220-221...WHATEVER IT TAKES

"MR. MOM," is a great, yet unsung comedy from 1983.  For some odd reason, this three-star champion of the role reversal genre, isn't shown on TV.  The premise (without the need for a spoiler alert), is, Jack, (Michael Keaton) lost his job and his wife Caroline (Teri Garr), is forced to become the breadwinner.

KEATON IS HILARIOUS AS THE STAY AT HOME DAD.  HE CONTENDS WITH THE RIGORS OF CHILD CARE, THE NEVER ENDING BATTLE OF HOUSEWORK WHILE FENDING OFF KILLER APPLIANCES.  AT THE SAME TIME, GARR IS FACED WITH SEXUAL HARASSMENT AT WORK. 

The "sparks" fly when Garr's boss Ron Richardson, (Martin Mull) picks her up for work at 7:00AM. Keaton with the house already upside down, in defense of his masculinity meets the boss with a running chainsaw.  He turns it off while getting acquainted and said, "I'll be tearing out these walls...and of course re-wiring..."  The boss said, "Gonna make it all 220."  Jack, who knows nothing about electricity or voltage says, "Yeah 220, 221 whatever it takes."  As Caroline and Ron Richardson are leaving Jack calls out, "Honey, if you call and I'm not home, I'll be at the gym or the gun club."

"MR. MOM," was already ten years old when my wife Sue got pregnant.  So, long before my son Andrew was born in 1994, I already embraced the concept of being Mr. Mom.  I once shared that sentiment with my father and he said, "Not me!  When you or your sister needed to have your doody diapers changed, I ran in the opposite direction."  I explained that cloth diapers have been replaced by disposable ones with easy to use Velcro.  Dad's experience in the army shined through as he blasted, "I'm not getting hoodwinked into KP."  I said, "Kitchen Patrol?" He said, "No! Krap Patrol."  Dad wasn't big on profanity so the gist of his next response was; Velcro or not, it's the same shit.

(Stock Photo)  LUCKILY CLOTH DIAPERS WERE ANCIENT HISTORY DECADES BEFORE I BECAME A DAD.  THE ABILITY TO HOLD THE CHILD STILL WHILE SECURING THE DIAPER PERFECTLY AND PINNING IT, WAS AN ART FORM THAT WOULD HAVE ABSOLUTELY ESCAPED ME.

A week after Andrew was born, he was circumcised, (OUCHIES!).  The Jewish tradition of the bris includes the honor of the eldest male family member holding the boy during the ritual.  My dad was adamant and said, "No!"  The rabbi (mohel, Americanized pronunciation; moyle), showed my dad a medieval-looking restraining contraption and said, "If you're skittish, I'll have to use this."  Dad looked at the board and its leather straps.  Miraculously, he set aside his squeamishness and announced, "I'm the grandfather, I'll hold Andrew!"  And he did. And everything went smoothly even if dad looked the other way.

WHETHER OR NOT THE HOLDING ANDREW DURING THE BRIS WAS THE CATALYST WE'LL NEVER KNOW, BUT GRAMPS' BOND WITH HIM WAS IMMEDIATE AND SOLID.  IT'S A DAMNED SHAME THAT MY FATHER LEFT US, LESS THAN A YEAR AFTER THIS PICTURE WAS TAKEN.

In the years that followed, I accepted the different roles of being Mr. Mom.  One of my new realizations included the phasing out of my regular sedan, (Chevy Corsica). Andrew had plenty of friends so the moms would rotate transporting groups of kids. So I didn't feel like a "sell-out" when I bought a mini-van, in 2000. Besides, the added room came in handy for vacations or for hauling larger items.

Six days ago, without much fanfare, we observed that Toyota Sienna's fifteenth birthday.  The celebration was muted because on April ninth, (two days later), we bought an SUV to replace our respected, reliable workhorse.

OUR MINI-VAN WAS STILL GOING STRONG IN THE TWILIGHT OF MIDDLE-AGE.  SO IT WAS NOT A MATTER OF IT BEING OVER-THE-HILL WHEN WE REPLACED IT WITH THE HONDA CR-V (above).

I am not here to eulogize my Toyota Sienna, I'm here to celebrate its service.  I remember the first day. My six-year old Andrew was climbing in and out of every demo-model and frolicking through the dealership, (Turnersville NJ) while the two-hour ordeal of processing the paperwork was going on.

ANDREW WAS NINE, IN 2003.  I DOUBT HE HAS MANY CLEAR MEMORIES OF THE CAR THAT PRECEDED THE  MINI-VAN,  (above, in background).

The "van" as it was affectionately called never failed us on our countless vacations and day trips. It remained looking clean despite sticky kiddie fingers, spilled drinks, dropped food and the indignity of being vomited in. The old warrior handled hauling tons of masonry bricks, brought large and heavy unwanted items to the dump and has already moved Andrew in and out of his first three years at college.

AUGUST 23, 2012.  WE PACKED THE VAN TO THE BRIM FOR ANDREW'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT THE COLLEGE OF NEW JERSEY (TCNJ).  TOO BAD HE WASN'T GETTING INTO ENGINEERING BECAUSE, AS YOU CAN SEE, WE PACKED UP ALL HIS SHIT STUFF BUT DIDN'T ALLOW ENOUGH ROOM FOR HIM TO SIT.

The van's fifteen year stint with us did have some setbacks, (that weren't its fault).  One time Sue came home and said she hit a dog.  I went outside and saw a huge chunk of the from grill missing.  I said that dog must have been on steroids.  Later Sue admitted, "It might have been a deer?"

Sue was much more seriously victimized in 2003, (with Andrew, another mom and her two kids). That's when some asshole threw a brick off an overpass on the Atlantic City Expressway, (near Philadelphia). Luckily, she maintained her composure as the passenger side of the windshield was shattered, the beam that separates the windshield from the passenger window was badly dented and the side view mirror was destroyed.

A year later, a half mile from the house, Sue (with Andrew) was making a right turn off Jimmie Leeds Road onto Second Avenue.  Not the car behind her, but a third car, (driven by a nearby Stockton College genius) was reading while driving.  He was smart enough to swerve onto the right shoulder to avoid the middle car but incredibly stupid to continue at full speed until he rammed innocent Sue.  The door where Andrew was sitting was smashed in, (fortunately, the Sienna is known for its safety features. Other than the shock value and broken glass, everyone escaped unscathed).

The last bit of negativity happened ten years ago when the van failed inspection due to emissions.  I brought it to the same mechanic I had used for many years.  I trusted the manager because I was treated fairly which led to the development of a friendly relationship, (I'll sarcastically call him "Rich" because that's what he tried to make himself at my expense).

Rich told me the van needed $3,200.00 in repairs.  Toyotas are supposed to last forever, I was stunned.  This "friend" told me that in addition to other minor problems that they needed to rip out the whole exhaust system including the catalytic converter.  I was punch-drunk and whined, "Still, that's a ridiculous amount of money."

My good buddy told me, my car was unusual in that it was specifically built in California with parts unique to that plant. So before he could mention that the parts are hard to find and ultra-expensive, I doubted his sincerity because I remembered that the hallmark of manufacturing, dating back to the 1840's, was the standardization of parts.

He quickly changed the subject and told me that doing the repairs...while expensive...was far more cost effective than scrapping the van and buying a new one.  He had me on the ropes again. His schtick about making ten, $300.00 credit card payments instead of taking-on a fresh, five-year car loan made sense. Somehow, I avoided getting duped, gathered myself and called Sue.  She was there in ten minutes.  Rich re-explained the situation.  It that time, I spaced-out.  But luckily I also had an epiphany and said to myself: we need a second opinion.

At work, I shared my experience with friends.  They all agreed it sounded like bullshit.  My poker buddy Jerry took it one step further and told me to see his mechanic, two small towns farther away.

The owner's name was Ed.  I told him my car failed inspection because of emissions...and nothing else.  Later, he told me I needed two new tires.  His voice picked up intensity as he listed my broken this and worn-out that.  I was afraid that he was going to confirm Rich's diagnosis. But he never mentioned the exhaust system or catalytic converter. Ed was still blithering about other technicalities that I couldn't fathom until he said, "All together, it'll run you $153.00."  I said, "How's my exhaust pipes?"  He said, "Other than a couple of adjustments, this has little to do with your exhaust system." He started rattling off the same problems when I interrupted and said, "Do the job."

I took my Toyota Sienna to the inspection station and it passed and subsequently never failed for emissions again. I've been bringing all my cars to Ed ever since.

Over the course of time, I found out that Rich was the victim of severe personal problems that were out of his or anybody's control.  NOBODY would ever want to be in his shoes! But no matter how hard-up he might have been for cash, he should never have tried to rip-off a loyal customer.

Coincidentally, I brought my mini-van to Ed's garage on April Fool's Day, (two weeks ago).  My idea was...Ed and his staff have always kvelled, (been delighted for me) over the longevity of my Toyota. So because they knew how strong the engine etc was and how well I kept it up, I thought someone there might broker a deal and sell it for me, (its trade value at a dealership would be less than $100.00).

I didn't see Ed but I saw the master mechanic R.  R told me Ed sold the place and the new owners kept all the workers, (lucky for them...lucky for me). R took my van for a test ride.  We discussed its assets and drawbacks.  We started talking numbers and R said, "I'll buy it right now!"  And he did, a day after we took possession of Sue's new Honda CR-V.

In the morning before dropping the van off for R, I topped off the gas tank for him.  The price was $2.20.9/per gallon.  The 220.9 number made me recall the line from, "MR. MOM" "220, 221 whatever it takes."  Then I recalled that my weight has been hovering around those same numbers. Then I looked down at the odometer, 221,691, (a thousand less and it would been exactly between 220,000 and 221,000).

APRIL 10TH 2015.  THE FINAL TRIBUTE TO THE VAN AND THE 221,691 MILES OF HAPPY MOTORING IT PROVIDED.  UNFORTUNATELY, NOW I'LL HAVE TO BE RESPONSIBLE WITH THE NEW HONDA CR-V.  SO, I 'LL MISS THE LUXURY NEVER REPLACING ONE HUB CAP, OR THE JOY OF PUSHING SHOPPING CARTS OUT OF MY WAY, NEVER WASHING IT OR CARING ABOUT THE DENTS, DINGS AND SCRATCHES MY STUDENT DRIVER (ANDREW) PUT ON IT.

R and I agreed on consummating the sale at 2:30.  I showed up as the digital clock clicked from 2:20 to 2:21. I smiled because my instincts told me it was going to be great day...and it was.

Of course now, with a brand-spanking-new SUV, I'll have to re-think how to handle my dog Roxy's excursions to the beach, the vet, the park or to Smithville.

ROXY LOVES THE BEACH.  DESPITE CLEANING HER BEFORE GOING BACK IN THE VAN, SHE STILL TRACKED WET SAND IN.  SO UNTIL THE NEW CAR SMELL OF SUE'S HINDA CR-V WEARS-OFF,  I'M NOT SURE WE'RE READY TO LET DOGGIE DROOL OR OTHERWISE BEFOUL THE INTERIOR JUST YET.

Incidentally, down through the years I've asked 220...maybe 221 car experts and NOBODY ever heard of a specific auto plant using unique parts!

And remember you heard this here FIRST!  If Sue's new Honda SUV lasts as long as the van, I'll be seventy-four when I sell it.  Wow, that's crazy talk!  I won't be Mr. Mom...hell, I'll be Mr. Grand Mom.

HOSES AND BELTS

I was still in skirt-chasing mode (April 1980), while dealing craps at Las Vegas' Stardust Casino.  In a chance meeting, a girl (N) I knew from home (Canarsie, Brooklyn, New York) approached my table with two girlfriends.  I spent a break with them and felt a strong mutual attachment with one of N's (unattached) friends, (M).

On the way back to my work station, N gave me her phone number in Los Angeles.  She had mentioned that M lived in the same apartment complex so I enthusiastically accepted.  A week later, we arranged my visit.  N said I could stay at her place.  I was cool as I said, "I'm looking forward to spending time with all three of you, (M, N and the other girl)."

My car, (a seven-year old Ford LTD), was the piece of shit that I had bought from a down-and-out gambler when I dealt at the Fremont, (my short story, "AMOS AND ARCHIE," details the circumstances).  I had never driven to L.A. but I knew my heap wasn't worthy of crossing the Mohave Desert.

I was living with a married couple Stu and Toby Frobel. I was a low-maintenance roommate to Stu but good friends with Toby.  Stu was reluctant to temporarily switch his three-year old Pontiac with my clunker.  But Toby gave me her blessing and used her feminine wiles to persuade hubby...in the name of amor...to help me.

Just before blasting off, Stu reminded me how hot it was, even for early May.  These were the pre-cell phone days, so to minimize the chance of breaking-down in no-man's-land, advance preparation was required.

Stu made me promise to stop at a filling station before leaving town, to top off the gas tank, have them check all his other fluids as well as the belts and hoses, Stu also showed me in his trunk, two anti-freeze jugs full of water, in case of an extreme emergency.  He also stipulated that he wanted his Pontiac to be returned with a full tank and washed.

I followed his instructions before setting out on Interstate-15.  While still within the city limits, I passed a Los Angeles 285 sign. I did the math and envisioned myself cuddling up with M in four hours.

If you've never made this drive, you might expect the desert wastelands to look like an Arabian movie.  But there aren't any Sahara-like, beachy sand dunes. So whatever romantic or beautiful images of the scenery you might have are scrapped immediately by repetitive, flat, brown ugliness that will drag on for hours.

Yes there are minor points of interest like Jean Nevada having a prison, the two saw-dust joint casinos at the state line and the first "real" town, ninety-two miles away, in Baker California.

IN MY DAY, BAKER BRAGGED ABOUT BEING THE, "GATEWAY TO DEATH VALLEY." MY MEMORY FROM 35 YEARS AGO  INCLUDES LITTLE MORE THAN TWO GAS STATIONS AND A DINER.  NOW THIS DOT OF AN OASIS,  (POPULATION 735...2010 CENSUS),  HAS GONE HOLLYWOOD AND EVEN INCLUDES THE WORLD'S TALLEST THERMOMETER.

In Baker, I gassed-up and stretched my legs.  The attendant was telling a trucker how hard-up the Okies were to re-locate to California during the Depression.

JOHN STEINBECK'S GREAT 1939 AMERICAN REALIST NOVEL WAS MADE INTO A MOVIE IN 1940.  THESE WORKS DETAIL THE AFFECT THAT THE DEPRESSION AND THE DUST-BOWL YEARS HAD ON COUNTLESS FAMILIES WHO DEFAULTED ON LOANS AND GOT FORECLOSED ON.  THE ABOVE PHOTO FROM THE FILM SHOWS HOW TWELVE OKLAHOMANS AND  GENERATIONS OF MEMORIES WERE CRAMMED INTO A JALOPY FOR THE DESPERATE DRIVE TO SALVATION. 

The trucker reminded the attendant, "The early pioneers had it worse.  They left civilization when there was nothing west of St. Louis and Kansas City.  Heck, even the heartiest settlers weren't prepared for crossing the prairies, going over the Rocky Mountains, extreme weather, natural disasters, getting lost, starving, dehydrating and surviving Indian attacks.  Then when they finally reached California and thought they had it made, they were faced with Death Valley."

TO THE UNTRAINED EYE, DEATH VALLEY NATIONAL PARK  IS A HUGE, EMPTY EYESORE.  IT HAS RECORDED THE HOTTEST TEMPERATURE, (134 DEGREES AT FURNACE VALLEY), HAS THE DRIEST CONDITIONS AND LOWEST PLACE IN NORTH AMERICA, (BAD WATER IS 282 FEET BELOW SEA LEVEL).  HOWEVER THERE ARE PLENTY OF WORTHWHILE SCENIC (above) AND HISTORIC SPOTS TO VISIT.

On the other side of Baker, the nothingness continues until it is mercifully interrupted thirty miles later, at Victorville. It was reassuring to see signs of life, small towns and a military base.  Soon the road climbed towards mountains. The higher altitude brought the trees of the San Bernadino Forest. After the hours of sameness, I appreciated the splendor of being above the clouds.

At the crest, the interstate plunged fast and included a sharp horseshoe curve. After concentrating on navigating it safely, you suddenly dive through and beneath the puffy billows. I  understood that the desert portion of my journey was over as, in the distance, I descended into highly populated territory. The city of Ontario was first.  That's when I figured out that on this side of the mountains, I hadn't driven through clouds...the omnipresent gray overcast, was the famous Los Angeles smog.  UGH!

SMOG IS A SMOKY-FOGGY PHOTO-CHEMICAL TYPE OF AIR POLLUTION.  IT IS CAUSED BY CAR EMISSIONS AND INDUSTRIAL FUMES.  THE PACIFIC OCEAN PUSHES THE DIRTY AIR INLAND BUT THE MOUNTAINS (THAT I CAME OUT OF),  ACT AS A NATURAL BARRIER .  THE SMOG GETS TRAPPED AND  IS BACKED-UP TO L.A.  AS WELL AS  A GREAT DEAL OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA.

Thirty miles later I was in Los Angeles.  La-La Land was lush, green and beautiful. I had been there on my 1976 cross-country trip but this was my first time driving. My mind switched to M's smiling face.  My spirits continued to soar because N was kind enough to live a few streets away from an interstate exit.

I was right on schedule as I parked in a spot that would have made Joe Vanilla, (the Patron Saint of Parking Spaces) jealous. Inside the generic apartment complex, my search for Unit-86 was cut short by the enthusiastic, yoo-hooing of N.

Wow, her warm reception included a tight, meaningful hug.  In N's kitchen, she put out a big spread of food.  Things couldn't have been better.  She was so, so friendly, the fruit salad was great but it was gnawing at me to find the right words around the awkwardness of asking...where's M.

The situation became cozier when we took our coffees and adjourned to the sofa. N was mapping out some possibilities for US to do over the weekend.  N's stressing of "us" made me more leery and I wanted to clarify how many people constituted us. I blurted out, "So, where's M and (her third girlfriend)?  "Oh, they're at a spa in Pasadena for the weekend."  N was batting her eyes at me when she got up and moved my valise into her bedroom.  That's when my dim forty watt light bulb turned into a powerful beacon.  Oy, so typical of my love life...N brought me here for herself...and there's a strong possibility M doesn't know I'm alive.

N was a nice person but I had no cosmic link or physical interest in her.  I told N, "I was hoping to get to know M better." She silently relocated my valise and put in the guest room. I had to think fast. I borrowed the phone and called my former flea marketing business partner, LTS.  He lived in LA.  Luckily, he and his wife (K) agreed to do some sightseeing and have dinner with me and N. I was afraid to say it but in a private moment, I told N that I was spending the next day with LTS and would sleep at their place..

N remained pleasant the whole night.  Back at her apartment, she was so hospitable even when I said I wanted to turn in because LTS and I were getting an early start.  Soon I heard her knock.  She made her intentions obvious as she stood, in a short, terry-cloth robe at the doorjamb and asked, "Is there anything else I can do for you?"  It was like a convoluted plot from a bad sit-com. I felt like a heel but in reality, I didn't want to take advantage of her.

In the morning, I met LTS and K.  He brought her along because there was a change in his schedule. But rather than scrap our two-hundred mile (in each direction) day-trip to the Hearst Castle in San Simeon, K became a welcome substitute.  The only caveat was...I would have to drive.  Hell, I knew Stu Frobel's car had full fluid levels and good belts and hoses...I never hesitated.

NEWSPAPER MAGNATE WILLIAM RANDOLPH HEARST HAD HIS CASTLE BUILT FROM 1919 TO 1947.  TO OVER FILL HIS MANSION, HE TREATED ECONOMICALLY DEPRESSED EUROPEAN COUNTRIES LIKE YARD SALES AND BOUGHT-UP  ANCIENT TREASURE AND FINE ART OBJECTS.  UPON HIS DEATH IN 1951, HIS HEIRS DONATED THE SPRAWLING SEASIDE PROPERTY TO THE STATE.  TODAY, I  (AND K above) , CONSIDER IT THE GREATEST TOURIST ATTRACTION IN THE COUNTRY...THAT NOBODY EVER HEARD OF.

K was great company and our outing has remained a highlight of my life. In addition to the Castle, the drive along the coast highway, in both directions was pure eye candy. On the way home, K suggested a rustic restaurant on Santa Barbara's cliffs that overlook the ocean. Too bad I wasn't there with M, it was a perfect setting.

Despite my inability to hook-up with M, the whole L.A. trip was worthwhile.  Stu was pleased that his car was none-the-worse-for wear, it was clean and all fueled-up, (I should have told him to wash my car and fill my tank.  But that's another story).

The lesson about topping off the fluids and checking the belts and hoses has remained with me to his day.  Unfortunately, I don't always do what I know needs to be done.

My son Andrew is home for spring break.  When he told me he and his BFF Matt had a three-day road trip to Montauk Point, (the eastern-most point on New York's Long Island), a concert in Manhattan and another in Philadelphia, I took his car for a test drive.

I asked, "How long has that noise under the hood been going on?"  Andrew said, "What noise?" He was leaving in the morning, it was too late to bring his car to my mechanic and I had to get ready for work. So instead of insisting, I hoped everything would be okay and that we could take care of the mystery noise when he came back.

MARCH 17, 2015, AT MONTAUK POINT.  FOR HIPSTERS, IT HAS BECOME TRENDY TO VISIT THE LOCATION FROM JIM CARREY'S 2004 MOVIE, "ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF A SPOTLESS MIND. ".JUDGING FROM THE RESPONSE ANDREW AND MATT GOT FROM THIS PHOTO ON FACEBOOK, THEIR FRIENDS WOULD HAVE BEEN GREEN WITH ENVY...EVEN IF IT WASN'T ST. PATRICK'S DAY.

Long car rides with close friends are so good that the destination almost becomes secondary.  But for them, sharing the experience of being at the exact location of a universally loved film has an intense significance.

THE THEME OF THE MOVIE IS BREAK-UPS AND TO WHAT LENGTH SOMEONE WOULD GO TO ERASE ANY MEMORY OF THEIR FORMER LOVER.  I NEVER HEARD OF THIS FILM BUT I'M READING NOTHING BUT PHRASE FOR IT...AND CARREY IN A DRAMATIC ROLE.  ANDREW AND MATT MADE A POINT TO GO BY THE ICONIC BEACH HOUSE (above) FROM THE MOVIE. 

QUESTION?  Did you ever see someone's car broken down and said, "Man, that's a bad place to get stuck."  Well the boys made it back from Montauk, until Andrew's car died while paying the Verrazano Bridge toll. Now that's an awful place to break-down.  Incredibly, with a gazillion horns honking, the cursing and dirty looks from angry motorists, the bridge authority has a free towing service to keep the traffic flowing.  The driver unhooked my boy's Honda and said, "See if it starts." It was a miracle! It started. An hour later, they made it back to Matt's house, in Freehold.

In the morning, the car was even driven to the mechanic that Matt's dad uses. Sadly, it was a forty-dollar serpentine belt that snapped and took out the air-conditioning compressor.  I have no one to blame but myself.  I paid an expensive price for a lesson I already knew.

I hope this incident helps you to profit from my carelessness and laziness.  Always check those damned hoses and belts before you go on long trips.

THE SHORT LIFE OF THE MAFIA STAFF CAR

My dad was a champ, my sister's first car was a cherry, one-year old, 1970 Chevy Chevelle.

(MID-SEPTEMBER-1971) THIS PHOTO APPEARS TO BE OF ME COMING HOME FROM MY FIRST DAY AS A HIGH SCHOOL SOPHOMORE.  ACTUALLY, IT'S A RARE PICTURE OF MY SIS'S CAR.

In 1976, dad bought himself a new Plymouth Volare station wagon.  So I was thrilled that his less-than-cherry hand-me-down, 1968 Dodge Polara (a.k.a. The Thunderbolt Grease Slapper), was my first car.

  WHILE IT WAS STILL DAD'S, I DROVE (above) MY GRANDPARENTS TO THE RUBIN'S HOTEL (MAY - 1973, ELLENVILLE NEW YORK).  AND FOR YOU WISEGUYS OUT THERE...NO! I WASN'T SUCKING IN MY STOMACH...BUT CRAZY AS IT SEEMS, I JUST THREW OUT THAT BELT...NO, REALLY !

In my regime, (a little more than a year), I had some high adventures in that Dodge, including several out of town road trips.  The car never let me down but alas, I let the car down myself. By neglecting dad's suggested periodic maintenance schedule, it didn't take long until I ran my pride and joy into the ground. 

I felt awful when my father told me that his mechanic (Sammy of Stone Avenue) needed $412.00 to fix the timing belt and the collateral damage it caused. I chose (poorly) to junk the car.  Dad realized that I was making a decision that I would regret, (I told you he was a champ).  He stepped in like a knight in shining armor and offered to lend me the money for my folly.  Stupidly, my stubbornness out weighed his classiness...I still refused.  Dad tried to change my mind by offering to pay (his gift) but that made the guilt, for my lack of responsibility...worse.

A few months later, (July 13, 1977), NJPHILSKIM and I we clubbing in Long Island.  In his car, on the way home, we crossed back into New York City (Queens) and found ourselves in the dark.  We would soon learn the, "25-HOURS OF TERROR" complete with violence, thefts, vandalism and arson was underway, all over the five boroughs.

Phil dropped me off to a dark, empty house.  A note on the kitchen table informed me that my parents went to "defend" their juvenile furniture store in Brownsville.  At 3:AM, my folks returned.  The store was still intact but if the situation changed, they would not risk their lives trying to stop anyone.

THE CRIMES DURING THE MASSIVE BLACKOUT CAUSED OVER $300 MILLION IN DAMAGES.

We all got no sleep.  At sunrise, dad and I drove through the craziness of the Rockaway Avenue business district.  We found that the interior of the store, (the family business since 1918) hadn't been broken into but ten or so looters were busy in the store's window, carrying out the last of the merchandise.  Dad made a tough decision and said, "I'll lock us in, let me get a few personal items, financial records and they can have everything else."  Before we left, dad noticed that one delivery that was paid in full was going out that day.  I thought he was nuts but dad was a sensitive and conscientious man. He said, "Grab the crib, I'll get the mattress and the bumpers."  He locked the door and the gates on the way out.  Our hands were full as we exposed ourselves to the dangerous mob in the street.  In the safety of the car he sighed, "Let the chips fall where they may." 

Dad insisted that we make the delivery immediately.  We drove to the other side of Brooklyn and woke the family.  The husband got pissed off that be disturbed his beauty rest.  Hopefully at some later time, that "last" customer realized what a champ dad was.The next day when the power was restored, we returned to Rockaway Avenue and our store was an empty shell.

My father was displaced for quite some time.  At the same time, I was trying to assert my independence but I couldn't land a job using my communications degree. In August of 1978, I decided to go to a casino dealer school.  The admissions officer worked out a weekly payment plan that would extend till mid-December after I made a minimal down-payment.  To pay the tuition, I drove for a local car service, (I netted about $40.00 for a six hour shift).

My coworkers were rather unsavory, the cars weren't safe and some of the bosses were kind of scary.  Be that as it may, the real problem was happening in the trenches.  In a short time, I knew two drivers were robbed at knife point, another received a death threat from a drunken husband as the cabbie was whisking his beaten and bloodied wife away and another incident had a psycho try to push the driver out of the taxi (at high speed) on the Belt Parkway.

Monday October 2, 1978 was my last shift, (I was NOT motivated by a near-death experience).  Instead, a scary, mystery pick-up, (a small parcel handed through an over-sized peep-hole, at 2:AM, near Newark Airport) made me realize that no amount of chump change could rationalize the potential hazards.  I quit the next day and thus was faced with the dilemma of how to pay the last $400.00 to the school.

It killed me to ask dad for money. He wasn't solidly back on his feet, so I delayed the inevitable for many days. When I finally did, I was shocked at how happy he was to help and happier that I saw the light and quit driving before it was too late, (pretty insightful considering I never shared the plight of other drivers).

At the New York School of Gambling, I gravitated to four guys in my craps class. They were around my age and like me, were Las Vegas bound.  My little rat-pack included Ciro (before he was either Ciro the Hero or Ciro the Zero), BB (a lush who drank his lunch at the Ireland's Eye Bar and chain smoked Merit menthol 100's), JLOOPY, John Heaverlo and me.

Ciro and BB moved to Vegas in November and became roommates.  JLOOPY, John and I were invited to stay with them when we hit town, (January 1979).  I arrived last and slept on the floor.  But I didn't have it as bad as BB.  Maybe it was his Irish/Native American ethnic background but right after the new year, he was hospitalized with acute alcohol poisoning, (he was like a kid in a candy store with Vegas' free booze while gambling or top shelf liquor for 50c a drink).  His life was in such danger that his mother and sister flew out. In the mean time JLOOPY slept in BB's unoccupied bed and John had the couch.

BB made a full recovery and moved back in with Ciro. Once John Heaverlo got a job and his own apartment, he ended his rat-pack membership by sending for his wife.  Soon, JLOOPY and I became roommates at the Fiesta Apartments on Harmon Avenue, (two blocks behind the Aladdin).

The New York School of Gambling's job placement service set-up BB at the California Club, John Heaverlo went to the El Cortez and Ciro, JLOOPY and I broke-in at the Slots-A-Fun Casino. 

All three of us were on different shifts at Slots-A-Fun.  It was too bad because JLOOPY had a car.  He was generous with his rides during our off time together but I had to commute to work on my own.  It was such a long walk to the bus stop that I realized that if I walked in a diagonal path all the way to work, it wasn't much farther.

Being a New Yorker, I didn't mind the walk because in the beginning, it was always sunny and usually in the sixties.  By the time March rolled around, I was a lot less idealistic and those morning strolls to work became tiresome in 80+ degree temperatures. I was considering a move to Reno where my friend from Canarsie the "Amazing Mr. K" said he had juice, (help me get a good job). 

A few days before visiting Mr. K., I was waiting outside Slots-A-Fun, for the city bus to go home.  A change-person named Dara (Da-Ra-Ra-Booms-EE-Ay) walked by and said she saw me walking one morning and offered me a ride home.  She was heavy, not especially good looking and had a big mouth with an overbearing personality.  Plus she had a loose reputation (thus earning her nickname) so I just wasn't interested in her...but a ride...that was another story.

I was grossing about $150.00 a week in that toilet and Dara made less.  Her 1970, Datsun Sunny-140Y, was a rolling hunk of junk.  She said she only kept the piece of shit because the "D" logo badge in the grill (above the license plate), made her feel that the car was personally monogrammed.

DARA'S CHOCOLATE-COLORED CLUNKER WAS ACTUALLY IN SLIGHTLY BETTER SHAPE THAN THIS.

I was getting out when she said, "Aren't you going to invite me in?"  I knew I was safe because I saw JLOOPY's black Buick Electra convertible and said, "Okay."  To my pleasant surprise Ciro, BB and plenty of Olympia beer was there too.

We had a little party.  When JLOOPY said, "Let's do a beer run."  BB said, "And a bottle of Jack Daniels."  Dara said, "Shit, I gotta go but definitely another time."  Then she took my phone number and said, "I like you and your friends, I'll pick you up and drive you home whenever our schedules match."

On my next day off, I flew up to see the "Amazing Mr. K." in Reno.  He lived up to his nickname by showing me an amazing time.  But he said, "I never said anything about getting you a job."  The town without solid work had nothing to offer so I decided to stay in Vegas.

When I got home, my room reeked of smoke and I found a half-full pack of Merit menthol 100's on my nightstand.  The rarity of those specific cigarettes led me to ask JLOOPY, "Was BB in my room?"  He said, "Yeah, him and Da-Ra-Ra-Booms-EE-Ay sort of spent the last two days in there...and if BB was telling the truth, you might want to turn the mattress."

It pissed me off that my bed was getting more action without me.  I confronted BB the next time I saw him.  He shrugged, "She was hurtin' for a squirtin'."  I said, "Yeah but..."  But he cut me off, "C'mon buddy, you know, any port in a storm."  I was still nauseated but I couldn't hold back a smile.  When I factored in that he almost died, I let it slide.

In the morning I told JLOOPY, "I gotta buy a car." I ran outside and pulled the classified section out of my crazy neighbor's newspaper (McHugh, the accused cat poisoner).  I had $370.00 and was willing to spend the whole shebang to keep Dara out of my apartment and to not owe her any favors.  I soon discovered that there weren't many cars out there I could afford.  I was stymied.  I still hadn't repaid dad for dealer school and wanted to save face by not sponging off him from thousands of miles away.  JLOOPY read my frustration and said, "You can get a used Vespa (scooter)  for under a hundred."   

VESPA IS THE ITALIAN WORD FOR WASP.  THE NAME COMES FROM THE SOUND OF THE ENGINE.

I told him I didn't want a scooter. On the bottom of the last auto sales page there was an advertisement for Supreme Motors.  They had eight cars under $375.00.  The one that caught my eye was a 1969 Pontiac Le Mans for $339.00.  The ad read; looks sharp, runs great.

JLOOPY drove me to Bonanza Road.  What bullshit, the unpaved lot had only one car in my price range...and it wasn't the one I wanted.  A tall skinny man with a cowboy hat and a char of tobacco in his cheek came out of a dilapidated trailer.  A breeze blew dust into his face.  He turned away from us, spat a wad of disgusting brown liquid on the ground and twanged, "What can I do y'all for."

I soon "learned" that a wholesaler just bought up the car I wanted and three other cheapies.  He pointed to a shiny orange Corvette and said, "Looky, you can't do better'n $1,999.00 on thisy here nowhere."  I recognized the old bait-n-switch routine but I was determined to buy my first car.  I took a dented, faded yellow Ford station wagon for a test drive.  Afterwards, JLOOPY looked under the hood and said it was worth, $399.00.  I bickered over the price and got the salesman down to $390.00 including all the incidentals.  Still, JLOOPY had to look under his car seats to scratch-out two bucks with change, in order to lend me the last twenty.

MY CAR WAS AN EIGHT-YEAR OLD, FORD LTD WAGON.  TO COVER A RUSTY DENT, CIRO GOT ME A BUMPER STICKER THAT READ; MAFIA STAFF CAR.  BB REMARKED IN REFERENCE TO ALL THE OTHER BLEMISHES, "CIRO, YOU SHUDDA BOUGHT THIRTY OF THEM."

In April, I got a new craps dealing job at the Western Casino.  To celebrate, I rounded up the rat-pack and we ate dinner in a dumpy Mexican restaurant called, El Cholo, (or as Ciro called it, El Choko).  The beer and tequila was out-weighing the tacos and burritos when JLOOPY said, "Let's see what your heap can do. Let's go up to Mount Charleston."

In the midnight darkness, we never found our ultimate destination.  But our forty mile (in each direction) excursion to the ski area netted two conclusions about the Mafia staff car; it drove well in the mountains and the brakes worked perfectly.  I discovered the latter when JLOOPY with my foot on the accelerator, pressed his foot down on top of mine.  He yelled, "Let's see what this baby can do!"  Suddenly out of the blackened woods, a herd of wild horses ran across our path.  I slammed on the brakes as the last stallion galloped safely across the road.

SEVERAL TIMES, I SAW WILD BURROS, (DESCENDANTS OF THOSE ABANDONED BY MINERS), IN THE DESERT NEAR LAS VEGAS.  THE HERD OF WILD HORSES I ALMOST HIT WITH THE MAFIA STAFF CAR WAS THE ONLY ONE I SAW, IN MY FIVE YEARS IN NEVADA.

In May, I got an even better job at the Holiday International Casino.  When the Fourth of July rolled around, I had trouble parking for my 6:PM shift.  I ended up with the last spot on the roof of the Four Queens.  I was walking down Fremont Street when I was stopped by a scrawny, pimple-faced girl handing out coupons in front of the Friendly Club.  From inside, I heard my named called, it was BB at the bar, (still in his dealer uniform after his graveyard shift).  I shook my head when the bartender said, "What'll you have?" When BB got up to hit on the coupon girl he muttered, "Any port in a storm." The barman scratched his head and said to me, "Never saw anyone like your buddy.  He's been slamming bourbon and beer for five hours and he's not even tipsy.  Where does he put it?"

My casino was busy for the holiday so we had to work two hours of overtime.  On the way out, my friend and supervisor Dick Paynlewski said, "Let's go for a drink."  At the Golden Gate Casino, he swilled two double scotches before I was half-done with my draught.  He had a third drink in his hand as he said, "I'm gonna play blackjack...sit with me."  He downed that drink and ordered another before we sat down.  He was slurring his words when he bought in for seventy-five dollars (about his day's pay).  He had lost his first two hands when his fourth double arrived with a bottle of Lowenbrau.  He lost again, sucked the beer bottle dry and giggled, "Damn the booze is expensive here."

Paynlewski struggled but managed to pile the rest of his chips in the betting circle.  He belched with double-edged satisfaction when he hit to a six-card twenty.  The young Asian girl dealing to him was showing an ace. Then she turned over a second ace.  Dick smiled and yelled, "Paint, paint..."  But he sank in temporary silence when the dealer revealed a nine.

He was loudly cursing her heritage and stoic expression so I shushed him.  He grinned, "Lend me twenty till pay day."  I turned him down and added, "Let me drive you home."  He said, "I'll find Carmichael (his girlfriend), I'll borrow the money from her."  He staggered a few feet but collapsed into a seat in the keno lounge.  He said, "You're a good friend...even if you don't lend me the twenty...but will you lend me..."  I cut him off, "No."  He was blithering for a short while and then said, "People can be such pricks. I hate all the Pollack jokes...even Carmichael uses 'em.  But I have an idea.  I'm going to legally change my name."  "To what?"  He said, "How does Richard Thomas Payne sound?"  I said, "It sounds like a good, strong name...and if you are really so annoyed...you should do it."

I re-offered him a ride home.  He refused but said, "You drive safe.  There's a lot of drunk assholes tonight."  Outside, maybe because it was Independence Day, I was mulling Dick's proposed new name when the historic significance of Thomas Paine, (the author of the Revolutionary War-era pamphlet, "Common Sense"),  came to mind.  I laughed to myself at his expense when I considered Dick Paynlewski and the notion of common" sense in the same sentence.  Then I found it even funnier when I realized that he'd be changing his name to "Dick Payne."

It was 4:30 when I walked by the Friendly Club.  I ducked my head in and was shocked to see BB passed out at the bar.  A different bartender said, "This kid is one hurtin' buckaroo.  He's been knock'n 'em back since one in the afternoon.  His roomie (Ciro) was just here, he's getting a cab to take him home."  I would have liked to know if BB got anywhere with the coupon girl but I was pretty tired.  So with the situation well in hand, I left.  In the Four Queens parking lot elevator, I was glad that BB had enough common sense to not even have a driver's license.

At that late hour, the Mafia staff car stood alone on the top level.  I stopped for a few seconds to admire the view of glittery Fremont Street.  Then in the opposite distance, I was happy to see that my route home on I-10 south was free of traffic.

Moments later, in the middle lane, I had the highway all to myself as the Lynyrd Skynyrd song, "FREEBIRD," came on the radio.  I was lustily singing along as I approached the Sahara Avenue exit.

1974's FREEBIRD, IS MY FAVORITE SONG AND PERSONAL ANTHEM.  CLICK ON THE LINK BELOW TO HEAR THE 13-MINUTE FULL VERSION.

http://www.lyrics.com/free-bird-lyrics-lynyrd-skynyrd.html

While pouring out the lyrics, I noticed in the rear view mirror, a car flying in the left lane.  He was about to whiz by when the driver veered towards me.  I cut the wheel right but it was too late.  I got sideswiped and lost control.  While he sped off, I was pounding the brakes as I skidded towards the exit ramp...and BOOM !  I hit a streetlamp and careened back onto the interstate.  I did a 180 degree turn and faced oncoming traffic in the center lane.

My car's hood had a giant "V" gouged out from the impact.  I tried the ignition... and nothing.  Dazed, I hobbled to the shoulder, sat on the neck of the downed street lamp and waited for the police.  It killed me to think that if just one of the oddball things that happened that night was different, I wouldn't be in my predicament, (working overtime, drinks with Dick, stopping at the Friendly Club...and not sticking around to help Ciro with BB, the long walk to the Four Queens, admiring the view from the roof as well as every stop sign and street light).

In my mind, I was eulogizing the short life of the Mafia staff when true anxiety gripped me.  That's when I realized that I might have to ask my dad for a car loan.

I NEVER SAW IT COMING...

I have witnessed few car accidents.  In the last ten days, I have seen two of the strangest.

On the way back from seeing the fireworks in Wildwood (NJ), on the 4th of July, I was driving on the four-lane causeway (over the marshes) that links North Wildwood to the mainland.

THE PHOTO CHOICE WAS OBVIOUS BETWEEN THIS AND A CLOSE-UP OF ME PIGGISHLY EATING A SAUSAGE AND PEPPER SANDWICH, COMPLETE WITH A LARGE CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM STAIN ON MY SHIRT.

At 11:PM, the outgoing traffic was heavy but I was able to maintain 55MPH.  Two miles before the Garden State Parkway entrance, the cars started to slow down. I was crawling along in the right lane with a giant Lincoln Navigator in front of me, so I couldn't see what the problem was.

I was down to about 20MPH when an SUV in the left lane unnecessarily cut-off the Navigator.  But the SUV didn't stay in the right lane.  It continued onto the shoulder and sideswiped the concrete barrier so hard that sparks were flying.  At the same time, the passenger door behind the SUV's driver opened and a young girl (14?) fell out of the car and her ankle was run over.

The Navigator slammed on his brakes.  The driver jumped out to help and so did others.  The girl tried to stand but couldn't.  The next day, I spoke to MACE (a resident of North Wildwood) but he didn't see anything in the newspaper about it.

Five days later in Galloway, I saw another crazy thing.  I did my banking and then walked about 500 feet, next door to the pharmacy.  On my way out, I saw a coworker in the CVS parking lot.  I was facing the bank as we spoke. Suddenly, from the first spot in the TD Bank's lot, a white Nissan Versa burnt rubber as it peeled-out, in reverse.

THE  SHINY, VERSA I SAW, LOOKED LIKE IT JUST CAME OFF THE SHOWROOM FLOOR.

I was certain that I was seeing the get-away from a robbery as a continuous plume of smoke, like in the movies was produced by the spinning tires.  But when the car's arched path reached the point that it could proceed in drive, it continued screeching backward, in a circle.  Still in reverse, the Nissan jumped the curb, knocked over a four-foot high decorative lamp and sped on the grass.  It finally stopped inches from the shrubberies in front of bank's huge, customer service window.

I took a deep breath when I figured that someone had lost control of their car.  But then I thought it was a robbery again when the car was floored a second time, forward.  I re-re-changed my mind when the car bounced off the grass and onto the lane that leads to the drive-through section.  But as soon as all four wheels hit that pavement, the driver made a sharp left turn, climbed the curb again and hurled itself back towards the same window.

Luckily the car stopped before crashing into the building.  A man from an armored car delivery (in a bullet-proof vest and his hand on his gun) ran to the thoroughly cracked-up vehicle.  Then a UPS truck zoomed onto the scene.  I was third to arrive as the UPS guy called 911. The stunned driver looked like she was in her eighties.  I didn't see any mention of it in the newspaper.

These mishaps coincidentally occurred at the same time (last week) that I was trying to locate JSS, a long lost friend, on Facebook.  The coincidence was that I was with her, in 1977 when I had a close call with a potentially serious car accident.

Facebook has drawn me closer to many friends from the past.  At first, there is the usual skyrocket period of wonderment.  I love the positiveness of this personal interaction and the reminiscence of shared highlights.  These cyber meetings have led to several face-to-face visits.  I'm happy to say that they have all worked to rekindle lost friendships

Of course, not all these old friendships were founded on solid foundations to begin with.  Therefore, the novelty wears thin when your "friend" speaks about people you don't know.  Then you really know you're going nowhere when the other person complains.  Hell, we get enough at that home.  If you still manage to stick with them, the next major roadblock...especially at my age, is when health problems and medical procedures dominate the chats. 

I must admit, getting beyond this point is rare. Even with the best intentions, the great remembrances are usually limited so the overwhelming amount of these revivals lose momentum soon after you've seen all of each other's photos. 

If somehow your computer relationship is still fresh, then you have to watch out for the next negative phase.  That is when you realize that your partner's best contributions are reduced to spiritual slogans, politics, their "like" of Prell Shampoo, reminders of dead celebrity birthdays or a seemingly endless stream of jokes.  If you're still on the fence whether to "unfriend" them, it becomes easier if their most significant messages involve Farmville, Mafia Wars, Scrabble or Angry Bird conquests.

I am hoping that my latest FACEBOOK friendship with JSS doesn't fizzle out quickly. Every July for the last four years, I have tried to get a birthday message to her.  I had researched a bunch of our mutual friends and acquaintances but oddly none of them knew how I could get in touch with her.  After my armpit check revealed me to be in the "safe-zone," I figured there was a some conspiracy or better yet, she was in the Witness Protection Program. 

This year I did my usual July birthday check and I found that she had joined Facebook.  So far we've only gone as far as friending each other.  Soon, I expect that we will skyrocket through our strongest memories then hopefully maintain a lasting friendship. Perhaps a face-to-face reunion too.

I remember meeting JSS at CHARLIEOPERA's 1976 New Year Eve party.  She got sick and her sister and their friends had to take her home.  Afterwards, we knew the same people and became friends.  We had several fun times and on one occasion, I drove her deep into the heart of Flatbush, to Brooklyn College, (she went to a different college).

For those of us with *Kingsmen maroon and gold blood coursing through our veins, we can remember the nightmare of parking at Brooklyn College, (a spot, ten long blocks away was considered decent). 

*How bourgeois can you get?  Somewhere between 1977 and now, the powers that be changed the BC mascot from the Kingsmen to the Bulldogs.

ESTABLISHED IN 1930, BROOKLYN COLLEGE WAS ONCE CONSIDERED; THE POOR MAN'S HARVARD.  IT'S MOTTO; NIL SINE MAGNO LABORE, "NOTHING WITHOUT GREAT EFFORT," SEEMED DATED BY THE TIME I PERFECTED MY BACKHANDED FRISBEE TOSS, ON THE QUADRANGLE, (above).  EVEN STRANGER, (I CHOKE ON MY OWN BILE AS I TYPE THIS), IN 2003, THE PRESTIGIOUS PRINCETON REVIEW RATED THE BC CAMPUS AS THE #1 MOST BEAUTIFUL IN THE COUNTRY.  P. S. IT SEEMS FUNNY TO ME BUT RECENTLY, BC ADDED DORMITORIES.  SO I'M SURE THE PARKING SITUATION IS FAR WORSE.

JSS and I got off to a miraculous start on this near-fatal day, by finding a parking spot one block from Midwood High School, at the corner of East 24th and Glenwood Road, (two blocks from BC).

MIDWOOD ON BEDFORD AVENUE, OFF GLENWOOD ROAD, WAS BUILT BY THE WORKS PROJECT ADMINISTRATION (WPA) IN 1940,  (IT PRACTICALLY TOUCHES BROOKLYN COLLEGE). THE H-SHAPED HIGH SCHOOL FEATURES SIX IONIC COLUMNS AND A GEORGIAN CUPOLA.  SOME OF THE ALUMNI I'VE HEARD OF INCLUDE; WOODY ALLEN, EMMANUEL LEWIS AND DIDI CONN FROM SHOW BUSINESS, AUTHOR ERICH SEGAL, ASTRONAUT MARTIN J. FETTMAN AND CONGRESSMAN STEPHEN J. SOLARZ.

My back was turned to the intersection, at that fateful moment as I got I out of my car.  A two-tone blue Ford Maverick (I remember because light blue on dark blue was my high school's colors) ran the stop sign and there was a crash behind me.  The other wrecked car careened towards me.  It all happened too fast to react. When I turned around, the crash and ugly scraping metal sounds were over as the crippled heap stopped three feet from me.

I wonder if JSS remembers?  Maybe I'll ask her while we are still in the FACEBOOK skyrocket mode.  Or during the personal interaction or I'll save it for the reminiscence.  Because she saw the whole thing. 

It's hard to forget that if that moronic Maverick driver was going a little faster, I might have gone to my grave without ever witnessing a car accident...even the one that killed me.

CARS

MSLEMMA reminded me of this story that happened to his dad.

At his dad's regular gas station in Brooklyn, another new face stood at the pumps ready to serve him. In that short moment, his dad reflected that as the neighborhood was changing, the turn-over of workers was high.

As usual he asked for, "Twenty regular." The new attendant was twitchy, avoided eye contact and said, "New rules, you gotta pay first." Even though his dad was personal friends with the owner and hadn't been told of this policy change...he paid. As soon as the kid got the money, he ran across the street, down an alley and hopped a fence...never to be seen again.

Even if you don't drive, we all have our funny/unusual car stories. Here are a few more.

From Monday September 15's ATLANTIC CITY PRESS, (region section).

Two women (ages 21 and 25) from out-of-town entered into negotiations to buy marijuana on Pacific Avenue. The seller said he would take them to his stash. The two geniuses got into his car and were taken about 15 miles to a dark country road adjacent to Atlantic City Airport. At that point he produced a gun and forced them out of the car. They were then ordered to take off all their clothes. The thief never touched them but went off with ALL their belongings. The moral of the story is...to avoid one of life's great embarrassments... even adults shouldn't get into a stranger's car.

In 1981 while living in Las Vegas, my wife and I responded to a used car ad for her. We were way out on East Charleston where little sub-divisions were springing up in the desert, (its probably considered the middle of town these days). The seller lived in a cul-de-sac off the main road. He gave us the keys and we took it for a test-drive. About three miles past the "middle-of-nowhere," it stalled at a red light. I tried to re-start it but the ignition was dead. We decided to hitch-hike back but only a few cars went by. We were forced to walk back but luckily after a while someone picked us up. An hour had gone by when we were dropped off on Charleston. To shorten our walk, we went in a straight line, through some one's backyard.

As odd as it must have been to see us coming out from behind his neighbor's house, he surprisingly didn't ask what happened to his car. I handed him the keys, told him what happened and where the car was and we got into my car. At that point the guy said, "Hey wait, you didn't tell me if you were still interested?"

Me personally, I have always been attracted to less glamorous cars. To me there was some special about the Studebaker that looked like a mini-airplane (without the propeller), the Nash Rambler, Edsel and Corvair. Plus the Rambler American station wagon and Chrysler Imperial (both featured in my novel...Marco's and Rocky's car).

RAMBLER AMERICAN STATION WAGON (1961 ?)

Of course main streamers like everyone else in the world gravitate to upscale wheels like, Corvettes, Mustangs, Cadillacs etc. My friend Manny in Las Vegas (circa 1982) reluctantly deprived himself of a Corvette throughout his adult life. When he was recovering from a messy divorce to satisfy what he termed; mental masturbation...he bought one.

Being the heavy thinker that he was, his first passengers were his 3 and 5 year old sons. He took them for a 125 MPH joy-ride through the desert on I-15. Then from out of nowhere two motorcycle highway patrolmen began chasing him. Manny knew Vegas cops had an especially ornery reputation. He pulled over and waited for them with both hands clearly on the steering wheel. As one walked up to Manny's 'Vette, his elder son poked his head out of the T-Roof and said, "Look, its Ponch and John." (For you yungins...that's a reference to the Erik Estrada TV show, "CHIPS)." The officer laughed and said, "Your kid just saved you a lot of grief." The lecture ended when he said, "If I ever catch you doing it again whether your kid says something cute or not...you'll seriously regret it for a long time."

JOHN (left) AND PONCH (Right) FROM TV's "CHIPS," (California Highway Patrol).

Finally, in 1984 we (three couples) went apple picking in Haverstraw New York. Each couple took home a bushel of a few pounds. The next with a threat of rain, ZYMBOT drove into Manhattan with his apples left in plain slight on the back seat. While he attended to business, the skies opened up and it poured. While trudging through the storm, back to his car ZYMBOT saw the broken glass and cursed the whole apple picking excursion. Until he saw the apples in their place, his stereo intact, his collection of 8-tracks undisturbed and his unlocked glove compartment untouched. A steady drizzle soaked his car the whole way back to Brooklyn. But when he got home the rain torrents returned...it was then he reached for the umbrella that wasn't there.

P. S. ZYMBOT once bought a new car and on the way home from the showroom, he stopped at a BASKIN & ROBBINS and left the car running...I don't really have to tell you what the moral of this story is...do I?