"MY BAD," IT'S THE CELEBRITY LONG AND SHORT OF IT...

The most frequently asked questions about my 31+ years on the casino floor involve celebrities. Questions like; who was the best, worst, craziest etc, etc, etc. Its true, I have specific opinions on best, worst, craziest etc., but I think its only fair to remind everyone of the subjectivity of my experiences.

This subjectivity becomes more clear when you consider that everyone (celeb or not), react differently as circumstances change. Hence, a person is apt to come-off differently to different observers or differently over time. I understand that because I dealt to Dennis Rodman...fifteen years apart.

IN THE EARLY 90's, I DEALT CRAPS TO RODMAN WHEN HE WAS WITH THE PISTONS. HE WAS POLITE, KIND AND GENEROUS. HE ALSO ACTED AS A MENTOR TO HIS LESS CASINO-SAVVY TEAMMATES. AFTER HE WENT HOLLYWOOD...HE WAS OPPOSITE...TO SAY THE LEAST.

I think my subjectivity couldn't possibly interest anyone. After all, who wants to get bogged down hearing about the highest celebrity rollers or funniest or sexiest or...

I knew it, you want specifics...tangible traits that NEVER change. So, let's talk about height...the shortest and the tallest celebrities I ever dealt to.

One shortie I dealt roulette to was Doug Flutie. For those of you who are interested...yes indeed, he's as cute as a button. He tried to bleed into the crowd by standing behind a slim 5 foot 8 woman. I think, he thought he got past my wry eye but he didn't. He seemed to want his anonymity and I respected that.

At the Golden Nugget in Las Vegas, I once dealt craps to the diminutive Don Adams, (April 13, 1923 - September 25, 2005). What a hysterical guy he was...NOT! That day that he came in with his cousin, fellow actor Robert Karvelas (Agent Larrabee from "GET SMART"). They stood on opposite sides of the table and made one five dollar "don't come" bet each. They didn't make another until there was a decision on the first. The epitome of boring, as if attending a funeral, Adams ignored all idle chatter and stared-off into space.

Also at the Nugget, I had the good fortune to deal craps to the vertically challenged, veteran stage, screen and TV actress Alice Ghostley, (August 14, 1924 - September, 21 2007).

Most people remember her from TV's, "BEWITCHED." I used to tell people that she was the last actress to play Gladys Kravitz but my latest research proved me wrong...her role was Esmeralda from 1969-1972. Her massive boob tube credits also include, "DESIGNING WOMEN," "MAYBERRY RFD," and "THE JULIE ANDREWS HOUR." Some of her movies were; "THE GRADUATE," (1967), "WITH SIX YOU GET EGGROLL," (1968) and "GREASE," (1978).I ESPECIALLY LIKED HER (right), AS STEPHANIE CRAWFORD, (THE BUSYBODY), IN 1962's, "TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD."

A pleasure to serve, Alice Ghostley knew the etiquette of the craps. In an upbeat manner, even when losing, she stood tall and treated the staff with respect and generosity...while telling interesting stories.

I have dealt to a lot of big guys...mostly basketball players. These giants include Patrick Ewing, Bill Laimbeer and Bernard King. However, one man could eat an apple off of any one of their heads...7 foot 7, Manute Bol.

Manute, (translates to; special blessing), was born from tall stock, in Sudan. His mom was 6 foot 10 and his dad 6 foot 8. Bol also claimed to have a great grandfather who was 7 foot 10.

In his youth, he was unofficially credited with running down a cheetah and spearing a poaching lion to death while cow herding.

Bol came to the USA to play college basketball. For several months, he attended ESL classes to improve his English. He wound-up at the University of Bridgeport, (Connecticut).

He made it into the NBA with the Washington Bullets as center, specializing in defense and shot blocking. Later in his ten-year career, while playing for the Golden State Warriors, Bol strayed form his forte and attempted 91 3-point field goals (making 20). During a cold streak, he was reputed to have coined the phrase, "my bad."

I dealt roulette to Bol on at least 20 occasions. While other sports stars surrounded themselves with their peeps and bodyguards, Manute usually had his posse of University of Bridgeport alums. This horde of Jewish-looking accountant types made a comical contrast. Also humorous was seeing Bol walking in the distance. He had a bopping gait that made him look like a human shadow.

Due to his size and need for comfort, he liked to play on empty tables. He'd sit in the middle and use his incredible reach to place his bets. He was always chipper, friendly and generous. When he had an audience, he'd clown around and order me to place bets right in front of him. On the serious side, I once flexed my back and he stood up to demonstrate a better stretching method.

THE ONLY PLAYER IN NBA HISTORY TALLER THAN MANUTE BOL (above), WAS GHEORGHE MURESAN.

After his pro basketball was over, Bol became a political activist. He spent a good deal of the money he earned supporting various causes in his war-ravaged homeland. He frequently visited refugee camps and was treated like royalty. He even turned down a government position.

After going through an estimated 3.5 million dollars of his own money, to help support his causes in the USA, Bol was willing to play the buffoon to generate interest in his charity work. He signed-up as a minor league hockey player and also suited-up as a jockey. The funds generated, assisted in finding a solution to the genocide in Darfur (Western Sudan), as well as awareness for modern-day slavery and other human rights abuses in his nation.

Tragicallly Mr. Bol died earlier this week, he was only 47. I will always remember him as a titan among men, on the basketball court, gambling in the casino or supporting the weak on the grand world stage.
So when people ask me who was the greatest human being I ever dealt to...the answer would have to be Tiny Tim? NOT! ---The Amazing Kreskin? No! ---Manute Bol...YES !

THE WILLY WONKA OF WILDWOOD

In the late 80's, my wife Sue and I were friendly with Monte and Lana. They were married and lived in Wildwood, NJ. He was originally from West Virginia and she Delaware.

Monte was a good person and I enjoyed hanging out with him but I preferred her company. In addition to Lana having all her teeth, she was more interesting and sophisticated. I shouldn't characterize him as a redneck but let's just say that some of his poor life decisions might've been hindered by a preponderance of molten hops residue on his brain.

Monte once proved his acumen by saying his three life passions were: The Pittsburgh Pirates, Budweiser, rotisserie baseball and playing softball. Until you peer more deeply into the man, you'd get the impression that he was an uncomplicated fellow. Oddly, the heart of his genius lay in the fact that he was far more simple than anyone could imagine.

EVEN THOUGH I HADN'T SEEN MONTE FOR SEVERAL YEARS, IN 2006, I HAD ANDREW POSE FOR THIS PICTURE FOR HIS BENEFIT...JUST IN CASE.

Among a group of several friends, Monte was a confectioner, (candy maker), specializing in fudge. Spanning his teenage years to early thirties, he was a summer employee, (usually 70+ hours a week), at a prestigious, 91-year old taffy emporium, on his town's boardwalk. STOCK PHOTO OF THE PUBLIC WATCHING THE FUDGE MAKING PROCESS.

After their fifth season on the job, Monte and his friends received inside information. The elderly owners were getting ready to retire and their lone, independently wealthy heir wanted nothing to do with the candy empire. Therefore the friends made a pact with each other and expressed to management an interest in eventually taking over the business. Working on faith without any promises or employee incentive programs, profit sharing or management training, they remained loyal for another twelve years. They convinced themselves that their accrued actions would result in handsome rewards...like having the business given to them or sold cheaply.

Blinded by "ambition," this conglomeration of buddies would go on unemployment for eight months every year. On the other hand, Lana worked a year-round, full-time job. This vast imbalance of time off, enabled Monte to concentrate on his three passions.

In September 1987, I received a golden ticket, in the form of an invitation to Monte's birthday party. It was at a time when I was off weekends. But because nearly everyone I knew (here) was a casino worker (including my wife), I had few options on who to spend my time with. Still, I didn't want to attend because I only knew the birthday boy and Lana. Nevertheless, against my better judgement, I was encouraged to make the forty mile solo flight.

Each year, Lana rented a pavilion in Cape May County Park for the festivities. This five-hour rental provided a large protected shell in the woods complete with picnic tables, barbecue pits, playgrounds, ball fields, nature trails, a lake for swimming and fishing.

I got there fashionably late, 1:PM. I was told that the guy with the softball equipment couldn't make it. I was disappointed that there was no game. I was looking forward to that being the highlight of the day. Instead, I found Monte and his candy guild of Oompa Loompas already wasted on beer, bourbon shots and smoking joints in the bushes. When the drunks meandered back to civilization, they blithered about their future dreams of becoming world renown chocolateers, the upcoming end of their rotisserie league and the Pirates playoff chances.
ABOUT 20 YEARS AGO WHEN THE PIRATES WERE STILL RELEVANT, MONTE AND LANA BOUGHT ME THIS CAP. I ACTUALLY WORE IT EARLIER TODAY.

In the middle of their private conversation, a loud argument erupted. Monte got upset that one of his Ohio friends called him a "hoopie." Apparently, the term is a harsh insult to West Virginians. I shook my head, the awkwardness of being around these nimrods was overwhelming...I sought out Lana.

Lana was quick-witted, smart and always fun to be around. But as the hostess, she was buried making sure everything went smoothly while socializing with her lady friends. I was there an hour and was considering leaving when I heard the strangest thing. It shocked me that nobody reacted to it because it sounded like the roar of a lion in the distance. While in my temporary stupor, a chubby four year-old who resembled Augustus Gloop almost knocked me over. He waddled to his mom and demanded, "Take me to the zoo." I asked Lana, "Is there a zoo here?" Then I heard the roar again. Lana said, "Duh! And how many vodka and snozzberries have YOU had? C'mon, didn't you see the giant sign...Cape May Park and Zoo..."

BACK IN THE 80's THE ZOO WAS TINY. IN MY 26 YEARS IN SOUTH JERSEY, IT HAS EXPANDED MANY TIMES AND IS ONE OF THIS AREA'S SILENT (FREE) TREASURES.

The long walk to this pleasant oasis was worth it, even if just to get away from the liquor guzzling louts. I passed herons, ocelots, prairie dogs and a Vietnamese pot-bellied pig. BETWEEN THE WALLABY AND THE ALLIGATOR PEN, THE ZOO HAS CAPYBARAS...THE LARGEST LIVING RODENTS IN THE WORLD.

A large group of gawkers gathered at the concrete lion enclosure. I squeezed between people and saw the king of the jungle...two-feet away, laying against the fence. Suddenly it roared again. The beast's regal outpouring scattered the faint at heart. Slowly, the giggling horde of scaredy-cats took their hands off their ears and cautiously returned.

I WAS NEVER THAT CLOSE TO A LION. IT THRILLED ME WHEN HE ROARED AND I FELT THE MAJESTY OF HIS (BAD) BREATH.

The lion's head swiveled towards the gallery as he let out an unhealthy bellow and a series of gasping coughs. My instinct caused me to step back and look away as Leo vomited through the wire barrier.

I never went to any more of Monte's parties but I was not deterred by lion barf. Years later, the Cape May Zoo became a regular day-trip destination for my son Andrew.

TEN MILES FROM THE BOTTOM OF NEW JERSEY, THE ZOO IS CONVENIENT TO THE AMUSEMENT PARK, BEACHES AND FERRY.

By 1997 Monte and Lana had two kids. They needed to change their lifestyle and improve their cash flow. The timing was perfect because the owners announced their retirement.

Unfortunately, they gave the business to their daughter. Monte and his friends were rewarded with little more than a handshake in recognition of their efforts and sincere regrets that they couldn't be a part of the company's future managerial plans.

In an angry reflex action, the four friends pooled their resources and mortgaged their future. They bought a small-time competitor's fudge kitchen, (nicknamed Old Slugworth), on Cape May's promenade. They re-named it, "A WORLD OF PURE IMAGINATION," but the enterprise struggled to make ends meet. Five years later, they sold-out and took a loss.

Two of the partners were forced to get regular jobs. Monte and his closest friend, Charlie Bucket, got their old jobs back and again drew unemployment for the other eight months of the year.

So the next time you're on the boardwalk, remember to watch the tram-car and look in the window of all the fudge stores. Because if you see a "hoopie" with a vacant look in his eye, whose missing a tooth and wearing a Pittsburgh Pirates cap...you'll know your watching the Willy Wonka of Wildwood.

LEARNING A LIFE LESSON THE EASY WAY

The maggot! Behold the lowly worm-like insect larva of a housefly. Luckily, I have only run across these ubiquitous parasitic devils twice in my life...or was it three times?

The second time was during my film studies course at Brooklyn College. We were watching the 1925 Russian silent movie, "BATTLESHIP POTEMKIN." In the film, the long suffering crew is further inspired to mutiny when cooks scrape countless waves if these buggers off the rotten meat being prepared for them.

The first I saw maggots was four years earlier while working at Buck's Rock Work Camp, in New Milford Connecticut. And unfortunately for me, it occurred up close and personal .

I LOOKED THROUGH A HUNDRED PHOTOS OF MAGGOTS AND NONE OF THEM CAPTURE THE NAUSEATING ESSENCE OF SEEING THEM UNDULATE EN MASSE.

I was sixteen at Buck's Rock and on my own, away from home for the first time. My friend Patrick Clark, the assistant chef had gotten jobs for DRJ and me as kitchen-utility men. While Pat had semi-private living quarters near the mess hall, our eight man gang of "untouchables" was sequestered a mile away. Our barracks were in eye-sight of a pig barn, horse stable and an octagonal dormatory for a team of non-English speaking, Slavic charwomen...nicknamed by DRJ as, "the sweat-hogs." (Several years later, TV's, "WELCOME BACK KOTTER," put that term in vogue).

Needless to say, that corner of the forest needed an aerial deodorant bomb dropped on it!

The best perk of our job was that in our spare time, we were permitted to use the camp facilities. I learned a lot about cultural diversity and met people from all over the country and several foreigners too. Yet with the opportunity to network with interesting, wealthy, influential people, I befriended a fellow Canarsian named Jerry.

At twenty years old, Jerry's position in the camp was a half-notch above mine. He was the camp sanitation engineer...the garbage man. Its seems ridiculous now but I was drawn to Jerry because he was sophisticated and I equated that worldliness to being a chick magnet.

I should have realized my folly when he asked me if I wanted to help him do a run out to McNulty's Dump.
HIS TRUCK RESEMBLED THIS ONE EXCEPT THE WALLS WERE SHORTER AND THERE WAS NO ROOF.

We threw so many trash bags into the back that we had to tamp them down so they wouldn't slip out. On the way off the camp grounds, we passed the nature hut. Jerry pointed out a junky, military looking vehicle parked out front and said, "Check it out, it a VW Thing." I said, "Huh?" He said, "They are so cool, one day I'm gonna take it for a joy ride."

AN EARLY VERSION OF A COMPACT SUV, THE VOLKSWAGEN TYPE 181, (The Kurierwagon), WAS POPULARLY KNOWN IN THE UK AS THE "TREKKER," IN MEXICO AS THE "SAFARI" AND IN THE USA AS THE, "THING." IT WAS A CONTINUATION AND IMPROVEMENT OF THE WWII KUBELWAGON, (BUCKET SEAT CAR). THE THING WAS PRODUCED FROM 1969-1983 BUT WHEN IT FAILED STRICTER AMERICAN SAFETY STANDARDS IN 1975, VW STOPPED SELLING THEM HERE.

We were heading to the dump on a quiet country road. A few minutes later Jerry said, "Wanna drive?" I said, "I don't have a license and my permit is only good in New York state. Plus I never drove a manual transmission." He said, "Okay. But some night I'll teach you on my car, its easy."
At the dump, the administration office was empty. A dark green work shirt with "McNulty's Dump" embroidered into the back was hanging on a nail. Jerry examined it and said, "I love the McNulty patch on the shoulder and look it has 'MOOSE' stitched over the pocket." Jerry looked around and stuffed it under his shirt. I said, "Maybe Moose needs it." He smiled, "I've had my eye on this baby for two weeks."

We drove through long boulevards of refuse. Near the tree-line, Jerry stopped and said, "You never know what you might find here. A few days ago I found an Indian Head Penny." My face contorted when I thought, you didn't find that shirt, you stole it. He handed me a pair of work gloves and added, "And remember, you can eat anything you find."

It didn't take long to fling our garbage off the truck onto existing mountains. Then Jerry, in his rubber hip boots, took a stroll through memory lane. Ugh, I was so skeeved because there was no way I going to follow him into his Utopia...even if I was wearing something more significant than gym shorts and Converse hi-tops.

While Jerry snooped around, the fumes irritated my eyes and stench got to me. I was hoping to fart...to clear air as Jerry threw a headless doll at me. He then showed me a half-filled, classic green, six-ounce Coca Cola bottle and said, "Thirsty, want a drink?" A few seconds later he screamed, "Eureka, its the mother lode. You gotta check this out!" From the tone of his voice, I guessed he found a Buffalo Nickel so I tip-toed through the tulips to his side. He lifted some galvanized sheet metal and revealed the remnants of a bacon package with a gazillion bugs on it. Before I could divert my eyes from the tiny predators, I noticed that the light breeze seemed to effect their formation. I fought-off the urge to vomit and hustled back to the truck.

When Jerry got back I asked, "What were they?" He laughed, "Maggots."

That image has been burnt into my psyche for the last 39 years. But while it was still fresh in my mind, I was led astray again by Jerry.

Jerry owned a black 1959 VW bug. He enticed me to go back to Canarsie with him on our day off. He described a veritable cornucopia of girls that he knew in our neighborhood. The twisted reality was, he was going to see HIS girlfriend and wanted company for the drive.

I was homesick anyway and made the best of the situation. I spent the night with my folks and slept in my own bed. I liked the arrangement so much that I joined Jerry two other times. We were going to do it one last time but Jerry's car was in the shop. That night he came over after dinner wearing his neatly pressed McNulty shirt and said, "Let's get ice cream in town." I said, "How we gonna get there?" He said, "Follow me."

At the nature hut Jerry pointed to the Thing and whispered, "There it is." I said, "Why are you whispering?" He said, "Shush! I know the gimmick." As we approached, neither of us noticed the big difference...the Thing's convertible roof was up. Jerry tried the door but it was locked. When he muttered obscenities, I sighed in relief, "Its no big deal, forget about it." Jerry said, "NO! I said were goin' for ice cream and we're goin'."

Jerry's bunkhouse was at the far end of the property. It was a half-mile hike through the dark woods. His garbage truck was parked out front. He said, "Get in." Jerry leaned under the steering wheel and fiddled with some wires. He said, "I have to surrender the keys to the old man at the end of each day. That's why I learned how to hot-wire cars." Suddenly the engine started. He didn't turn on the headlights and we rolled off the camp grounds via the back way.

At the stop sign I said, "You just stole this..." Jerry interrupted, "Borrowed my dear fellow, borrowed." Instead of making a left towards New Milford, we made a right. "Hey," I said, "Where are you going?" He said, "To get ice cream." I said, "Ice cream where?" He said, "Torrington."

Through winding back roads that restricted our speed to 30MPH, I cursed myself for getting involved with stealing the truck. Jerry sensed my reluctance and said, "Dairy Queen is the only cool place in Litchfield County open after dark. Its a great hang-out and place to meet chicks." I wasn't buying it. So Jerry tried a different tact to pacify me, "Wanna drive." I said, "Yeah, but my permit's only good in New York and..." Jerry cut me off, "Yeah, yeah, yeah and you can't drive a four-speed. You wanna or not?" I said, "But what about the cops?" "Cops, you see any cops. We're in the middle of friggin' nowhere. Hell, we haven't seen another car for ten minutes."

We switched places. Jerry coached me as I struggled to time the gears. Once I got up to speed, I was lulled into thinking that I had conquered the beast. But as soon as I had to slow down and start the process again, I realized that I was buried. Twenty miles into our trip I saw a "Torrington 3 Miles," sign. In the distance, a moving van was going 15 MPH. We were stuck behind it for ten minutes before it turned off. When we were free again, I mis-timed my shift and the confused transmission caused the truck to buck and bounce. I was then gripped by fear as someone with his high-beams on, came up behind us. I almost soiled myself when the police car's rack lights were turned on. Jerry was cool. He said, "Slow down, pull over, put it in park and slide over and switch places with me."

I'll never forget the sergeant's name tag: Walter Palmer. He asked for our credentials. Everything was in order but he jotted our names and other information into a memo pad. He shined his flashlight into both of our eyes and scanned the cab for weapons, alcohol or drugs. Its a miracle he didn't notice that there were no keys in the ignition.

Jerry was asked about his erratic driving, his New York license, why we were so far from the camp and why he was wearing a McNulty's shirt. Jerry was nonchalant, "I just learned to drive a stick, I'm only working in Connecticut for the summer, we're heard there's a Dairy Queen in Torrington and I traded my camp shirt with a guy from the dump." Palmer then asked me, "And who are you?" With my stomach in knots from the thought of going to jail my voice cracked, "I w-work at the camp too."

THE SUGARPLUM IMAGES OF LOADS OF CHICKS WAITING TO GET PICKED-UP EVAPORATED FROM MY MIND.

Palmer seemed satisfied as he walked back to his cruiser...until he did an about-face. He scared the crap out of me so badly that I wanted to dig a maggot hole and crawl in. The sergeant leaned into the cab and quizzically said, "DQ closed at 11. Maybe you should head straight back to camp. I got your names. And I'm gonna telephone your boss first thing in the morning and make sure everything is straight. If you play your cards right, this'll be what you call, learning a life lesson the easy way. That seems fair, don't it boys?" Jerry and I both said, "Yes sir."

I spent little time with Jerry after that.

Unlike the 1996 movie, "SLEEPERS," where the normal lives of four teenagers are shattered by a stupid prank gone wrong, I was scared straight, (or in my case, straighter), by my experience. Sergeant Walter Palmer helped me figure out how to avoid being influenced by a friend's bad decisions. And more importantly, the difference between a friend and a maggot.

SODA, SODA EVERYWHERE BUT NOT A DROP TO DRINK

Boy, yesterday was the wrong day to stain my deck. The heat was brutal at 9:00AM. Towards the end of my five-hour mission...in the words of Matthew Broderick from the 1988 movie, "BILOXI BLUES," it was; Africa hot.

Don't forget, I lived in Las Vegas for 5 years so I know what 116 degrees feels like...but I never labored in it. Laboring in yesterday's 90 was awful...but once, a long time ago, I toiled in worse conditions.

In the late 70's, my friend GRAMPS got hooked into a great part-time job by his "connected," Italian immigrant neighbor Gaetano, (Gae). Working side-by-side with Gae, Gramps was paid top-dollar at an off-brand soda distributorship in Manhattan. It was a cherry job for Gae because he used to get kick-backs from other immigrants to be replacements when his crew was short. When none of Gae's people were available, he'd let Gramps use his friends. Under those circumstances, I worked with them three times, (without paying a kick-back). The first time was the most memorable.

Right on schedule, with Gramps riding shot-gun, Gae's dark purple Buick Regal pulled up in front of my parent's house at 4:30AM. Like a zombie, I shuffled through the stifling, thick, hot and humid summer night. They were wide awake and laughing. I had never met Gae, so I rubbed the sand out of my eyes, gave him a hearty handshake and expressed my appreciation.. After a colossal yawn, I went into "just shoot me mode," and I curled up in the back seat.

In a heavy accent Gae said, "If any one's gonna sleep in my car, it gonna be me." I sat up. A few blocks later, at a strip mall near the entrance to the Belt Parkway,we pulled into Mister Donut. Gramps said, "The first benefit of working with me is, get anything you want." Gramps turned to Gae and said, "Another benefit of working with me is, I'm not a cheap bastard. Trust me, when I drive and its this f**king hot, I turn on the AC."

Outside Canarsie's only 24-hour eatery, (and paradise for vagrants), I downed my first chocolate French cruller. The heat was so intense that before getting back in the car, I regretted getting coffee. At the same time, Gramps kept-up the verbal abuse until Gae, cursing in a combination of Italian and English broke-down and turned on the air-conditioner.

It was still dark as we flew on the empty highway. My hands were a sticky mess from melted chocolate. I was licking my fingers clean as we got to the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, (in ten minutes...if I hadn't experienced this world record, I would never have believed it)..

In the city, Gae timed every light.  We were on West End Avenue in no time. By the docks, under the West Side Highway at Twenty-Eighth Street, Gae honked his horn at three prostitutes. They all waved and the bleach blond wearing a skimpy tennis outfit picked up the front of her skirt...thus proving she wasn't a natural blond.

I was still grinning from the side-show as Gae turned right onto a street of identical, Civil War-era, white-washed, three-story warehouses. Halfway up the street on the left, two seedy looking guys were loitering in front of E and R Beverage Wholesalers. Gramps rolled down the window and handed a key to the taller man. In broken English the big guy cried, "We shouldn't work today, it's hotter than a steam room in Palermo." As Gae ranted at him in Italian, Gramps roared, "Shut-up and open the gate."

The man entered through the office door and disappeared. Gramps proclaimed, "Open sesame." Seconds later, the stillness was broken by the loud, chain-driven steel barrier rising. This metallic clackity clack stirred a greasy rat the size of a cat.  In an impulse of uncertainty, the behemoth rodent ran back in forth before scampering to the freedom beneath our car.  The start of the new work seemed to be signaled as it disappeared into a blackened alley. The entertainment at E and R seemed to never end.

The warehouse was a never ending series of piled soda cases. Gae was the leader and got to work immediately.  He lustily loaded full pallets with a fork-lift and drove them to a staging area up front. At a much slower pace, six other men followed his example and processed orders for hot dog vendors, bodegas, vending machine moguls etc.

Under Gramps' tutelage, I continuously carried and loaded individual cases onto pallets. He positioned me in front of an oscillating industrial fan. But it had little effect. The heat was so staggering that I was soon covered in sweat.

The sun was barely up as the place became a beehive of activity.  Customers came to pick-up their orders as we never stopped gathered and setting-up others. After three hours the owners showed up. In their early forties, the bachelor Cozzafava brothers looked like twins. They were both sloppy fat and had their thinning black hair slicked straight back.  The bosses each wore white tee-shirts with an over-sized Italian horn charm dangling from the neck, (one of their shirts had the large letters F-B-I on it, but I couldn't read the caption. The other brother had an Italian flag on his).

Even though these men were named Ed and Ron, Gae and Gramps called them Nunzio and Guido Vaselino behind their back.

At ten, I was on the verge of heat prostration when Gramps came by. I was flipping my tee-shirt over my head to mop my brow as he said, "We're getting drinks from across the street." I was dying of thirst but couldn't decide what I wanted. I said, "What are you getting?" Gramps said, "A Sprite." I said, "With all this soda laying around..." He stopped me and said, "These geniuses don't have ice." I said, "Oh." And ordered a chocolate milk.

Later, Gae was having an argument in Italian with one of the workers. The brother in the FBI shirt, (I now saw it read; Full Blooded Italian), angrily rushed out of the office and yelled at them, "Jesus f**king Christ!  You're in f**king America now!  Speak f**king English!" Within his own tapestry of profanity Gae responded, "This mook's been here eight months, and just loaded ten cases of diet ginger ale for Malzone." The brother went off on the worker and ended with, "Whatsa matta Enzo, you don't know your ass from a hole in the ground? I don't need to hear my smallest goddamned account complain ...capisce? Try thinking every now and then...that old fart only orders regular!" Gae started laughing. The brother snarled, "Don't laugh, you f**king peasant, two years ago the only English you knew was; square or round?" Gae was still smirking when he added, "You mullion, you're so f**king stupid, you don't even know that your name means fag in English."

The other brother came out of the office.  He was putting a hideous, fluorescent lime-green, short-sleeve dress shirt over his flag shirt. He handed a plain light blue one to his brother and winked at Gae, "Mind the store, we're going for a long business lunch."

It wasn't even eleven and the Blimpo brothers were gone. A minute after they left, everyone stopped what they were doing when Gae screamed out, "Chinese fire drill!" Gae ran to the phone as the other workers, as if their lives depended on it, started furiously loading soda cases onto dollies. They had a hundred cases curbside in five minutes. I said to Gramps, "Whats going on?" He smiled, "Those pigs clear sixty grand each and don't have a care in the world. They're such schmucks, they're clueless and have no idea of their own inventory. Well, we know other guys who are willing to take our extra shit off our hands...and here they are."

A dented late-model, beige station wagon with the fake wooden sides screeched to a stop out front. The driver came in and secretly handed Gae a wad of cash. All our workers hurriedly loaded the whole shebang in two minutes. Gramps smiled, "Keep this quiet and I'll buy you lunch."

I said, "Wow, that's crazy." Gramps said, "They'll never miss it. We do it a couple of times a month when they have a two-hour business lunch. Which means, they eat and drink for an hour and fifty minutes and do whatever they do with hookers, for the other ten minutes."

We had our lunch at noon. After, we loaded a beat-up, un-air-conditioned, unmarked, white Ford Econo-Van. Gae, Gramps and I were going to make deliveries. On that model truck, the middle seat was on top of the motor. Being the lowest on the E and R totem pole, I got to sit on the hot-seat. I was on the verge of fainting when we passed a bank on Ninth Avenue. It's digital clock said 1:PM, 104 degrees...I thought I was going to die.

THAT 104 IS THE HIGHEST I EVER REMEMBER EXPERIENCING IN NEW YORK.

Our first delivery was on a tiny, one way, cobblestone street. At the far end of the narrow block, I saw a hot dog wagon hitched to a twelve year-old Rambler Ambassador. We got out and loaded the cases onto hand trucks. I was peeling my pants off my butt as Gae banged on a seemingly vacant storefront's door. The windows were covered by yellowed newspapers and the door was disguised to look like it was boarded up. The rusty mailbox had a small plastic label that read: B. MALZONE.

I heard several dead-bolt being unlocked before the door swung open to reveal Malzone. The curmudgeon ushered us in with a flurry of Italian obscenities. Apparently the heat was getting to Gae too. In the unlit room, surrounded by soda cans, boxes of frankfurter buns, napkins and industrial-sized condiment jars, he got in the cranky old-timers face with a salvo of his own.

In marginal English Malzone said, "Okay, okay. But hurry up.  And keep your dirty Sicilian fingers off my stuff.  Then get outta here!" Gae said, "Batty, why are you always such an ass-hole. You never say please or thanks. We come when it's freezing...or like a furnace...and you just piss on us. All the other hot dogs guys give us a little something at Christmas or offer us a drink on a hot day..." "Hey," Malzone interrupted, "I told you a million times, my name is Batista or Mr. Malzone. And if you wanna drink?" He picked a stray can of orange soda off the gravelly floor and said, "Have any can of your own piss-water...just lay off my Coke and Seven-Up."

Gae told him, "Shove it up your ass, Batty" He cursed him in Italian and slammed the door as we left. Malzone stuck his head out and got the last word, "I'm the customer, you're a worker...that means you're justa piece of shit. I'll tell Cozzafava and he'll fire your sorry asses."

We finished our deliveries and dropped the van off. On the way home, Gae blasted his air-conditioner but continued to dwell on being insulted by Malzone. At Varrick Street he made a sudden left. Gramps said, "Where are you going?"  Gae said, "Shut-up."  Halofway to the next corner Gramps yelled, "I get it! There's Malzone." Gae pulled up at a fire hydrant. He pulled out a twenty dollar bill and said, "Follow my lead."

SABRETTE FRANKFURTERS, A.K.A., DIRTY WATER HOT DOGS ARE A NEW YORK STAPLE. A THOUSAND VENDORS CAN BE FOUND EVERY DAY OF THE YEAR.

Malzone was weary of us. Gae waved the money in his face and said, "Mr. Malzone, we had a hard day, it's hotter than hell and I think we should apologize. Let me have two with the works and a Coke." Malzone lightened-up, served him and said, "Next." Gramps said, "Two with mustard and sauerkraut, and a Seven-Up." He turned to me and said, "How about you kid?" I wasn't hungry. Two hours earlier, I had a roast beef sandwich and fries for lunch.  But I followed along and said, "One with mustard, stewed onions and a Coke."

The miserly fossil grinned while muttering figures as he totaled our bill. Finally he said, "To show I like all you pisans, I'll give you a little discount..." Gae cut him off, put the twenty back in his pocket and said, "Keep your f**king discount and f**k you!"

Malzone knew he was getting stiffed before we got back in the car.  Still he wove a tapestry of Italian profanity before whining, "You scumbags had to take my Coke and 7-Up too."

What a great day. Even though it was a scorcher, I'm glad I wasn't too young to appreciate the concept of, "standing up to the man."

Staining my deck in death-defying heat was another story. Here it is two days later and my back is still killing me. My sunburn still smarts and my hands are so swollen, cramped, blistered and crippled-up that typing this column is tough...and there's nothing funny or memorable about that.