I'LL SHOOT YOU RIGHT BETWEEN THE EYES IF YOU DON'T LIKE KFC.

Through the miracle of the Internet, I recently tracked down a former best friend. Our cyberspace revival meeting took a disappointing turn when he made it clear that he wasn't interested in reminiscing or communicating in any way. Afterwards, I remembered that he had some personal problems in the mid-70's, so I didn't pry. That means, we'll have to stroll down Memory Lane without STEVENC.

According to his screen name, he now prefers to be called Duke. But to me, he'll always be "STEVENC," or for a short time as, "CAP'N CRUNCH." He'll be STEVENC because in elementary school, teachers differentiated us by adding our last initial to our first name. When we got older and played hockey, his nickname sarcastically changed to Cap'n Crunch because he was a husky, six foot-three...pussy-cat.

THE INSPIRATION FOR STEVENC 'S NICKNAME CAME FROM GILLES "CAP'N CRUNCH" MAROTTE. IN THE TWILIGHT OF HIS CAREER, MAROTTE PLAYED THREE MEDIOCRE SEASONS WITH THE NHL's NEW YORK RANGERS. BY THAT TIME, THE ELEMENT OF HIS GAME THAT HAD REALLY DETERIORATED WAS HIS TOUGHNESS.DOUG "DUNG" JARRETT ALSO PLAYED WITH THE RANGERS. IN HIS BRIEF STAY IN NEW YORK, HE PLAYED MISERABLY. I PREFERRED CALLING STEVENC, "DUNG" AFTER JARRETT BUT THE "CRUNCH" MONIKER STUCK BECAUSE IT FLOWED BETTER WITH THIS LAST NAME.

Beginning in fourth grade, I went to STEVENC's house after school on most Fridays. It was the only weekday that I didn't have Hebrew school so I became a once a week fixture. Most of the time, we'd play sports games like, "STRAT-O-MATIC," or "CHALLENGE THE YANKEES." But our go-to activity was the hockey game that used metal rods to move the skaters.

AFTER 45 YEARS OF TWEAKING, THESE GAMES ARE BASICALLY THE SAME .

In STEVENC's foyer, before we went upstairs, I'd set my binder on the bookcase next to the steps and drape my coat over the banister. One time his behemoth dad came home and read MY report card...and thought it was STEVENC's. It said things like, "Steven talks too much and distracts other students," "Steven needs work on fractions," "Steven's assignments are frequently incomplete," and I saved best for last, "I'm not Steven's grandmother, I don't have to listen to his bad jokes!"

*Mr. C's cannonading baritone voice rattled the foundation and sent a cascade of plaster showers down from the rafters as he summoned his son. In no time, STEVENC was getting the crap kicked out of him until he finally squeaked, "That's STEVEN 'E's' report card.!"

*PLEASE NOTE - When MY parents read that same report card, they were thrilled by my improvement.

In the Cap'n Crunch-era, STEVENC took on many odd jobs. One morning he answered a cryptic newspaper ad and was hired over the phone to be "an assistant private investigator." Without any private-eye training or meeting a company representative or knowing the business's location, he was immediately given his first assignment. The case involved driving to East Flatbush and staking-out the home of a shapely blond. Nothing happened all afternoon and into the early evening. In that time, he logged hourly reports and was prepared to phone-in any movements.

Just after dark, she finally came out. He was entranced by the bounce in her ponytail as he followed her on foot to the corner grocery. She bought a pack of Virginia Slims and an Almond Joy candy bar, before returning home. At midnight, a Marathon cab pulled-up and honked.  She came out wearing a short red skirt and a low cut purple cardigan. She got in. The rookie detective followed the taxi to the other side of Brooklyn. At a dilapidated apartment house in Red Hook, she got out.

STEVENC found a pay phone on the opposite corner and called in. Then he waited. Three hours later, a local car service stopped in front. A man appeared from a darkened alley and approached the taxi. He gave the driver some money. When the cab drove away, the man leaned against the building, hidden in a shadowy alcove. Seconds later, the object of the investigation came out the door. Her skirt was creased and her hair was a disorderly frazzle. She was fastening a button on her sweater when the man came up from behind and accosted her. He knocked her down, beat her and left the poor girl in a pool of blood.

My friend hustled to the phone and dialed up this boss. There was no answer. He panicked when people came out to help the victim, so he left. STEVENC tried calling several more times that night but there was no answer. The next day, there was no answer again. On the following day, a phone company message came on saying that the number was disconnected.

Throughout college, STEVENC hooked me up with several jobs too. The three biggest ones were; delivering for a liquor store, valet parking at a catering hall and a food server in a bingo hall.

The bingo hall, (Crescent Bingo), was located near the Queens border, in the City Line section of Brooklyn. On a Sunday morning when my car was in the shop, my dad drove me there for my first day. When we passed Franklin K. Lane High School, I knew we were lost.

LANE HAD THE REPUTATION FOR BEING THE TOUGHEST SCHOOL IN THE CITY. TO ADD TO ITS NEGATIVE MYSTIQUE, IT WAS PERCHED ON A HILL AND LOOKED LIKE A PRISON. PLUS, AROUND BACK, IT WAS ADJACENT TO A CEMETERY. I GOOGLED THEIR FAMOUS ATTENDEES AND THE ONLY ONE I EVER HEARD OF WAS JOHN "THE TEFLON DON" GOTTI...AND HE WAS A DROP-OUT.

We found our way through the rough neighborhood and arrived on time. Against my better judgement, dad came in with me. In the cheerful public area, we were greeted by the perky manager/chef. This obese giant named Ambrose was bald and a little older than me. After a brief discussion about my job description, he assured my dad that his nineteen year-old would be safe and vowed to drive me home. When dad left, I was led into the storage room behind the concession stand.

I saw why they required newbies to work Sundays as my jaw dropped. Safe? I was surrounded by death...I never saw anything so disgusting...it was like being beamed-down into Nagasaki after the atomic blast. To my dismay, management "drops" a bug-bomb there every Saturday night. In the aftermath, every surface seemed spray painted with dead cockroaches.  I was low-man on the Crescent Bingo totem pole so I cursed STEVENC in my mind as Ambrose handed a broom and a snow shovel and was told to clean them up.

In a perfect storm that combined a rush of bile and an intense wave of nausea, I barely avoided losing my breakfast. I guess its human nature to mature quickly when there is a paycheck involved because I didn't get sick even when I noticed food cartons gnawed through by mice, various sized rodent droppings and rat traps that were big enough to snap my forearm.

Ambrose turned out to be a great ally. He once confided in me...in tears..."I'm number five." I said, "Heh?" When he stopped sobbing he whimpered, "My Aggie, (his hyper-skinny wife), loves me fifth best." I said, "No..." He interrupted and cried, "She loves her mother, father, our daughter Jilly and Arbuckle better than me." It was comical to watch this mountain man be so emotional. I did a good job to mask a snicker before making the mistake of asking, "Who's Arbuckle?" "Arbuckle is her parent's dog...now I ask you, what kind of friggin' name is that for a Chihuahua?"

STEVENC had warned me about a fellow waiter named Curtis. He was Crescent Bingo's resident nemesis. Curtis...who hated being called Curtis...was the owner's cocky, nerdy nephew. I was never a fighter but if I could have figured out how to deck this four-eyed weasel without losing my job, (about $25.00 clear, for four hours, twice a week), I would have. To make matters worse, I decided to not repair my car. So until I bought a new one, Curtis was my ride.

Being a waiter in a bingo hall meant, I walked up and down the aisles during the games and solicited refreshments. We were paid a meager wage and relied on tips. One of the biggest tippers, was a regular named Hortie. This beauty was thirty-ish, sloppy fat and had a goiter. Her unique look was accented by wearing the same hot-pink, "Get out of my way...I'm going to bingo," tee-shirt during every session. And to complete the picture through a chipped tooth smile, she flirted with Ambrose every chance she got.

A GOITER IS AN ENLARGEMENT OF THE THYROID GLAND THAT RESULTS IN A SWOLLEN NECK. IT IS GENERALLY CAUSED BY AN IODINE DEFICIENCY.

Hortie's favorite snack at Crescent Bingo was a sliced knish with a cut-up hot dog inside, topped with melted cheese. She wanted Ambrose to come up with a catchy name for this concoction and list it as "Hortie's Favorite," on the menu placard.

When Ambrose was on the outs with Aggie, he decided to pursue Hortie. He took this adulterous opportunity seriously but lacked the imagination or the cleverness to pull it off without looking like he was hard-up. He envisioned an after-hours rendezvous with Hortie.  He thought he could lure her into the storage room by confidentially telling her the name he came up with for Hortie's Favorite.  The situation became more complicated because he wanted a clear conscious and needed her to make the first move.  In the mean time, he presented his problem to Curtis and I.  While filling our orders, he asked us to come up with a cool name for her favorite dish.

I was passing a squeezable, plastic mustard container between my hands while I waited for a hot dog. While I struggled for a solution suddenly Curtis spouted, "CHEESE-NISH-DOG!" I said, "That's the stupidest idea I've ever heard." That's when I got the idea to call it, "a KFC," (Knish, Frankfurter and Cheese).
IN 1930, KFC WAS FOUNDED BY HARLAN "COLONEL" SANDERS IN NORTH CORBIN KENTUCKY. THE FIRST FRANCHISE WAS OPENED IN SOUTH SALT LAKE CITY UTAH, IN 1952.

Curtis had a geeky, milquetoast personality outside work. But inside, he wasn't used to being challenged. His aunt owned the place so he strutted around like an unaccountable, invincible rooster. He didn't like my response to his suggestion and like a true moron he loudly whined, "No! Your idea is stupid because people will think we sell fried chicken." His volume distracted some of the closer bingo players. So I whispered, "Curtis, you're a dick." I'm not sure what got him so pissed-off...being called Curtis or a dick! But he displayed his anger by taking my customer's hot dog out of the bun. He held it by the end, wagged it in my face and yelled, "This is YOUR dick!"

I was skeeved that he touched my customer's food. I grabbed the mustard squeezer, aimed it at his face and demanded, "Drop it Curtis! Or else." Instead of dropping it, he dropped the F-Bomb. I fired my weapon. Like the mark of Zorro, the downward, yellow, zig-zag streak started at his forehead, ran across his glasses and down to his chin. He wiped his face and tried to smear it on me. When I backed away, Ambrose came around and pushed him to the wash room.

Curtis had a jaundiced look on his face during the quiet ride home.

The next day, I told STEVENC what happened and he said, "When you call for your next schedule, don't mention anything. Don't worry, they know he's a schmuck." I never called...and they never called me.

I would have loved to rehash these old stories with STEVENC and see how the last 35 years have treated him. But alas, he wasn't interested. Maybe he's still sore after all these years about being called, "Dung." It could have been worse, I could have likened his hockey abilities after another crappy Ranger, Carol Vadnais.
THE NAME CAROL WOULD HAVE FIT NICELY WITH STEVENC's LAST NAME. BUT MR. VADNAIS PLAYED WELL ENOUGH IN NEW YORK TO BE VOTED #52 ON THE RANGERS ALL-TIME TOP 100 PLAYERS POLL...EVEN IF IN 1973, HE WAS DETAINED BY POLICE FOR RESEMBLING A BANK ROBBERY SUSPECT.

The bottom line is, I'm still curious about the origin of STEVENC's current screen name, "Duke." I may not understand it but I respect his privacy.

I can only wonder what changed him back in the 70's and why we went separate ways, three years before I moved to Vegas. If I had to guess, I'd say author, Dr. Wayne Dyer.STEVENC WAS HEAVILY INFLUENCED BY DYER'S SELF-HELP BOOK, "PULLING YOUR OWN STRINGS."

I never read it but it seemed that STEVENC's interpretation was; as an adult, you are responsible for your actions so you can do whatever you want. The result was, the Cap'n took that advice to the extreme and got crunched by some bad decisions. He stubbornly clung to them...even when the normalcy of his life was slipping away...and he probably never recovered.