the ground, the door, which was unlocked, opened. The safe was empty. He mustered up the courage to ask his Dad about the curiosity on the red stones. The only response he got was a shrug. And that's the only response he would ever get, ever.
Rocco directed Ant to dig a hole, a big hole at that, to plant the safe. In the meantime, he headed over to Arnold Stang's to borrow a hand truck. Stang wasn't Arnold's real last name, but Rocco named everybody something. Arnold Stang was, indeed, a real person. He was a comic actor born in 1918. He died in 2009, one year after the safe was exhumed. Stang, the neighbor, had an appliance delivery business. He carried a hand truck in his delivery truck. He gladly loaned it to Rocco to "move his refrigerator". Rocco's lies flowed freely that night.
Ant dug and dug. He hit water at three feet. The Balasiero property was a swamp. When they pushed the safe into the mud it sank slowly. It didn't go too far down, but enough so that they could cover it with three or four inches of dirt. And there it sat, day after day after month after year for forty years. Neither Rocco nor Anthony ever mentioned it again, not even once. Along the line, Anthony thought that Rocco would take care of it, get rid of it, do something with it. He never did. When Rocco passed in 1991, the safe became the sole inheritance Ant got from Rock. Oh Boy.
The woman of the house, Curina, never knew. She lived in the house until she passed in late 2007. When Ant would visit his Mom, he would look into the yard, the yard where he learned to hit and field, and stare into the far right corner, where the safe reposed. Sometimes in wet weather, that part of the yard would be flooded and Ant would hope that the safe would rust and rust and collapse like the quarter panel of Rock's 1965 Oldsmobile did in 1970. Ant wanted that safe to go away.
When Curina died Antony had to deal with the house. He couldn't do much until the summer of 2008. On a sunny, seasonable June day he attacked. He dug around and after awhile found the safe. It felt hard and firm, not rusted and mushy as he had hoped. Again he hit water, the safe had been floating in this mud mess for forty years! He could see it and it looked like it did when it was planted. He tied a rope around it and he pulled. He forgot he and Rocco could barely budge it, but once he tried to move it, he quickly remember it sitting in the orange light on the red stones. He recollected how heavy it was. Probably heavier now since it was water logged and probably filled with water. Water weighs a lot.
Three college kids were next door, at Stang's old house. Stang, too, was long deceased but his grandson was a student at the College of New Jersey. Stang's widow, Gladys, still lived in the house. Matt and two friends had stopped by for lunch. Anthony stopped in to say hello to Gladys and he double seized. He wolfed down a baloney sandwich on Wonder and he nonchalantly asked the boys for a hand. He explained nothing, the boys asked nothing although they must have been more than a little curious as to how a safe was stuck in the mud. With that youthful muscle, the safe was secured on the rented hand truck and rolled to the curb. Cousin Zeke brought a pick up truck and took the safe away. It was Zeke who told Ant that the safe was made of concrete. Ant didn't ask and Zeke never said where the safe was going.
As Zeke pulled away, all of Anthony's energy drained from him. It was like he had no blood. Ant, who had become a doctor mostly to avoid Viet Nam, couldn't explain his condition. Only later, would he fully grasp the notion of closure. The safe was a link between Rocco and Anthony, a link which lasted longer than Rocco, a link which was now broken. Ant missed Rocco. So it goes.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Rose
Twenty-nine, she explained to anyone she could that she had twenty-nine of her factory installed teeth. Inasmuch as she is sixty-nine years of age, this is remarkable. And for Rose Sensibili, this is a claim to youth. Most of her friends had plastic choppers and those that didn't had filthy mouths. That's what Rose said about people who didn't share her genetically hard, white teeth. She had never had a cavity. She lost three wisdom teeth years ago over spacing issues. She declined the fourth yanking just because she could. She was stubborn.
Rose's long departed DNA donors both had good teeth, too. As does her only sibling, Rudolpho Sensibilo. He has only twenty-eight, a fact she needles him with to this day. The sibs do indeed spell their last names differently. When Rose's divorce to Ian McLaughlin came through ten years ago, the clerk, Sally Moore, at the Names and Games office of New Jersey messed up. "a", "e", "i", "o" are seemingly all the same in Italian surnames when your name is Moore. Funny how name changes and casino regulations ended up in the same department. New Jersey is known for its corruption and names and casinos are strange bedfellows. Rose tried to switch her new "o" for her old "i", but she would have to pay $65. No way. She was stubborn.
Dark Rose and Light Ian were married for thirty years. They looked like a modern interracial coupe long before such a look was de rigour. Rose wasn't just olive or coffee colored, she was pigmented almost black. She could easily go to a black person's hair salon and not be out of place. Well, except for her hair, which was as straight as a highway in Kansas. Oddly, both parents and Rudy had much lighter skin than Roe. Roe was teased unmercifully when she was a kid at St. Mike's High. Being interracial then wasn't cool. When she delivered her second daughter, Sylvie, the deceased Dr. Samuel Pitwell wanted to check some blood levels of melanocortin. This is a hormone produced by the pituitary gland, which stimulates pigment cells called melanocytes to produce melanin. The planted healer was on the money. Roe did have a pituitary abnormality, a small benign adenoma or tumor, but she refused the testing. Rose was stubborn.
Ian was what women would call a good man. He didn't do any bad stuff, like drink, carouse, gamble or even smoke. He worked his career as an internal docker for Big Brown. Although nobody seemed to know what that was, he brought home the bacon and a good benefits package to boot. He liked Roe's Italian sauce and he ate pasta like a Calabrian. His biggest vice was frozen dairy every night before bed. The worst time to eat, the Roaster would always tell him. Ian was stubborn.
When Roe was fifty-nine and Ian sixty, it hit the fan. The girls, Pinkie and Sylvie, were by that time twenty-eight and twenty-six, respectively. Both were married, each with two children and both ensconced in mostly white suburbia. When Rose used to visit Pinkie, the neighbors thought she was a cleaning lady. Stereotypes. Sadly, when it hit the fan, the marriage ended. Rose was bored and then some. She had desires. Her filthy mouthed friends said that was normal. As Rose Battimingo told Roe, the fire that brings us together can only burn so long. Be happy with the comfort of the warm ashes. Roe thought Rose was nuts and told her to stick the ashes. She was stubborn.
Rose forced Ian out . As is often the case with one working spouse, the support and alimony flow one way. Ian got tagged. Although he had planned on retiring when he was sixty-two, Judge Goldfarb's ruling would keep him working until he was seventy, at least. Ian refused to go legal in the divorce proceedings and defending himself, he had a fool for a client. Roe kept the house on Emory Ave. with the fig tree in the yard. Ian rented a room on Hudson Street. Although they were only two miles apart, they rarely ever saw one another. Ian ate more ice cream and got fat, Roe went to Dr. Marcuse.
Marcuse had billboard ads of large breasted freakish ladies all over Trenton. Their bassoons were grotesque. Rose, who had been tit less since birth, had a vision. It took a series of three adventures with the shady Marcuse to get up to a set of eight hundred cc balloons. Rose, who was a thin woman, looked as if she had gained twenty-five pounds. She looked whack, but she was happy. Marcuse did some liposuction on her thighs and a tummy tuck, too. Although she was thin, she had the sort of meltdown you might see near a Bessemer furnace. Just age and no exercise. And for more giggles, Marcuse lifted her entire face, so much that it looked like she was traveling in a car at sixty miles per hour with her head out of the window. Marcuse's final step was a set of trout lips that put her in danger at the beginning of fishing season.
Over the last decade Roe has had lots of men. Young ones, old ones, tall, ones, short ones, rich and poor ones, none was off limits. Her behavior troubled the girls, but there was nothing they could do. She was an embarrassment, since she insisted in bringing the male du jour to family events. The grand kids were confused, but how could they possibly understand. Ian would show up at these events from time to time. He had put on considerable weight and he barely spoke. He mostly grunted, nodded, half smiled and ate lots of ice cream.
Ian died about a year ago. He had a pint of Ben and Jerry's chocolate at bedtime. He awoke at AM 2 with heartburn. He took some Maalox and two Tums. He sat up in his blue velour Lazy Boy. That's where the Trenton cops found him late the next day. When he failed to punch in at Wal Mart, the manager sent out a posse. It's not unusual to confuse heartburn with a heart attack. Roe, for her part, said she had warned him about eating before bedtime. She said it was his fault. Maybe her ta-tas were doing the thinking?
Recently Rose Sensibili developed double vision. When she looked in the mirror she had four towers of power and two sets of pearlies. She tried to ignore it. She was stubborn. Only when she ran into a Wonder Bread truck on Clinton Ave. was she forced to do something. At the emergency department, Lisa Cadwalder, a resident at Capital Health Systems, ordered a head CT scan. Yikes, Roe had a golf ball where her pituitary should be. That old friend was not only making her dark, but also horny. The tumor, somewhere in Roe's symbiosis with it, began to urge her adrenal glands to ramp up production. For whatever the biology, her adrenals were cranking out as much testosterone as a forty year old man produces. Her behavior was, almost entirely, HORMONAL!
Roe's tumor was too big to remove surgically. The risk of resultant vision impairment too great. She did receive radiation. The tumor has shrunken to undetectable. The girls visit her almost every day. There's not too much left to play for Rose. She tends to her fig tree and her skin is getting lighter. And so it goes.
Rose's long departed DNA donors both had good teeth, too. As does her only sibling, Rudolpho Sensibilo. He has only twenty-eight, a fact she needles him with to this day. The sibs do indeed spell their last names differently. When Rose's divorce to Ian McLaughlin came through ten years ago, the clerk, Sally Moore, at the Names and Games office of New Jersey messed up. "a", "e", "i", "o" are seemingly all the same in Italian surnames when your name is Moore. Funny how name changes and casino regulations ended up in the same department. New Jersey is known for its corruption and names and casinos are strange bedfellows. Rose tried to switch her new "o" for her old "i", but she would have to pay $65. No way. She was stubborn.
Dark Rose and Light Ian were married for thirty years. They looked like a modern interracial coupe long before such a look was de rigour. Rose wasn't just olive or coffee colored, she was pigmented almost black. She could easily go to a black person's hair salon and not be out of place. Well, except for her hair, which was as straight as a highway in Kansas. Oddly, both parents and Rudy had much lighter skin than Roe. Roe was teased unmercifully when she was a kid at St. Mike's High. Being interracial then wasn't cool. When she delivered her second daughter, Sylvie, the deceased Dr. Samuel Pitwell wanted to check some blood levels of melanocortin. This is a hormone produced by the pituitary gland, which stimulates pigment cells called melanocytes to produce melanin. The planted healer was on the money. Roe did have a pituitary abnormality, a small benign adenoma or tumor, but she refused the testing. Rose was stubborn.
Ian was what women would call a good man. He didn't do any bad stuff, like drink, carouse, gamble or even smoke. He worked his career as an internal docker for Big Brown. Although nobody seemed to know what that was, he brought home the bacon and a good benefits package to boot. He liked Roe's Italian sauce and he ate pasta like a Calabrian. His biggest vice was frozen dairy every night before bed. The worst time to eat, the Roaster would always tell him. Ian was stubborn.
When Roe was fifty-nine and Ian sixty, it hit the fan. The girls, Pinkie and Sylvie, were by that time twenty-eight and twenty-six, respectively. Both were married, each with two children and both ensconced in mostly white suburbia. When Rose used to visit Pinkie, the neighbors thought she was a cleaning lady. Stereotypes. Sadly, when it hit the fan, the marriage ended. Rose was bored and then some. She had desires. Her filthy mouthed friends said that was normal. As Rose Battimingo told Roe, the fire that brings us together can only burn so long. Be happy with the comfort of the warm ashes. Roe thought Rose was nuts and told her to stick the ashes. She was stubborn.
Rose forced Ian out . As is often the case with one working spouse, the support and alimony flow one way. Ian got tagged. Although he had planned on retiring when he was sixty-two, Judge Goldfarb's ruling would keep him working until he was seventy, at least. Ian refused to go legal in the divorce proceedings and defending himself, he had a fool for a client. Roe kept the house on Emory Ave. with the fig tree in the yard. Ian rented a room on Hudson Street. Although they were only two miles apart, they rarely ever saw one another. Ian ate more ice cream and got fat, Roe went to Dr. Marcuse.
Marcuse had billboard ads of large breasted freakish ladies all over Trenton. Their bassoons were grotesque. Rose, who had been tit less since birth, had a vision. It took a series of three adventures with the shady Marcuse to get up to a set of eight hundred cc balloons. Rose, who was a thin woman, looked as if she had gained twenty-five pounds. She looked whack, but she was happy. Marcuse did some liposuction on her thighs and a tummy tuck, too. Although she was thin, she had the sort of meltdown you might see near a Bessemer furnace. Just age and no exercise. And for more giggles, Marcuse lifted her entire face, so much that it looked like she was traveling in a car at sixty miles per hour with her head out of the window. Marcuse's final step was a set of trout lips that put her in danger at the beginning of fishing season.
Over the last decade Roe has had lots of men. Young ones, old ones, tall, ones, short ones, rich and poor ones, none was off limits. Her behavior troubled the girls, but there was nothing they could do. She was an embarrassment, since she insisted in bringing the male du jour to family events. The grand kids were confused, but how could they possibly understand. Ian would show up at these events from time to time. He had put on considerable weight and he barely spoke. He mostly grunted, nodded, half smiled and ate lots of ice cream.
Ian died about a year ago. He had a pint of Ben and Jerry's chocolate at bedtime. He awoke at AM 2 with heartburn. He took some Maalox and two Tums. He sat up in his blue velour Lazy Boy. That's where the Trenton cops found him late the next day. When he failed to punch in at Wal Mart, the manager sent out a posse. It's not unusual to confuse heartburn with a heart attack. Roe, for her part, said she had warned him about eating before bedtime. She said it was his fault. Maybe her ta-tas were doing the thinking?
Recently Rose Sensibili developed double vision. When she looked in the mirror she had four towers of power and two sets of pearlies. She tried to ignore it. She was stubborn. Only when she ran into a Wonder Bread truck on Clinton Ave. was she forced to do something. At the emergency department, Lisa Cadwalder, a resident at Capital Health Systems, ordered a head CT scan. Yikes, Roe had a golf ball where her pituitary should be. That old friend was not only making her dark, but also horny. The tumor, somewhere in Roe's symbiosis with it, began to urge her adrenal glands to ramp up production. For whatever the biology, her adrenals were cranking out as much testosterone as a forty year old man produces. Her behavior was, almost entirely, HORMONAL!
Roe's tumor was too big to remove surgically. The risk of resultant vision impairment too great. She did receive radiation. The tumor has shrunken to undetectable. The girls visit her almost every day. There's not too much left to play for Rose. She tends to her fig tree and her skin is getting lighter. And so it goes.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Musical Chairs
Musical chairs, now's there's a game. Luigi Bompeniero called it il gioco della sedia (the chair game) in his Italian neighborhood. And in the Philippines, it's called, Trip to Jerusalem. No matter, it's played the same all over. A group of players walk around a set of chairs placed in a circular or similar arrangement. They move in unison until the music stops and they then scramble for a chair. Since there is one fewer chair than there are players, someone loses and that contestant is eliminated. The game goes on until only one player, the winner, remains.
Paulie DePresso, a philosopher of sorts, contends that all of life can be explained using the musical chairs metaphor. Paulie was a bright boy, but always a little off. His hobby in eighth grade was to memorize synonyms. It was impossible to fully understand what he was talking about most of the time. His twisted sentences were characterized by the overuse of words with similar meanings. For example, PDP might say, "Mortimer leered licentiously and wantonly and his lascivious ogling made Mary Kay feel randy." Strange stuff.
Paulie also played the drums, er, well he took lessons. He never actually made it to a band or anything, but he did develop the annoying habit of beating his fingers, hands, pencils, spoons or whatever to keep the beat. One spring day in his eighth grade class with Sister Mary Matilda substituting for Sister Mary Lucille, Paulie took to beating his fingers on the desk. It was what you might call an internal beat inasmuch as there was no audible music. Mary Matilda blew higher than Old Faithful after her first request to stop went unheeded. She made Paulie stand behind a low bookcase and "play" for the class. To every one's surprise, Paulie used two foot long rulers as drumsticks and beat out the rhythm to Dream Lover by Bobby Darin. He started to sing and by the time he finished the first line the class joined in singing...
Ev'ry night, I hope and pray
A dream lover will come my way
A girl to hold in my arms
And know the magic of her charms
(Chorus:)
Because I want a girl
To call my own
I want a dream lover
So I don't have to dream alone
Dream lover, where are you
With a love oh so true
And a hand that I can hold
To feel you near when I grow old?
(Repeat chorus)
(Bridge:)
Someday--I don't know how
I hope you'll hear my please
Some way--I don't know how
She'll bring her love to me
Dream lover, until then
I'll go to sleep and dream again
That's the only thing to do
Until my lover's dreams come true
Mary Matilda had to call in fourth grade teacher Mary Margaret and Vice Principal Mary Philomena to quiet the class. The tri-Marys beat the party down and restored Catholic order. Paulie was sent off to eraser duty and the rest of the class had to write "I have been discourteous" two hundred and fifty times. It got worse before it got better. Paulie threw all of the erasers for grades second through eighth on the roof. Mr. Howarth, the school custodian had to be dispatched to the roof. What a mess.
Paulie viewed life as a struggle, one against the other. He contended that everybody was moving through life playing musical chairs. Most of the time people move in unison listening to the nice music. Every once in awhile and quite unpredictably the music stops. At that point, if you don't have a chair, you're eliminated. Eliminated might mean killed, died, fired, maimed, bankrupted, cuckolded, oh you see what Paulie means. In short, you lose. And things can get ugly when you are fighting for that chair. Once the music stops, it can be quite a battle. Life or death.
Speaking of life or death, Paulie would live and die with the play of the New York Giants. Football, not baseball. Baseball was too tame and docile a game. Paulie liked his musical chairs in your face and rough. In 1960, football was a minor sport compared to baseball. It was nothing like the extravaganza it is today. Paulie's favorite player was Alex Webster, #29. Webster had a solid, but not spectacular career. Drafted by the Redskins in the eleventh round in 1953, he didn't make the team. Paulie would say the music stopped and Webster had no chair. He was out. But Webster was determined. He played a year in Canada for the Montreal Alouettes and then he was picked up by the Giants. He had a nice career, making the Pro Bowl twice. When the music paused in 1964, the Giants released him. At that point Webster had no chair.
By February of 1964 the British invasion had captured Paulie. The Beatles changed the music world. When they landed at John F. Kennedy airport on February 7, 1964 they looked like this,
On February 9th the group played the Ed Sullivan show, live. It is said forty per cent of Americans were tuned in. Paulie sucked it all in like a parched sponge dropped in a pool of water. Big problems arose when he grew his curly hair out. The Beatles had, for the times, scandalously long hair. They wore it so that it looked moppish. Paulie's hair curled as it got longer so that it resembled an Afro more than a mop. He even went so far as to go to a black people beauty salon to have a straightening done. He thought he looked cool, most of his peers thought he looked weird. His choice. Father Singultus, the principal of All Souls High School, suspended Paulie for unruly hair.
It's not that Cyril Singultus didn't try to avoid suspending Paulie. No matter though, Paulie was not getting his hair above the collar and off his ears. Cyril, who had been a rebel himself, called Maria DePresso in for a face to face to face. There was no fourth face. Paulie's father, Guydon, had taken off with another woman years ago. He now lived in Ohio and had three more Paulie's. Guy never paid attention to Paulie and Paulie always wondered why his father hated him. He did indeed dislike him and no one knows why. Perhaps it was the mistaken pregnancy and the shotgun wedding. Maria never talks about it. Poor Paulie.
The meeting didn't go well. Despite trying all avenues of working it out, Paulie dug in his heels. Maria pled with Paulie, she pled with Cyril, she might have well pled to Winston Churchill. One week, out of school, come backed trimmed or face expulsion. Had the music stopped? Did Paulie have a chair?
Cooler heads ultimately prevailed and before the week was out Paulie went to Cholly DeLia's barber shop. Cholly, who was a boyhood friend of Guydon, liked the kid and even felt sorry for him. Paulie never played Little League ball. Cholly thought that if Guy had stayed with the callipygeus Maria, Paulie might have been a good second baseman. Every boy needs a dad. Cholly didn't know that the kid disliked baseball, but what does it matter now. Cholly made quick work of the mop on Paulie's head.
The spirit is a funny thing. It is the energy of life, the soul, the fire, the passion, the core of creativity, the spunk, the 'tude. Paulie would like this kind of silliness, synonym slinger that he was. The spirit is fragile and in some cases downright frail. What spirit Paulie had, drained from him like the water in a back yard pool when you pull the plug. He was like Sampson, no hair no strength. Upon his return to All Souls, with his hair off his collar and ears, he had changed. And not for the better.
Paulie's life ebbed and flowed. School ended, the summer was unrewarding and school started again. Paulie was now a senior and people were asking him what he was going to do. Paulie had no idea and he had no desire. One crazy night in October, Paulie decided to visit his dad. He took thick-thighed Maria's '59 Chevy Bel Air. She had no idea about this. The car was known for its tear drop tail lights and bat wings. It has been postulated that when this model reaches eighty-five miles per hour the rear end starts to lift up. Who knows?
Guydon had set up shop in Ada, Ohio. This was and remains the home of the Wilson football manufacturing plant. Guy was a leather cutter and sometimes seam stitcher. It was a union shop and Guy made a decent buck. Not that he ever paid child support, he didn't. Guy's second wife, who could go pound for pound with Ree, never worked. She did bear three Guydonos, none of whom could ever be winners in life's game of musical chairs.
Paulie drove all night. He reached Ada, a postage stamp of a place, at noon. He tracked down the DePresso stead, knocked on a chipped, yellowed door and he met Judibeth. She received the drop-in visitor with the enthusiasm of person with a migraine prodrome. She didn't vomit, but she could have. She grunted a few "OK's" and "Yeah's" and she said she would get him. Guy was sleeping, he had worked the night shift. It was October and the footballs were flying out of Ada. The plant was on a twenty-four hour production schedule. Sadly, DAD, Paulie's DAD, was offput. He had no interest in his son. No interest. Guydon was an embarrassment to us all.
The two DePressos had a short talk on what could be called a belly porch. There must have been twenty coats of paint on the floor, ceiling and railings of that porch. They didn't sit, Judibeth did not offer refreshment and Paulie was not offered any accommodation. In short, this was a bad, bad visit. Paulie should not have gone to Ohio, but how could he have known. How could he have known that his father didn't care any more for him he might care to get the flu. Paulie realized he was persona non grata. So it went.
Paulie drove around awhile. Paulie thought that Ohio was even uglier than New Jersey. He stopped at Cropshire's Hardware. He had a plan. It took him awhile but he found some two inch hosing. He bought nine feet for $4.50. As he guided the Bel Air out of the parking lot, he saw a sign for the Wilson football plant. He followed the signs, all in the shape of a football. The parking lot was huge, too big for the plant. There were cars close up to the plant. Paulie parked the Chevy far out. The sun was at an angle making interesting shadows. He found a good AM station, at least one without static. He jammed the hose and tailpipe together and then ran the hose into the rear window. He then cranked the window as tightly as he could.
The radio and the hum of the engine were Paulie's companions. The smell of the exhaust was sickening, but Paulie was determined. The Beatles sang
Oh yeah, I´ll tell you something
I think you'll understand
When I say that something
I wanna hold your hand
I wanna hold your hand
I wanna hold your hand
Oh, please, say to me
You'll let me be your man
and please, say to me
You'll let me hold your hand
Now let me hold your hand
I wanna hold your hand
And when I touch you i feel happy, inside
It's such a feeling
That my love
I can't hide
I can't hide
I can't hide
Yeah you, got that something
I think you'll understand
When I say that something
I wanna hold your hand
I wanna hold your hand
I wanna hold your hand
And when I touch you I feel happy, inside
It's such a feeling
That my love...................................
For Paulie the music stopped! No one knows if he got a chair. We don't know where he went.
Paulie DePresso, a philosopher of sorts, contends that all of life can be explained using the musical chairs metaphor. Paulie was a bright boy, but always a little off. His hobby in eighth grade was to memorize synonyms. It was impossible to fully understand what he was talking about most of the time. His twisted sentences were characterized by the overuse of words with similar meanings. For example, PDP might say, "Mortimer leered licentiously and wantonly and his lascivious ogling made Mary Kay feel randy." Strange stuff.
Paulie also played the drums, er, well he took lessons. He never actually made it to a band or anything, but he did develop the annoying habit of beating his fingers, hands, pencils, spoons or whatever to keep the beat. One spring day in his eighth grade class with Sister Mary Matilda substituting for Sister Mary Lucille, Paulie took to beating his fingers on the desk. It was what you might call an internal beat inasmuch as there was no audible music. Mary Matilda blew higher than Old Faithful after her first request to stop went unheeded. She made Paulie stand behind a low bookcase and "play" for the class. To every one's surprise, Paulie used two foot long rulers as drumsticks and beat out the rhythm to Dream Lover by Bobby Darin. He started to sing and by the time he finished the first line the class joined in singing...
Ev'ry night, I hope and pray
A dream lover will come my way
A girl to hold in my arms
And know the magic of her charms
(Chorus:)
Because I want a girl
To call my own
I want a dream lover
So I don't have to dream alone
Dream lover, where are you
With a love oh so true
And a hand that I can hold
To feel you near when I grow old?
(Repeat chorus)
(Bridge:)
Someday--I don't know how
I hope you'll hear my please
Some way--I don't know how
She'll bring her love to me
Dream lover, until then
I'll go to sleep and dream again
That's the only thing to do
Until my lover's dreams come true
Mary Matilda had to call in fourth grade teacher Mary Margaret and Vice Principal Mary Philomena to quiet the class. The tri-Marys beat the party down and restored Catholic order. Paulie was sent off to eraser duty and the rest of the class had to write "I have been discourteous" two hundred and fifty times. It got worse before it got better. Paulie threw all of the erasers for grades second through eighth on the roof. Mr. Howarth, the school custodian had to be dispatched to the roof. What a mess.
Paulie viewed life as a struggle, one against the other. He contended that everybody was moving through life playing musical chairs. Most of the time people move in unison listening to the nice music. Every once in awhile and quite unpredictably the music stops. At that point, if you don't have a chair, you're eliminated. Eliminated might mean killed, died, fired, maimed, bankrupted, cuckolded, oh you see what Paulie means. In short, you lose. And things can get ugly when you are fighting for that chair. Once the music stops, it can be quite a battle. Life or death.
Speaking of life or death, Paulie would live and die with the play of the New York Giants. Football, not baseball. Baseball was too tame and docile a game. Paulie liked his musical chairs in your face and rough. In 1960, football was a minor sport compared to baseball. It was nothing like the extravaganza it is today. Paulie's favorite player was Alex Webster, #29. Webster had a solid, but not spectacular career. Drafted by the Redskins in the eleventh round in 1953, he didn't make the team. Paulie would say the music stopped and Webster had no chair. He was out. But Webster was determined. He played a year in Canada for the Montreal Alouettes and then he was picked up by the Giants. He had a nice career, making the Pro Bowl twice. When the music paused in 1964, the Giants released him. At that point Webster had no chair.
By February of 1964 the British invasion had captured Paulie. The Beatles changed the music world. When they landed at John F. Kennedy airport on February 7, 1964 they looked like this,
On February 9th the group played the Ed Sullivan show, live. It is said forty per cent of Americans were tuned in. Paulie sucked it all in like a parched sponge dropped in a pool of water. Big problems arose when he grew his curly hair out. The Beatles had, for the times, scandalously long hair. They wore it so that it looked moppish. Paulie's hair curled as it got longer so that it resembled an Afro more than a mop. He even went so far as to go to a black people beauty salon to have a straightening done. He thought he looked cool, most of his peers thought he looked weird. His choice. Father Singultus, the principal of All Souls High School, suspended Paulie for unruly hair.
It's not that Cyril Singultus didn't try to avoid suspending Paulie. No matter though, Paulie was not getting his hair above the collar and off his ears. Cyril, who had been a rebel himself, called Maria DePresso in for a face to face to face. There was no fourth face. Paulie's father, Guydon, had taken off with another woman years ago. He now lived in Ohio and had three more Paulie's. Guy never paid attention to Paulie and Paulie always wondered why his father hated him. He did indeed dislike him and no one knows why. Perhaps it was the mistaken pregnancy and the shotgun wedding. Maria never talks about it. Poor Paulie.
The meeting didn't go well. Despite trying all avenues of working it out, Paulie dug in his heels. Maria pled with Paulie, she pled with Cyril, she might have well pled to Winston Churchill. One week, out of school, come backed trimmed or face expulsion. Had the music stopped? Did Paulie have a chair?
Cooler heads ultimately prevailed and before the week was out Paulie went to Cholly DeLia's barber shop. Cholly, who was a boyhood friend of Guydon, liked the kid and even felt sorry for him. Paulie never played Little League ball. Cholly thought that if Guy had stayed with the callipygeus Maria, Paulie might have been a good second baseman. Every boy needs a dad. Cholly didn't know that the kid disliked baseball, but what does it matter now. Cholly made quick work of the mop on Paulie's head.
The spirit is a funny thing. It is the energy of life, the soul, the fire, the passion, the core of creativity, the spunk, the 'tude. Paulie would like this kind of silliness, synonym slinger that he was. The spirit is fragile and in some cases downright frail. What spirit Paulie had, drained from him like the water in a back yard pool when you pull the plug. He was like Sampson, no hair no strength. Upon his return to All Souls, with his hair off his collar and ears, he had changed. And not for the better.
Paulie's life ebbed and flowed. School ended, the summer was unrewarding and school started again. Paulie was now a senior and people were asking him what he was going to do. Paulie had no idea and he had no desire. One crazy night in October, Paulie decided to visit his dad. He took thick-thighed Maria's '59 Chevy Bel Air. She had no idea about this. The car was known for its tear drop tail lights and bat wings. It has been postulated that when this model reaches eighty-five miles per hour the rear end starts to lift up. Who knows?
Guydon had set up shop in Ada, Ohio. This was and remains the home of the Wilson football manufacturing plant. Guy was a leather cutter and sometimes seam stitcher. It was a union shop and Guy made a decent buck. Not that he ever paid child support, he didn't. Guy's second wife, who could go pound for pound with Ree, never worked. She did bear three Guydonos, none of whom could ever be winners in life's game of musical chairs.
Paulie drove all night. He reached Ada, a postage stamp of a place, at noon. He tracked down the DePresso stead, knocked on a chipped, yellowed door and he met Judibeth. She received the drop-in visitor with the enthusiasm of person with a migraine prodrome. She didn't vomit, but she could have. She grunted a few "OK's" and "Yeah's" and she said she would get him. Guy was sleeping, he had worked the night shift. It was October and the footballs were flying out of Ada. The plant was on a twenty-four hour production schedule. Sadly, DAD, Paulie's DAD, was offput. He had no interest in his son. No interest. Guydon was an embarrassment to us all.
The two DePressos had a short talk on what could be called a belly porch. There must have been twenty coats of paint on the floor, ceiling and railings of that porch. They didn't sit, Judibeth did not offer refreshment and Paulie was not offered any accommodation. In short, this was a bad, bad visit. Paulie should not have gone to Ohio, but how could he have known. How could he have known that his father didn't care any more for him he might care to get the flu. Paulie realized he was persona non grata. So it went.
Paulie drove around awhile. Paulie thought that Ohio was even uglier than New Jersey. He stopped at Cropshire's Hardware. He had a plan. It took him awhile but he found some two inch hosing. He bought nine feet for $4.50. As he guided the Bel Air out of the parking lot, he saw a sign for the Wilson football plant. He followed the signs, all in the shape of a football. The parking lot was huge, too big for the plant. There were cars close up to the plant. Paulie parked the Chevy far out. The sun was at an angle making interesting shadows. He found a good AM station, at least one without static. He jammed the hose and tailpipe together and then ran the hose into the rear window. He then cranked the window as tightly as he could.
The radio and the hum of the engine were Paulie's companions. The smell of the exhaust was sickening, but Paulie was determined. The Beatles sang
Oh yeah, I´ll tell you something
I think you'll understand
When I say that something
I wanna hold your hand
I wanna hold your hand
I wanna hold your hand
Oh, please, say to me
You'll let me be your man
and please, say to me
You'll let me hold your hand
Now let me hold your hand
I wanna hold your hand
And when I touch you i feel happy, inside
It's such a feeling
That my love
I can't hide
I can't hide
I can't hide
Yeah you, got that something
I think you'll understand
When I say that something
I wanna hold your hand
I wanna hold your hand
I wanna hold your hand
And when I touch you I feel happy, inside
It's such a feeling
That my love...................................
For Paulie the music stopped! No one knows if he got a chair. We don't know where he went.
A Long Tall Girl Sends No Letter
 |
| Tuesday Weld |
Tuesday is the worst day of the week. Nothing, that's Tuesday. Gus wondered why anyone would name their kid Tuesday, but the only Tuesday he could think of was Tuesday Weld*. Her real name is Susan Ker Weld. She got to Tuesday from a nick name, Tu Tu. Married three times, Dudley Moore was her second. Noteworthy for her affairs, she even did Elvis. She used to be hot. Lots of movies, where is she now? Gus didn't much care.
Still got to make it to Friday, but G-man knew not to think that far ahead. Hump day, gotta get through hump day.
On Friday, at six he would be picking up Vince for the weekend. Ex wife and mother, Loretta got the best of Gus and custody of Vince. Gus got agita, alimony payments, child support and every other weekend. He loved Vince as much as a fifty-nine year old dad could love a son, a son who was already taller than him. Vince is ten years old. Other than Vince, he has no real family. His planted parents had only one good shot in them, Gus.
When Augustus Lathrop Fittipalermo was twenty he thought he would be dead at sixty. For him, sixty introduces itself on December 28th of this year, eight months and nineteen days away. As he puts down another shot of cheap whiskey at the Villalba Bar, he rethinks dead at sixty and changes it to dead at seventy. Why not, he can change the game anytime he wants, he was named after the great Roman emperor Augustus Caesar. Besides, that gives him more time to spend with Vincenzo and more of chance to see him to manhood.
The Villalba is a neighborhood bar. Small, dark and smelling like beer and smoke, it serves its purpose. Although Gus drinks at Villalba most days, he limits himself to two shots a day. Tito, the son of the owner, Placido Fuentes, is always happy to see Gus, the floor man. The Villalba is named after a Sicilian town. In the early part of the twentieth century, Villalbans immigrated to this corner of north Trenton, a working neighborhood with row houses and alleys. The Sicilians now ride on Cub Cadets to keep their lawns ready for golf, but the Villalba lives on. Same bar, but with a more diverse clientele, just like America.
Tito knows a lot about Floor. Bartenders are like that, like shrinks in a way. The barkeep has a huge, bald head. It's as if his dome, so smooth and shiny, can take in all of the information he hears and then process it, digest it and store it. His head is so big that once a doctor, who was lost and looking for directions, asked Tito if he had acromegaly.
That's not the kind of word you hear at the Villalba. Floor, who likes to look things up, told Tito that acromegaly was caused by the excess secretion of growth hormone after puberty and that the excess hormone made you look weird with big hands and a big head. Tito said he didn't look like Jose Canseco and, moreover, he had small hands. Ergo, Tito didn't have acromegaly.
Loretta is the root, the root of your problems. Those words echoed in the Gusser's buzzed brain. Tito believed that Gus made a big mistake when he married Loretta Derisio. Loretta was known as a long tall girl. Loretta, who was born in 1962, was conceived while the Carnations sang on WIBG AM...
A long tall girl (Oh-oh-oh-oh)
A long tall girl (Oh-oh-oh-oh)
A long tall girl (Oh-oh-oh-oh)
(Dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum)
Well, a long tall girl loves a little short boy
They walked together with a bundle of joy
The people used to laugh as they walked by
They said, (A long tall girl and a little peanut)
They didn't care what people did say
All they knew they were happy and gay
Yes, all day through they were happy and gay
Just that way (Long tall girl)
Oh, she was so tall (Long tall girl)
And that wasn't all (Long tall girl)
She had it all
(Long-long-long-long-long tall girl and a little short boy)
Well, they didn't care what the people did say
All they knew they were happy and gay
Yes, all day through they were happy and gay
A long tall girl and a little roofy (Long tall girl)
Oh, she was so tall (Long tall girl)
And that wasn't all (Long tall girl)
She had it all
(Long-long-long-long-long tall girl and a little short boy)
Well, a long tall girl loves a little short boy
They walked together with a bundle of joy
The people used to laugh as they walked by
They said, a long tall girl and a little meatball
A long tall girl (oh-oh-oh-oh)
A long tall girl (oh-oh-oh-oh)
A long tall girl (oh-oh-oh-oh)
Giacomo and Florentina Derisio had no idea while they humped and listened to the radio that their conceptus, who they would name Loretta, would grow up to be six feet and four inches tall. By the time she was ten, she was six feet even, she reached her full span at fourteen. Too bad girls didn't play basketball much back then. Oddly enough she was surrounded by shorties. Giacomo, 5'4", Florentina, 4'11", brother Shemo 5'5", sister Graziela, 5'2", first husband Augustus Caesar Fittipalermo, 5'6"and second husband Chai, 5'2". Those family portraits are a scream, with or without Gus and with or without Chai.
 |
| Here's how the group might appear |
The wacky genetics of the Derisios are still at work. Vincenzo, the conceptus of the shorty Gus and the longy Loretta, is six feet even at age ten. Vince is just like Loretta. If they could look into the future they would find out that Vince would grow to a height of six feet and seven inches. The family portrait of the Fittipalermos would have been a scream, too, if Gus and Loretta made it through.
Gus will never accept the fact that Loretta fell out of love with him. He gave her everything, everything a floor man could give. Sometimes everything isn't enough. So it goes.
Gus, with Tito's therapy, has accepted the death of his marriage. It has taken him eight years to realize that Loretta will not be sending him a letter, a letter asking him to come back. In 1967 the Boxtops with Alex Chilton as their lead singer had a hit song, The Letter.
Gimme a ticket for an aeroplane,
Ain't got time to take a fast train.
Lonely days are gone, I'm a-goin' home,
'Cause my baby just a-wrote me a letter.
I don't care how much money I gotta spend,
Got to get back to my baby again
Lonely days are gone, I'm a-goin' home,
'Cause my baby just a-wrote me a letter.
Well, she wrote me a letter
Said she couldn't live without me no mo'.
Listen mister can't you see I got to get back
To my baby once a-mo'--anyway...
Gimme a ticket for an aeroplane,
Ain't got time to take a fast train.
Lonely days are gone, I'm a-goin' home,
'Cause my baby just a-wrote me a letter.
Well, she wrote me a letter
Said she couldn't live without me no mo'.
Listen mister can't you see I got to get back
To my baby once a-mo'--anyway...
Gimme a ticket for an aeroplane,
Ain't got time to take a fast train.
Lonely days are gone, I'm a-goin' home,
'Cause my baby just a-wrote me a letter.
Because my baby just a-wrote me a letter.
 |
| Early Alex Chilton |
Alex Chilton was born on December 28, 1950. Yikes. Alex and Gus were born on the same day. Chilton died on March 17, 2010. Gus did not die. Alex had been having some shortness of breath and tiredness while cutting his grass. He did not have a Cub Cadet. He experienced these symptoms a few times the weeks before he was rushed to the emergency ward at a local New Orleans hospital. He could not be revived. The heart attack was fatal. His wife said that he did not seek out medical care earlier because he did not have health insurance. Gus does not have health insurance.
As Gus left the Villalba that wet, misty Tuesday night, he put in his ear buds. He moved his index finger around the dial of his iPod Nano until he reached "Boxtops". He played it again, The Letter. He may have accepted the rejection, the divorce, the pain and the loneliness but he most definitely had not yet swallowed. As soon as The Letter ended he was swinging the dial to the C's and find the "Carnations". A long tall girl (oh-oh-oh-oh)...
*Tuesday Weld's last film appearances were in 2001, Investigating Sex and Chelsea Walls. She sold her Montauk, Long Island house ($7.75 M) and her NYC apartment in 2009. She's now 67 and living a contemplative lifestyle. She is a private person who shuns publicity.
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