Displaced Snippets of Bayonne by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

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#13- S.A. Roberson A/K/A #7

Now, the site of condominiums, this was my grammar school.

There’s really nothing to say about it. But, here’s a picture, as seen from right across the street where I lived.

S.A. Roberson Grammar School; property of the author.

You’re welcome.

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#14- Florence, the Chicken Jailbreak, and the Advent of

“In Your Face” Politics

Florence and Kathy were sisters. Most likely they still are. Florence was the one with the brain. Most likely she still has one. Kathy was a few years older, but despite Florence having only been left back once, both were in my 5th or 6th grade class. Kathy used to sit right next to me and wore tight skirts which had a penchant to reach for the sky.

I don’t remember much of Florence from then, as I may have been preoccupied with other things. I don’t really understand that other than to conjure up some idea of an instinct, as I had not yet discovered Nirvana in the bathtub. I guess my angels told me that something was there.

The sisters’ family moved away, I assumed seeking the joys of the Levittown septic backups and its consequent greenery, as many did, either that year or the following one.

So, the story takes a kind of pause right here, until that fateful day when my tall basketball friend, 18 year old Sepanek and about 14-year-old-I were again outside ogling the female denizens of the town’s public pool in the middle of City Park through a chain link fence.

Sepanek saw Florence, and remembered her from some past time when he used to frequent Kathy’s gate. He called her over and while she was walking, he quickly said something to me like

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“Used to be with her big sister. Florence was sort of engaged to half retarded Benny until he did something that got him brought up to Meadowview in Secaucus. Florence has been broken hearted since.”

Footnote #3- Meadowville was a psychiatric facility. Regardless, in the early seventies, all inmates who did not drool on themselves or have two “assault with a deadly weapon”

allegations against them were liberated by the Liberals of the time, thereby many being put on their happy path to homelessness. Don’t ever think that Democrats have no fiscal responsibility. End of Footnote #3.

Florence got over to us and said a weak “Hi,” but was obviously despondent. You’ll have to get an idea of the lay of the land to understand what happens or doesn’t happen next.

Sepanek was 18-19 and on his last summer of goofing off. I knew him from PAL basketball. He was one of the biggest guys in town and about a foot taller than me. So, picture this. He and I were standing on the grass, which was two feet below the level of the paved pool area. You’ll further have to appreciate that Florence was wearing an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny bikini, and of most significance you have to visualize that whatever razor blades she may have had, they apparently did not work too well in

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Center City to my supreme adulation. What can a youngster do when a wet, marginally covered, infinitely armed octopus is all of two feet from his face, separated only by a chain link fence?

It looked friendly.

So over to the “not-so-readily-apparents;” I guess that Sepanek was trying to set me up with Florence, who he thought was either too young for him or that he was trying to make an indirect connection to have a step into a possible replay with Kathy. He was carrying the outside end of the conversation and might have been a bit annoyed with me for clamming up. I’m not certain but that unprovable conjecture seemed a reasonable interpretation of him shooting me quick daggers and making sideways drop kicks on my ankle. But after the “Hi” I was just staring at, confined to, and thinking about those two inch curly strands emanating from her frayed old bikini bottom. I mean what can one reasonably expect? The poor girl needed some help and my heart went out. Or something did, as she boldly put it right in my shy face only inhibited by that despicably cold chain link fence which had some aversion to true romance stories.

Or maybe this was just random crotch movement necessitated by something under her feet, a dull razor, or her sister constantly demanding immediate bathroom access. How could my tortured mind be sure? Besides, maybe she had a thing for wackos. Any notion of certainty was obliterated by Lemmy

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Caution. This would soon be a more common event as the near future produced up front feminists, but at this early time I was no doubt limited to thoughts of; “This is too good to be true.

This stuff just happens in movies. ....... Umm, okay; But Fellini does come reasonably close if you just read in a bit of what was cut back in those, non-triangular square days. I wish I wasn’t so shy.”

At some point I had sufficiently recovered from my mental problem, aided by a kicked ankle which was ready to completely capitulate and never again dunk, to be able to ask Florence’s healthy and many branched savannah bush if she and I might get together after the pool closed, at the far side which had no lights.

Footnote #4- In the compelling interest of dishonesty, the reader should understand that “at the far side which had no lights” was not communicated to Florence, and is only stated here in hopes of reader clarity, an admittedly ambitious goal.

In the actuality of the time, it was far too suggestive to openly state, as well as much too mutually understood to have any possible reason to state without simultaneously advertising one’s retardation; not “cool” until at least 1983. End of Footnote #4.

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The unlit far side was a great place to attain some semblance of privacy in a town infested with wall-to-wall-people-ing. I often went there on nights when I wanted to be alone and enjoyed the wonderful views of the moon playing shimmering reflections off the bay. Fifty feet away was that spot where people used to dump their old refrigerators and car parts. It probably helped the privacy aspect that people believed that rats populated the area. But, that was really just fear mongering. I must have been there fifty times and never saw one. Jeez. Rats don’t need refrigerators and car parts. Come on.

Use your head.

I was as attracted to Florence as one can be with a ground level view. Really. Later I’d discover that she looked like a movie star; that Brit star; Rita Tushingham. Pre-dating the conceptual wildness of Patti Smith, Rita made a number of sexy-intellectual-independent-free movies which found a miniscule, art-house, US audience for less time than Bergman.

In the future when I got glimpses of the rest of her this was confirmed beyond any doubt. But, at this point, I was still struggling with my cursed shyness, like a wishful turtle down under, consequently reticent to make any eye contact; with only the most noble and loving of intentions toward fuzzy Florence. I must in honesty confess that I think it was possible that my determining bottom line at the moment was that if I hadn’t said

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something or other Sepanek was going to break my leg and ass. I have been forever grateful for his implied threat of mayhem.

A miracle happened. A voice from above declined the dark side of the pool, but suggested that I meet her in the pool tomorrow in the light of the morning. It would have been nice if we could have seen things eye to eye, but we never did; and I was successful in showing that bothered me no end.

Florence had long brown hair ........ on her head! You’re absolutely disgusting. It clung to her noodle (Just grow up and stop it. Okay?) as we splashed and played at one side of the deep end of the pool trying our best to get some space for ourselves. I thought that she might have shared my taste for privacy, and thinking that we might have a big thing, no pun intended, in common, I mentioned it to her. She shook her head

“No,” but indicated her gray area when she said; “I just do it here,” oh boy, “as people congregate in the shallows and always piss in the water.” It was true. Up here we could float in abandon, still have a side to cling to, and only risked being disturbed by the infrequent splashes produced by a brave diver landing after takeoff from the high diving board in the center.

They always exited the pool after their display; but I never told Florence that they did, and in fact have adequate time to take a good leak while they did, as I was in love; especially

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when she’d sit on the edge and I’d try to make her delectably frayed slices feel better. She may have pissed in the water or the general vicinity, but she was so sweet I never mentioned it, as mentioning the harmless event might have become an “issue,”

but more importantly afforded it much too much importance.

We chatted a bit. I realized that her family had not relocated to Levittown and asked her about it. I found out that her family had never attempted to get to the promised land, but had merely skipped out on the rent, and found a new place on 23rd Street between the Boulevard and Avenue C, on top of

“Nunzio’s Penned Hens.” This put her in a different grammar school district, but she was now high school age. Since I had not seen her at public Bayonne High School, I was sure that she must be attending Holy Family Academy, the Catholic girl’s high school. She said no to that too saying that she went to #14 on 24th Street and got left back a few times because her mother wanted to keep her getting the free lunches. “She says I eat too much. How about you?”

Half of my shyness dissipated, and I said; “Oh wow. Never enough of the best stuff.” We got the passes to let us back in and went looking for a private spot to have a long lunch. We both ordered extra mustard.

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I have no idea what happened between Sepanek and Kathy, and never cared in the least. I never saw him around Florence’s and didn’t even think of it until just now.

For the first time I paid visits to a block with which I had been previously unfamiliar. Florence’s unchosen family abode was on one of Bayonne’s weirdest blocks. 23rd Street between Avenue C and the Boulevard was the bastion of car repair facilities and places which sold live chickens, the latter perhaps a throwback to the First Officially Recognized US

Depression. Her family’s apartment was the only residential holdout there, and a floor above “Nunzio’s Penned Hens.”

Probably because the market for live chickens had been in decline for a few decades, Nunzio wasn’t paying a whole lot of attention to his vocation. Possibly in a preview of a movie released a bit later; the resultant unlocked cages facilitated a mass chicken breakout. They seemed both tentative and anxious to stretch their legs on unknown 23rd Street, with no understanding of cars and traffic.

It was so sad that their few exhilhirating moments of freedom quickly turned them into roadkill. That they needed kind hearted protection is viewed by some as being contrary to their breakout. I don’t want to engage in the discussion, and am 100%

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certain that I’d never agree with these contrarians, realizing that the thought is irrelevant, as this can never happen again.

Worse, all too soon Florence’s betrothed was released from Meadowview after two weeks of observation, and I was back at the chain link fence. I heard that he was getting some free pills out of the deal, and despite taking them, Florence thought him more crazy than me.

My repetitive, lonely tendency to cry over what others might brag about became more observably pronounced. I didn’t need a state-of-the-art “analysis.” Little Anthony had already covered the territory.

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#15- Barbara Bigpolski at the Wading Pool Pre-school years, mom used to take me to a wading pool in City Park sometimes. I’d go in the water which was probably no more than 18 inches at the deepest part. Mom would stay out of the sun and sit with a few other women under a huge gazebo canopy lined with benches. I liked water and could stay there all day, but that apparently wasn’t possible for mom.

The worst thing about it was that when we were finished mom would stand me up on the benches, remove my wading trunks, and dress me back into street clothes. I had already developed some ideas about social proprieties and was exhibiting some of my shyness, and was consequently sure that everyone there was inappropriately looking at my woo. As this embarrassment went on for some time, I’m certain that I must have suggested alternatives to public nudity, but I don’t remember what they might have been, and any such plans were never adopted anyway.

On the worst day, a girl my age, I would later learn was named Barbara Bigpolski was there. She was bigger than me and did something I can’t recall which made me cry. She probably was splashing me, and I was certain that I was getting this abusive treatment because she had seen my woo. That’s the whole story, as mom took me out of the water, and changed me while I stood on

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the bench; and I’m sure that Barbara Bigpolski was looking at my woo as I saw her doing precisely that.

As Barbara aged she got pretty big and probably had forgotten all about my woo as we never spoke and she never seemed to be looking toward my clothed teenage body. She and another big friend eventually evolved to being girls who hung out by the men’s room entrance at the movie theatre on 31st Street and Broadway. Most everyone in Bayonne knew them and had given them nicknames I won’t state here out of a respect for females. Yet, when I was at the theatre in tandem with them, I would always hold it rather than risk having Barbara see my woo again.

Years later mom told me that Barbara got appointed to some high level local government job. The news was on the front page of the paper and somehow I was not surprised.

Mom asked me if I remembered Barbara from the wading pool and I said; “No.”

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#16- Reality or Some Reasonable Approximation Thereof I’d imagine that the reader might take this writer’s lies to be some sort of attempt to brag and make their life sound grandiose. The reader will make their own decision about that; but they might do well to consider this.

If one approximates the time covered for these events and compared it to the amount of time the writer was a teenager the result would be an infinitesimal portion of 1%, much akin to a brief highlight reel gathered from the “career” of a very less-than-ordinary, extremely forgettable, marginal pro most remembered for having an ability to hang on. The highlights may be true; as the all too brief moments are what is deemed more marketable as the party people will not tolerate a downer; for those incapable of adjusting for frequency; their incorrectness an unrecognized gift.

The majority of the time the writer spent with girls was in a group of guys and girls arguing about something like what was being played on the boombox, proper male attitudes about females, or trying to force a convincing guffaw over something which didn’t strike me as being the least bit funny.

This should ring a bell of instinctive truth as one recalls their biology class lessons, which assert that much of youthful

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animal behavior is preparation for the future. They just don’t tell you that the future rarely comes.

So difficult to accurately put feelings on paper or cyberspace. Off and on, my despondency was cured a little later, when I met my wife of 48 years. She has forbidden me to write of her, and I’ve done that for all those most adept at reading between a minimum of lines. She’s now pre-emptively worried about the health issues I ignore, and has gotten me the weed now legal in Washington State as a possible “cure.”

She is certain that if I have the time, the bullshit I write will at least re-attain the significance of my first self-published month, when the royalties came dangerously close to covering the property tax payment. Her trust and kindness have fulfilled me through the expression of her belief, especially as after having experienced a half century’s worth of relationship, I know that she will give me super-sized shit when she thinks it appropriate. Credibility is desperately sought now, but cannot be a possibly randomized, short term consideration.

The oddest of things is that the faith she shows in me; makes me feel unworthy of that faith. The easiest approach is to pretend that she is joking. ....... The only thing that I really know is that I trust and love her; and that the best thing I can do is to make her life better, and get enough royalties to cover

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the mortgage payment. I’m a tolerated failure, that preferable to an intolerable predator in my mind, and I hope hers, though I know that she sometimes wavers without saying so. Neither of us made, or would have made this shit.

Though you have no reason, reader; trust me, despite having heard that a billion times before. If you mean well there will be setbacks; too many setbacks for the most Pollyanna-ish of logicians to make any sense of. But, if you bravely or stupidly persist it will all work out. It’s just the derivative take on some sort of misperception which the scientists cannot explain otherwise. The bad times seem so much longer than the good; but they are likely not.

Didn’t some smart person say that time is relative?

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#17- Moe in the Little League Toilet

I really didn’t want to go here as the story itself will no doubt be interpreted as one suggestion which I did not intend.

But this is the entrée into an event which might serve as a convenient, logical ending to a haphazard book which will pop up later, and will seem to be of sufficient significance to have, by seeming chance, affected my entire life.

I’m sure that it’s some function of universal laziness or writer ineptitude.

I was 12 years old and in the Little League. I used to go to the field even when not playing to watch others play; especially the two girls who didn’t seem particularly lined of face, while one was precocious of breast. It truly was what brought me there on non-playing days, but like most times I was too shy to do anything other than watch the bigger one bounce when she got excited to see someone hit a liner between the outfielders. As a digression, I might note for the benefit of this chapter, my woo had already shown consistent signs of bathtub misbehavior.

There were adults in attendance, most all of them parents of players, team managers scouting the competition, or guys waiting to pick up five bucks for doing a crummy umpiring job on the next game.

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Except Moe. He was in his thirties, a bachelor, swarthy of complexion, not bad looking, and about five foot four. The biggest thing the adults noted about him was that he was a successful entrepreneur, operating a dry cleaning business somewhere near the railroad tracks on 8th Street.

I can’t personally attest to that, as I never wanted to go to 8th Street as the environs were the turf of a gang led by a triumvirate of Burke the Gimp, Frannie Dee, who approaching 30, was sometimes referred to as the oldest teenager in Bayonne, and relatively sane Richie Grywalski, who I knew somewhat, as probably the best one dimensional basketball player in town, when he wasn’t skipping games because of the blinding headaches.

I may have been cynically precocious to a fault when I made some note that it struck me as a bit unusual, that Moe, with all his female attracting assets, perhaps supplementable with lifts, was spending all his evenings watching little boys play baseball.

There was one ahead-of-it’s-time co-ed, gender tolerant, bathroom under the two story press box, scoring area, perennial card game, and hangout for severely ageing guys who claimed to recall each other’s former weighty sporting stature; much of that still obviously present in their bellies. Moe didn’t go there, but always chose to sit in the bleachers with the kind hearted, succinct player evaluating folks. They would call the

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ordinary “good,” and reserve other less complimentary estimations for those who might actually have professional potential. “He’s gonna be sumthin’ when he gets that breaker over” or “When he loses those rabbit ears ........ “ were common compliments difficult to explain as a non-troll to those who have not been there, other than saying that it may parallel any evaluation rendered using the highest of standards. In the literary world, this commonly interpreted as an inverse complimentary dynamic is reserved for those with the ability to be solicited for the inconvenience of getting five figures for potentially being able to add to the bullshit rendered on intelligencia through middle-brow popular TV; the highest award; DFW, Franzen, Saunders, too early DeLillo, elusive Gaiman, and maybe Green the recipients, even if in edited YouTube format, made necessary by DFW’s Hendrix reprise; that impossible to follow without the sympathetic crutch often provided by false humility, organized religion, or the mere mention of a Trumping position played against those holding no cards.

One day; I was using the facilities for all of a standing ten seconds, when Moe came in, and with his little guy in hand approached my bowl. Moe eyed me and seemed not to have humor in mind when he said; “We’re both men here. Aren’t we?”

I’d liked to have answered him with a deflecting equivocation, but I was a shocked 12 year old at the time, not

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yet a social-media sophisticate. Damn, at the time I didn’t even know that Plato was anything more than a minor character in a James Dean movie. I reacted with a possibly un-necessary rejection; the only possible tears not a ripple producing swimmer in the still unflushed water below. Not really, though this comment is undeniably prompted and quickly twisted by an overwhelming desire to be absurdly seen as another 69 year old, Corvette owning, 2018 hip person; thereby worthy of purchase with its lusted after thirty-five cent through two dollar purchase.

But I wasn’t quite sure at that 12 year old moment. As a matter of fact, my thingy just showed a reticence to pee. So I zipped up and left Moe with sole access to the bowl in needlessly intruded upon silence.

You may think that story isn’t shit, and I won’t argue strenuously against that. But if you keep on with this book, near the end, you’ll see that this event was more of a formative experience than prior potty training was; and probably the most significant event in my choice not to seek employment at the pickle factory in town. I hope you’ll all bear with me. If not, it’s also okay with me if you divert to Mary Karr’s late life discovery of Jesus.

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#18- Bayonne June 1, 2017 as per “The New York Post”

Rather than completely rendering the reader subject to that which attempts to depict the experience of one who lived there for 21 years in antiquity, I originally intended to put this reasonably current article here. It was written by a retail real estate agent with an associate on the Post, which surprise, surprise invited duplication has herein been consensually duplicated in the slight hope that it might portray something about Bayonne’s residential inventory, insofar as that may contribute to the physically unchanged “quality of life” which is of more meta relevance to the tail end of the second decade of the 21st century, at least in terms of price and bullshit.

Make your own judgements and pay right through your nose.

I changed my mind when I realized that it was no different in substance from the many “rah rah” articles you’ve seen, standardly penned by realtors. Its only possible twist was its focus on a mixed race gay couple who had moved there from

“artsy” Chelsea ten years prior, who had not yet been the victims of gender based, tribal intolerance. There was that incident with the restaurant which was temporarily out of quiche, but that was satisfactorily resolved through the owner’s kind gift of a free fruit medley.

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If you’d like the article’s details try googling “New York Post 6-1-17. If as interested as me, suffice to read the following bullet point synopsis of the lengthy article; 1) Population 65,000 Bayonne is the southernmost point on New Jersey’s “Gold Coast.”

2) Residents of Bayonne have now all acquired waterfront and city (meaning Manhattan) views, and easy public access to the grandeur.

3) Bayonne is now “ripe” for tons of high priced construction.

4) The addition of a Costco retail store is providing some sort of unexplained addition to the already abundant local cachet.

5) Bayonne is “humming,” that ostensibly having something to do with rumors of the re-opening of the Navy base.

6) Bayonne is a great buy. Its average house prices are half that of the $800,000 registered in adjacent Jersey City; which presumably has joyously been removed from the Federal Government’s list of top 10 slums in the nation.

7) The two gay ex-Manhattanites explained their motivation for moving to Bayonne. This included their loss of jobs, and the affordable amenities attendant to residing in the long defunct Maidenform Bra factory on Fourth Street. Absolutely Warhol-esque factory cool ahead of its time.

8) The Kushner Real Estate Group was said to be soon involving itself in Bayonne. Russia’s mob had a turf dispute with the

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third generation Bayonne Italian variety. This is expected to be resolved any day now, through Federal level laundering, pardons, and yuge largesse, with the promise of lucrative relocated connections.

9) Longtime residents such as Tsay and his husband are hoping more real estate means more grocery stores and eateries. “We want the town to change more and be more progressive,” Tsay says. “We want a Trader Joe’s. We want a Whole Foods. We want a Starbucks. There are none of those right now.”

Sorry to end the synopsis with a downer, but it was really Tsay’s fault. The NY Post real estate tout invited all to “share this article.” So, I sort of did that, at the same time attempting to spare the reader the oldest of yadda yadda BS.

Sometimes all one needs to become a prominent figure is the ability to keep a straight face during the farce. The writer is proud and confident that he has accomplished his goals, and done both sides a well-deserved dis-service.

Footnote #6. In the interest of readability, some changes were made to the grammar, but not content. End of Footnote #6.

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#19- Sounding; a Precursor to Rap

“Sound around them sounding grounds. Shit.” said Cheryl, stamping her feet and clapping her hands after she heard a particularly good one.

One of the irregular impromptu “sounding sessions” was underway in the schoolyard of #7 in 1961 Bayonne. It is not a racist comment to say that this event always had only black

“sounders” at the center. Along with the rest of the white people, I never participated in these contests, simply because we were totally outclassed.

“If yo nose get any wider, it gonna look like the hair is growing out of yo ears.”

Calls rang out from many of the watchers who had formed a circle around the two guys who were telling each other what they thought of them. The noise was words I’d usually find indecipherable as they blended together, “shit” the exception.

“Now you name Jones, las year it be Dorsey; befo that Miller. Ain’t there nobody but that honky mailboy Blum yo mama ain’t ....... ? The last word purposely trailed off.

Something like that was the closest to provoking an actual physical fight I ever saw. It was okay to say all kinds of

“mutha fuckas,” but a specific reference to someone’s mama entered dangerous territory. “Yo bitch so ugly that when she try

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to wash her face the muthafuggin water won’t get out the pipe”

struck me as if it should be borderline, though I never saw an adverse reaction from anyone other than the bitch.

I often wonder how long the “sounders” lasted on social media. By the time I got there, they mus bin fuggin ree low kated. Unowhumsayin?

Many of the black kids who went to #7 were not born in Bayonne. Their families had come up from the deep south. I say that to point out the possibility that this art form did not actually originate in Bayonne, though it might have. At the time I guess that I wasn’t much interested in history and never asked anybody.

Rhyming always added something to the cheers the comment commanded. You probably think it an easy thing to do, but it is not. The immediacy required by sounding left no time to google anything.

“Leon big head got dem giant lips which said dat dem eyelids mus be mufuggin lead to get dem slits dat gives duh Chink tits un-remediated fits when they try to find Leon dits.”

I suspect you have an idea of what was going on by now.

While its inclusion in this book guaranties a sales level countable on an amputee’s absent toes, it is the truth, and I don’t care. Its purpose is to recognize the as yet ignored contribution to music, literature, and poetry.

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If you think that not true, here’s an overt fuck you.

Hehehe.

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#20- Bayonne’s Renaissance- A Mayor not in the Mob I’m getting a bit ahead of myself here, but can’t help it because I’m bursting with the memory of the good news. I was about 22 at the time, married, and living elsewhere; when Mom called me to say that Bayonne had elected a mayor who was not Italian or a funeral director.

Not yet fully awake, I made the standard reply; “You’re shittin’ me.”

Mom said; “No. No bullshit. It’s in today’s goddam paper and they even have a picture of him. He’s skinny with a pencil neck, wears thick glasses, and looks like one of those faggot teachers you see at the colleges.”

I said; “Sounds like the real deal. How the fuck did that ever happen?”

I should note her that one of the reasons Mom always liked talking to me was because that I not only didn’t object to them, but that I used many of her favorite words. Other people and even Dad objected to them and just would not allow it. Dad was still going to church on Sundays by himself, probably figuring that if he keeps it up something good would happen; you know, the odds seemed in his favor. And he has that silly Catholic interpretation of the Ten Commandments which said that using words like fuck and shit, et al was some kind of sin.

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Personally, I think that he was just embarrassed to be out-cussed by a woman and had a thing for this big chick with a midget husband who went to mass the same time he did. Mom had allowed me to quit when I turned 16, saying that she only went before that to set a good example for me. ........ I think I digressed.

So anyway, she started wondering out loud how pencil-necked Mr. Rogers was going to be able to handle all the disreputable entrenched forces in Bayonne; especially that consortium of Polack funeral home owners and directors and that Italian monopoly on the lunchmeat stores. She thought that maybe Mr.

Rogers would be able to negotiate an honorable deal on the caskets and the liverwurst.

I wasn’t as optimistic, and started thinking of all those guys encased in the concrete at the bases of the bridges. But, I didn’t want to curb her enthusiasm by saying that. But come on.

You get your people saying that’s a myth, but one side of one of their fucking heads actually popped out due to erosion when I was about nine. Well, all right; they covered it back up quickly; but I saw the thing with my own eyes when Dad was trying to teach me baseball at County Park. He saw it too, but you know, he always likes to be non-committal on controversial matters, and used to ask me how I could be so sure that it wasn’t the pet monkey that cement contractor Gargullio got

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pissed at for throwing shit on his walls. He had a point. But, I’m digressing again.

I guess that basically Mom was considering the possibility of the dawning of the age of Aquarius, while I had already seen

“death of hippie” and Altamont; some kind of weird reversal there. It didn’t matter. All the questions and speculations were settled in three months when it was determined that Rogers was really Calabrese, a member of the lighter skinned, northern Italy mob, as one of the distraught liverwurst guys sang all over him when Rogers left his ass exposed during delivery negotiations with the Meat and Packing Union.

To tell you the truth, it was probably some vindictive bullshit as I knew from Tijo that those dark skinned Sicilians had a serious hatred for those “higher class” light skins from up north, and it didn’t take a whole lot to set things in motion; a darkie guy having a liaison with a whitie girl or vice-versa would get things moving well beyond the scope of this book; and Rogers had appointed one of those Sophia Loren standout types as his Minister of Ms.Information.

At any rate, Four Fingers Massiello, the guy Rogers-Calabrese had defeated in the Democratic primary was back in office. For those readers not yet sufficiently travelled to know Bayonne, the Democratic primaries are the race; as with 60,000-80,000 residents Bayonne has consistently hovered around 2,000-

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3,000 Republicans; commendably an indication of the town’s belief in freedom, democracy, the American way, and the inevitability of organized crime.

Normality once again reared its ugly head in 1971 Bayonne.

Beauty is in the eye of what the mob has told the beholder to see.

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#21- Arnold J. Friedman

I owe Arnold J. Friedman ........ something ....... Perhaps for an education ....... Perhaps for a great life lesson. We were classmates in either kindergarten or the first grade, I don’t remember. He was one of those kids who got a round stomach prematurely, and was shaped something like one of those large based cat toys that rock when you smack them. For some reason I never determined he also commanded the respect of always being called Arnold J. Friedman. In those days anyone else would have been called Arnie, Chubs, or some other term of overly familiar endearment.

Arnold J. Friedman and I had never spoken in class or any other time, for that matter. Then one memorable day I was standing in the schoolyard after lunch, waiting for the bell to ring when we’d all line up to go back in.

I saw Arnold J. Friedman rotunding in my direction. Arnold J. Friedman’s face showed neither warmth nor ill will. He may have been focusing upon the relocation his parents were soon to be undertaking. I saw this as an opportunity to make a new friend and took a step in Arnold J. Friedman’s direction. I may have also considered my obligation to appear social.

Arnold J. Friedman punched me right in my unprepared stomach and kept walking. It seemed to be quite an accomplished

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uppercut. If he didn’t become a boxer, he went against the grain of his natural abilities.

I recall going down on at least one knee with the wind completely knocked out of me for the first time.

Arnold J. Friedman and his family moved away soon thereafter. I was glad that the neighborhood had lost one of its vicious marauders.

But, wherever Arnold J. Friedman is today, I’d like to take this opportunity to thank Arnold J. Friedman for being the first to teach me not to drop my guard around anything remotely human in appearance.

It helped.

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#22- Senior Math

I did surprisingly well in junior year Algebra; a B+,

....... maybe a B, but no lower. Trust me. Middle aged + Mrs.

Wright was a stickler for getting the easy parts right and hammering in the formulas. That didn’t bother me anywhere near as much as the new wave of younger teachers who invariably expected class participation inclusive of pupil “insights.”

My problem with Mrs. Wright was one of logistics caused by the stupid people who are paid to work out efficient class scheduling. Bayonne High School was actually a large one housed in three different buildings; and my prior class was at the furthest point possible from Algebra.

It was impossible to get from one place to the other in the allotted five minutes. So, I was late every day, and I’m sure that rule bound Mrs. Wright took this “slight” personally and made deductions from my grade, as the tests were so easy, I probably got 100 on all of them.

I was not alone in my problem. This is not just some excuse made up by one person hoping to cover a personal inadequacy by advertising it. Not at all. There were 6-7 of us in the same boat; one of them Bernie, who had the distinction of being the only person to ever beat me in a bowling money match. He was a

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good friend though we rarely spoke; that a guaranty of losing one’s buzz.

In fact, had we followed school rules we’d have been even later. We were not supposed to leave the confines of the three buildings under the severe possible penalty of expulsion. To get from one to another we had to use the bridge between two of them, and take the undocumented risk of taking a fifty foot outside jaunt between the other two. The “bridge” existed only between two second floors, necessitated a congested traffic slowdown similar to that unnecessarily imposed at a lane reducing, unoccupied, road repair site with a fines doubled 15MPH speed limit, and was the most indirect route possible. We thereby got an insight into the secret of a totalitarian society; “Make everything illegal and enforce the law selectively.” It was either that or the manifestation of a desire to learn how one obtains a special pass.

So, in an attempt to not suffer one form of the ire of the authorities, we broke their rules by going outside to utilize the most direct route to Algebra. In retrospect this was not the wisest of choices, as we risked expulsion in order to try to avoid the lesser penalty of a lower grade in a math class, of consequence only to MIT aspirants. The only caveat I might imagine is that some of us smoked while outside, another

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“reason” for expulsion, but one which in these circumstances added no further potential penalty.

Despite her blackness, Mrs. Wright had chosen to be contrary to the easy, popular stances adopted and often

“enlighteningly” spouted at the drop of a chapeau by the majority of liberals. At the root she was a wicked operative of the oppressive system who imposed her views upon her class.

Having spent my grammar school years in a half black school, that was not a personal surprise at the time; and is just noted in recognition of gleaned libtard statements cheered by the current owners of “social” media and their petty dupes.

Footnote #5. This is actually an apology, hopefully marginally informative, the result of having recently watched TV for the first time in close to two decades. In the relative realm of social media, my oft criticized “Goodreads” gets an A+, prior personal objections true as GR has not yet attained perfection, but the result of uninformed “me bad” reactions to what can be seen as a simple setup done by any GR cretin so inclined and moderately well web versed. The “key” with which I was previously unaware is just a matter of being stupid enough to take the bait. A “social media” attack should never be responded to in kind, as the lack of time available for proper website investigation of similarly inconsequential site users,

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necessitates their scrutiny of whatever objectionable single post you wrote, with no regard to its supposed antecedents. So, if you take this stuff seriously, you would do well to consider your potentially contentious post in the very real context of it being seen and judged as a very limited and non-contextual, stand-alone statement.

You know that or state as such. Okay. My degree of belief gets nuanced, not-herein-commented-upon, and best left unsaid. If one expands on that line of thought, it might be viewed as a bit contentious, petty, or both.

What may not be petty is that the surfacing wannabe authorities do not consider GR to be a provider of social media; at least not one they choose to mention on their top six list, two of which no one ever previously heard of, confirming some of my suspicions or political views learned in Bayonne.

The “top” six standardly employ stringent and free-speech-intimidating policies. Much more tolerant Goodreads is a source of light in a technological return to the dark Ages. Their necessarily cursory policies may hate and delete me, but inconsequential me can still applaud their relative degree of

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import to a much larger picture; their lack of personal monetary influence perhaps a complicating non-issue.

Soar on, Goodreads. End of Footnote #5.

I had to choose a few electives for senior year, and to tell you the truth I wasn’t interested in any of them; no aspersions intended to be cast upon their shared relative degree of overall unimportance. Bookkeeping got my attention for a minute, because that’s one of the subjects that the sluts gravitated toward; like those tight skirted Bernardi twins from 19th Street who were a year ahead of me.

But, just like the Bernardi twins, I figured that the Bookkeeping sluts wore those thick glasses that if you got the right sideways angle made their eyes explode to bug proportions.

I guess it was my fault, as I was one of those stupid

“sensitive” guys who looked at their faces once in a while.

At the bottom line, in fear or boredom, I eventually opted for my usual calculating route, and took Senior Math, because I thought it would be easy. Boy, did I get a non-math based education. The course included calculus, geometry, and all that stuff with the sins, cosins, angles, lengths, triangles, squares, rectangles, and hypotenuses which I had not seen anywhere near the brick and concrete of 17th Street. I had

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directly interfaced with the incalculable meta beast, and discovered that the prospect of infinity had its limitations.

On top of that the competition was top notch as I had finally gotten into the smart class, which basically means that I was the only polack and was entirely surrounded by stylish Jews, whose parents had long ago taught them all the angles and their derivations.

I’m not complaining, mind you, as I had a seat at the furthest edge of the boys section and a small aisle away were a bevy of Jewish girls I didn’t previously know who were meticulous in their personal grooming. It wasn’t just makeup, they had those stockings which still looked like flesh but hid the bruises and mini-skirts were in style. And Omigod, leggy Martha Sonnenschein was only two feet away.

Words fail, and those legs never did. You know what I mean?

Once you get started thinking about it ......... Ah, shit; got something I gotta take care of.

Hi again. And I just knew that Martha was flirting with me as she’d always sit sideways on her seat, giving me the hint of a smile every time she crossed and uncrossed her legs. After about three weeks of this I got over my shyness and asked her something about her hypotenuse and cosin, and we got to be good friends.

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But, at the same time Senior Math was driving me crazy whenever I wasn’t looking at Martha’s support systems. Class standard operating procedure was that Mr. Goldfarb would chalk a triangle, a degree, a length, a rate of speed, or something like that and then turn to the class and ask; “How long will it take for “A” to meet “B?” I don’t like to brag about my inability or reticence to grasp some over-studied subjects, but I’d be sitting there thinking; “What the fuck?” while 2/3 of the class were almost ready to take off from Canaveral, with a hand in the air and an audible “Ooooo,” and an implied; “Oh please call on me Mr. Goldfarb; I know the answer. Ooh. Ooh. Please. Please.”

It was intimidating at first. The only other people who weren’t waving was fat-Shipitofsky-in-the-back-of the-room and the guys who sucked up to him for being the only Jew able to make the JV basketball team last year, ostensibly some injuries depleting his expected senior year advancement. But, hey, I’m not raggin’ on Ship. He had some trouble beyond eight feet, but he kept you honest, cause he’d give you one mother of a memorable shot if you came into his space with abandon.

After a while I became convinced that Goldfarb was selling the answers to the kids or their parents. No way, this was anything natural. I quit thinking about that when sweet Martha started to whisper the answers to me.

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Mr. Goldfarb was really a good guy. I didn’t have any easy way for Martha to help me on the tests; but Goldfarb set them up in a manner in which if you wrote down the givens correctly that was enough for a C; and I was cool with that. Hey, many people do a lot worse.

By now, you should know that I could easily make a reasonable case for perfection minus one in being distracted from the subject matter; and probably will when I figure out what the subject matter is. I’m open to absurd guesses as long as they are not painfully stupid.

I really got to like Martha better and better as the year progressed and thought about the possibility of marrying her.

One spaced out day I was talking to her and said; “This is so weird. You know, we act like we’re going to be together forever.

But, if you look at the record, that’s got about a chance in a million of happening.” I guess I was kind of in one of my patented depressions.

Martha brought me right out of it when she said; “I really don’t know what you’re talking about. Jewish girls are destined to marry some funny looking Jewish guy someday. That’s just the way it is. So, before the inevitable misery sets in we try to have all the fun we can.”

I had a million questions I didn’t articulate; maybe because Martha drew away my attention when she got one of those

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itches not curable with a scratch. I was sad again; and did my best to keep my tears close to my eyes; but managed to tough-it-out while feeling very used, as once again I kissed her unhypotenused, hirsute, and tasty right triangle.

For years, from time to time I’d consider departed Martha’s outlook; and always concluded that it was sadly wrong. Then when I was in my early twenties I went to work for a Jewish bank in Manhattan; 75% of the employees born Jewish; 25% of them still with the misery inducing, hopeful and loving dogma. I kept hearing the same “joke” from a myriad of “Jewish” guys: “How do you stop a Jewish girl from fucking?” The answer was; “You marry her.”

And what Martha told me then all made sense, in a flagellant sort of way.

Now, I'm sitting here wondering if this wasn't just me. You know, like every once in a while you just have to sneeze and it comes upon you quickly. You're down in the hole and can't quickly extricate your arms from under her ass, so best you can do is stop for a second and turn your head. It has its advantages in prolonging the event. No big shit most of the time, but if I had any complaints about her, Martha was a bit of a clean freak. She didn't mind if it came out just spraying her thighs, but if I got a green goober with some substance in the

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environs, she'd act all kinds of prissy. I mean I would lick the damn thing off, but maybe that made it worse. But there really is no better option, as I was kind of locked in place and didn’t want it to dry there. After a few prissy reactions, I found it both meta logical and physically neutral to conclude that Martha was just lovingly playing with me in anticipation of new heights-lows. I was never tempted to ruin the mood with words destined to turn off. I think she understood and appreciated this reaction, wanted it that way, and was happy to find me complicit. It’s just necessitated by the ancient story of mother taught female reticence which obliges the lovely ladies to register some historically documentable degree of necessarily safe reserve. I’ll stop here as fully explored, this subject is capable of prompting many of George Saunders’ short stories when at his peak. Suffice to say that the culinary approach seems to feed the hungry without sacrificing the interest of the tax payer, while minimizing “issues;” those becoming the bastion of cranks best avoided.

I mean there are some things that just sort of happen before, during, or after sex; and a good partner doesn't risk turning the other one off with an unnecessary reaction or condition. Martha and her followers, including my long term wifey, were the Queens and Courts of Pussy Farts and I'd just pretend that nothing happened; and nothing other than a brief

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zephyr did. Hurricane Florence had long ago blown over. It was just that it was talkin’ to me; a whisper of the glories of imperfectly seen mutual interest.

Besides, the ladies do talk among themselves of things which we backward, monkey-assed guys still consider to be taboo; the result being more friends, still unattainable on the best of

“social media.”

I've been thinking of writing about this, but can’t help but wonder if an expansion upon the “subject” might be too common for the wizened Millennial market I have learned to recently and properly say that I seek.

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#23- Prontnitski and Duprakowski

I really hated both these assholes; but was stuck with them on almost a daily basis during my grammar school years. Some moron paid to be government union incompetent at these things consistently put them in the “smart” class of a “dumb” school, as they also did me.

I thought that I’d do a short blurb on the assholes as it’s a lead in to something of much more significance. The duo always hung around together from fifth grade through eighth. The only funny thing I recall was that when two guys were exchanging words that might lead to a fight, Duprakowski used to yell out;

“Hit em,” and believe it or not that often ended the bullshit session. I was no big deal fighter, but got into one with Duprakowski once, and the first time I punched him in the head he fell to the ground crying and holding his ear like a genuine pussy; this prior to the premier of the “Peppermint” series, which actually did get my attention for two minutes. My ADD took over when I remembered Pam Grier.

Prontnitski got the reputation of being the toughest white guy at #7 through a lack of competition for the dubious honor and a better than average ability to push.

You see, half of #7 was black and many of them had been left back a few times, and there just ain’t no way that a 12

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year old honky is gonna be a match for a 16 year old nigga, especially when he wouldn’t even have been a match at identical ages.

So Prontnitski was pushing around white boys for a few years. He’s put his hands up by your shoulders and shove. No punches, that’s all. But, some people fell on the backs of their heads and stuff.

He didn’t bother me and I didn’t give a shit about winning his “title,” until the eighth grade.

It was early in the year and for the first time he started pushing me. Now again, I was no kind of fighter, probably having lost 60% of those I’d been in, though sometimes it’s hard to tell in the 80-90 pound division. But, having said that qualification, there is no doubt that I was getting my ass near kicked a bit too much for Cus D’Amato to have taken any commercial interest; my boxing future apparently estimated to be as valuable as that of an incompetent indie writer with an uncontrollable penchant to competently try to piss everyone off.

I don’t know. Maybe it was because that the baseball season had just ended and my arms were stronger than usual from throwing the ball and swinging bats, but when I pushed back, after about five exchanges Prontnitski was on his head, and I had apparently won his dubious honor.

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This would escalate. The next day, my buddy Alonzo, who was considered the toughest kid in school, wanted to have a play fight with me. I don’t know what they called these things if anything, but it was like this. You basically had a boxing match where you could punch to the body, but had to open your hand if you went to the head, and everyone else would form a circle, watch, and call out shit.

These things were almost a daily event at #7, and the closest anyone ever came to getting really hurt was me when Solan caught me in the mouth and the edge of it bled for a few minutes.

But, this time things got a little weird. Oh, I’d like you to know that I was very untrained in boxing, but it didn’t seem to matter all that much, unless you were up against somebody who was.

So, dear reader, if you have any interest, I invite you to read the next chapter which is about the Alonzo-Ed match and its surprising and life-changing aftermath.

Yeah; I am well aware that this had temporary significance at best. And yeah; I am also well aware that this may have had an effect on no more than a small contingent of the usual suspects. And yeah; the aftereffects may be entirely the figment of my unsubstantiated imagination. But in 2018, about 2/3 of the books are advertised as the tale of a surprising, life changing

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event. The ones I have previewed did not surprise me, and left me with a feeling that if the event chronicled changed anyone’s life, they must have been previously not in possession of one.

This will be no worse, and if you want to criticize, criticize all the others first. A pre-emptive “fuck you” may be in order.

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#24- Alonzo

If I didn’t previously indicate it except through inference, please allow me to clarify by saying that Alonzo was black, and for increased information of 16 years of age. I had previously been in his acquaintance through our attendance at the same school, the basketball games there, and the higher level basketball games held at the Police Athletic League (PAL) on 23rd Street, which I may never elaborate upon as it’s a long ass story, and probably of no interest to anyone, other than the only female who ever frequented the rude boy joint; Linda Smith.

That girl was absolutely gorgeous, and she used to come there by herself from 4th Street, and to tell you the truth. I don’t even think she knew all that much about basketball, but just seemed to have a shifting and redeeming superfluity of favorite players.

But anyway, back to Alonzo. Like I said he was black, but he was light skinned with a similar complexion to that of Lydia.

So sometimes I thought that he was half Latino, but who gives a fuck, and I only thought that kind of crap when I was bored enough to watch Mr. Rodgers. His most distinctive physical feature was a well-rounded ass that Kim Kardashian would die for. So, his black friends called him “Poopy,” but honky me wouldn’t dare.

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So, you know, we start the shit and we’re actually smiling at each other, and like most always start out slow. Fucking crowd ain’t paying a nickel, so if they got a problem with that they can fuck off. But, like always the pace picked up, roughly proportionate to the time elapsed, adjusted by the off-the-graph lulls, sometimes induced by an exchange one whacked participant wants to use to take some time to re-assess their strategy.

I can’t go blow by blow today, and I couldn’t even have done that in the time. But I can tell you what was in my head. I think. I had nothing to lose. If Alonzo whapped the piss out of me that was what was expected. I was proud to be at the event.

As the “fight” progressed I got the idea that I wasn’t doing all that miserably. Not winning, mind you, but landing some head shots and being more credible than anyone expected.

That temporary joy disappeared when the bell rang for line up and Alonzo informed me that; “This is going to continue, and the next time it ain’t gonna be for play.”

I surmised that the amount of head shots he had gotten in on me were not sufficiently greater than those I had gotten in on him to impress his non-participating, black “friends.” Beyond the intellectual estimation, I was thinking; “I am in the deepest shit I’ve ever been in my life, which might soon end. I have raised my estimate 10%, and am now 100% certain that God hates me.”

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We all lined up and went in. Alonzo and I had a first class of Wood Shop with Mr. Dixon. This was a long time ago and I’ve since learned that this was a less-than-average income area and the tools we used in Wood Shop were old, beginning to show a desire to depart from their cracked wooden handles, and that the black metal ends of the files and rasps weighed about five times as much as their 2017 progeny. It was also 1962, the time of the Cuban Missile Crisis. I didn’t exactly know, and confess that I still don’t know what a Communist is. But in 1962 I knew that they were some irrational nuts who were coming to get us, and am not sure how much I have tweaked that early, naïve position.

I was standing at a shop table with some people I don’t recall and had an overweight rasp in my hand. I pointed it toward the door and announced to whoever was at the table that if a Communist came through that door I’d ....... and made a throwing motion with the rasp in hand.

Well, wouldn’t you know it? My day’s bad luck continued when the metal part made its final split from the wood and went sailing across the room, coming to rest after smashing the shit out of the wire re-enforced glass part of the entryway, leaving me holding a split wood handle.

I truly forgot about my impending doom, and started to think about the bill my parents were going to get, the possible school disciplinary procedures I would be soon made aware of,

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and most of all me having to explain how stupid I could possibly be to mom and dad for three months. You might well imagine that with all that on my mind, I was just staring at the smashed door, oblivious to all else.

My faith in God resurrected. When I was able to take one step away from my predicament, I saw that Alonzo was standing near the door, and assuming that he wasn’t dancing around a whole lot, the metal end of the flying, bad rasp must have missed his head by all of two feet. I think Alonzo’s eyes were imitating the size and appearance of a Franklin half dollar, and that he might have competitively been upping my former cricket eye bug to something fancifully out and out Kafka-esque.

No matter the possible literary or anti-literary allusions, it soon became hearteningly clear to me that Mr. Dixon was not going to involve my parents and made it a class project to sweep up the broken glass and replace it with a precisely fitted piece of plywood. Even better, Alonzo and the rest of the kids erroneously concluded that I was some kind of legitimate nut and that they shouldn’t fuck with me under any circumstances.

As a result I never had to have another fight, and will always be grateful to Fidel and Nikita for that. You know, there are Communists and there are communists.

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In retrospect, I am sure that scary, misunderstood, and twisted experience forever freed me to think only of beautiful and pure thoughts of the most divine of peaces and loves.

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#25- Tijo, Vincenzo, and the Orange 440

By now, you may have noted that this book is out of order if one limits themselves to thinking in a totally plebian chronological manner. This particular chapter is not an egregious offender in that regard, but I just thought of it right now, and it seems appropriate to mention it here.

Otherwise I’d have forgotten about it. If you haven’t already, you’ll learn that the intelligencia fawn over writing which is most likely sloppy and/or inept; often deeming it new and creative. Their possible intent of being disingenuous, sarcastic, or condescending is competently hidden by the best of them; and the others are not worthy of any more discussion than is supplied by their Goodreads suck-ups.

High-brow literary considerations temporarily aside, Tijo was my best friend at different times of my early life; I guess something like a cereal you abandon once in a while only to discover worse. He was as Italian as anyone whose family came from Sicily and felt the standard need to deny it under the implied threat of mayhem; especially when in the presence of other Italians. I’m not certain, but often consider the possibility that he may have been an early consultant for Lina Wertmuller. Before I speak of Tijo himself, I want to speak of Vincenzo, who Tijo brought me in contact with.

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The neighborhood had its share of organized crime members.

Probably. As with most everything, including literature; those of significance don’t talk about it and those of none do. No big thing with the mob; as if you don’t renege on some money/promise kind of deal with them, you may just as well be discussing gardeners with your accountant neighbor in Teaneck. It’s the ones who aspire to the heights that you have to be a little careful with.

Vincenzo was one of those guys who always carried a wad with the hundred on the outside, and could tell you of the details about last night’s break-in today; even if you didn’t ask. Like Tijo, he also lived on 18th Street between Avenue C

and the Boulevard with his parents. Unlike fifteen year old Tijo, he was 40+ at a time when the Millennial excuse had not yet been invented. It’s hard to be precise when half the hair on one’s head has relocated to one’s back and what remains is long, stringy, and no fan of Rothfuss’ youth oriented “The Name of the Wind.” You’re welcome, Patrick.

Indeed, had someone used the word “Millennial” in the early sixties, those within luckless earshot would have thought it to be a reference to some obscure sci-fi comic book headlined by a super complainer able to spew “gender issues” in a single blurb.

It was truly un-intended, but in re-reading the immediately prior, I apologize for appearing to have done a self-serving

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imitation of Nostradamus. Some repetitions are truly un-avoidable.

Tijo knew him somewhat, and often when we were walking on Avenue C we’d run into Vincenzo, who was always off on some time constrained secret mission, but could un-graciously afford to spend a few minutes with us impressionable snots.

It’s impossible for me to recall the details of the conversations, but beyond vague allusions to yesterday’s news and the important, nefarious, secret mission Vincenzo was hurrying off to he’d flash his wad of hidden Washingtons, and ask if we needed anymore tax exempted cigarettes.

For those uninitiated you might be thinking that Vincenzo was an asshole. And you’d be right. But you’d be wrong too if you didn’t treat him with the utmost seriousness and respect, as Vincenzo had nothing to lose. Skipping a few other steps and possibilities, if you dissed him he’d smack you some kind of way; maybe even going back home to get the baseball bat from his garlick necklaced mother to do so.

If you just think about it a second, you’ll see the simplicity of the logic. Primarily, Vincenzo would like to be respected like a “made man,” but if you are inclined toward some silly notion of truth, he would like nothing better than to be arrested for fucking you up. He’ll be away from his nagging Italian mother for a change and assault and battery carries more

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status in the pen than being a little mama’s boy who runs the lunchmeat slicing machine over at Mario’s on 24th Street does in the neighborhood.

Cut some here. Half a pound of the fresh pastrami. So Tijo and I always acted appropriately around Vincenzo, and when he departed he’d always say; “Hey; you guys ever need anything you know who to talk to,” and we’d thank him for his generosity. It wasn’t until we got half a block away that we’d crack up.

This chapter may be a bit misleading, as there really isn’t much to the story of Tijo and me. We shared an interest in sports and ways to rig a card game. After I’d have a few bucks in my pocket, I’d go off asking girls for dates, my accumulation seldom depleted. He’d go off on a mission to become the oldest stickball player in the schoolyard. Despite periodic success, complete dream realization was deferred until his early twenties.

The orange 440 was a muscle car driven by another resident of Tijo’s block, Squale (pronounced skwal-ay). This thing was so orange, it made Trump’s hair look yellow. You could always hear it coming from ten hovels away. Though I’d seen it before, one day I was sitting with Tijo on his steps, going over last minute plans for the fixed card game soon to begin there, when it drove by.

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Totally out of character, I said something derisive about the car and its driver, which I can no longer recall. Since we were always goofing on someone or something, I was surprised when he seemed to get “defensive.” In a gravely serious voice, he informed me that Squale was a made man. Therefore I was 90%

sure that he was kidding me.

There weren’t many Mafia movies yet, and if I had seen any of them I must not have been paying much attention, as I had not previously heard the term. I thought that Tijo was saying “maid man,” and followed up with a comment I considered to be consistent with the unusually bright car color. Even if I remembered it, it would not be stated here in fear of literary rejection on the grounds of gender insensitivity.

Tijo then educated me as to how much of a big deal that was before the card game broke out. I believed him as Squale never tried to sell me any un-taxed cigarettes. In fact he never even spoke to me and just continued to go on gunning “big broad orange.”

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#26- Kaporinski Whack in the Head

Anthony, often said as Antny was one of the guys who I’m sure gave rise to the invention of the words nerd and dork. I personally am not aware of any precedents; but rest assured that someone is capable of finding something which will seem to be a precursor, much like simian nut accumulation is considered emblematic of the human penchant to hoard dead presidents. I’d rather not get into the whole irrelevant drawn out matter. Antny was a nerd-dork and that’s all there was to it. If he had predecessors to emulate, let the audience-challenged panel at Cambridge impress each other with their couched and speculative theories.

Antny was a USA born, Bayonne residing jerk. I never really noticed much of him in the early years of grammar school. He kind of got 85 in everything and didn’t play any sports, despite being the tallest or near-tallest white guy in the class.

I could go on with possibilities of why when Antny got into the eighth grade his focus became his desire to be a “cool” guy.

His musical talents led his parents to get him an accordion, which he eventually used to get a few gigs at some polack weddings.

I’d just like you to know that I don’t think I’m exaggerating much when I refer to Antny as founding father of

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nerdism and dorkism. He was so un-coordinated that when he picked up a pen it was even money whether he’d write something on the paper or his pimpled head. Everybody “kindly” dealt with that as it wasn’t going to get anybody any kind of increase in stature to successfully goof on King Nerd-Dork.

But things changed when in Nord-Dork year 13 Antny said that his name was Tony Kay rather than Anthony Kaporinski, slicked his modest length hair back and parked his ass with the

“cool” kids who hung at the candy store, telling everybody about Murray the K.

People tolerated that. We weren’t mean just for the hell of it. But then Tony K started to fuck us up with the girls. At the time the area was a “cool” hangout for kids from all over Bayonne. It probably would never have happened, but the visitors tended not to be guys, as being unfamiliar with the territory they thought that they’d get their asses kicked. The girls were much braver, and as a result their asses were more or less adored.

Then Tony K, trying to be “cool,” would fuck up the whole thing. It would go something like this. Four guys would be standing there with four girls down from 35th Street getting to know each other a bit; and then Tony the K would put his hand right up one of their dresses. Even though most of these girls

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had been around a bit of the block, none except Iva Lipsky was going to stand for that kind of shit and they’d leave.

So the guys started to regularly whack Tony the K in the back of his head. At first it would be when there was a group behind him. One would whack and Tony wouldn’t be able to tell which one. He’d say; “Hey,” and everybody would ignore him. He started absorbing better shots to which his “Hey” corresponded with some of the grease on his head flying off, necessitating a re-comb in one of the empty store front window reflections.

Tony didn’t take the increasingly less gentle hints and eventually crazy ass Manny wouldn’t even wait for the safety of numbers. He’d just walk right up to Tony and slap him in the back of the head as he passed by without stopping. When Tony would utter his usual “Hey,” Manny would just keep walking and say “Fuck you.”

I don’t know what happened to Tony the K. He stopped hanging around there and I heard that he joined the CYO and got a job for one of the undertaker-politicians. He always wanted to be a big shot. But, I also heard that the job didn’t last more than a few weeks, as Tony allegedly did something objectionable with a corpse. That was at the funeral home.

The stories varied and I don’t even want to think about any of them. But, he then got a job with a guy who rented tuxedos, cummerbunds, and drees-up shit like that on Broadway. The guy

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once told me that Antny’s job was to suck all the farts out of the old men’s pants.

I don’t know and I don’t care. I heard that Tony the K was finally happy with his stature in the CYO.

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