THE PINOCCHIO FACTOR, AT THE CORNER OF SKIDMARK AND SYRINGE

Gold! What a concept. They knew it was precious in ancient times and today, it maintains every ounce of its luster and allure.

I started collecting coins when I was eight. Due to economic restraints, my hobby was restricted to mostly common pennies, some worn-out nickels, a small amount of silver and zero gold.

My fellow, prepubescent collector friends were choked by similar financial shackles, so I learned at an early age that they didn't want to see my most treasured items and I didn't want to see theirs....unless there was something special...of which I had none. More importantly, people outside the hobby...definitely, didn't want to see my collection.AS BEAUTIFUL AS MY BEST PIECES WERE...IN THE TRUEST SENSE OF THE WORD, THEY WERE ORDINARY.
This general disinterest in my collection stayed constant in my teens even when I injected a trifle more money into it. And since my hobby has laid dormant ever since, I'm positive that no one would be impressed by it now.

WHETHER IT'S PAINTINGS, HUMMELS OR OIL CANS, FEW PEOPLE WANT TO SEE YOUR STUFF...EVEN IF YOU HAVE STRECKER'S HYBRID "RUBIDUS." SO, UNLESS YOU ARE AN AFICIONADO, WHAT YOU SEE (above), IS JUST A BUTTERFLY.

In my sophomore year of high school, I befriended blond, blue-eyed Lee Richardson...who had just moved into Canarsie. In addition to an upbeat and funny personality, he told wild, entertaining stories. Some of them included his father being a detective sergeant who retired after being shot in the chest. He also said that his dad hooked him up as the New York Knickerbockers ball boy. But of all the stories, the one that really fired me up was his collection of gold coins...worth over fifty-thousand dollars.

Midway through that term, we were settling into our algebra class. Lee, (a hyper-skinny kid), lost a lot of credibility when he got into an argument with Ty, a stout, athletic kid from his old neighborhood. Apparently they participated in their "Y's" youth basketball league. Interlaced with high levels of profanity, they argued whether Ty's team, (the Renegades) or another team, (the Skyhawks), were their seventh grade champs. When the muscular kid called him a moron, living in a fantasy world, diminutive Lee pushed the big fellow over.

Ty scraped his head on a desk on the way down and was rushed to the nurse's office. I was blinded by loyalty. Before I knew that the victim was okay...I defended my friend. The other witnesses harshly criticized me for calling Lee's tactics, "fair." However, the court of public opinion swayed me when I was reminded that Ty was hobbled by a broken leg and cast from his toes to his crotch.

Later, some other friends told me that in addition to Lee being a coward for toppling a handicapped guy, he was a compulsive liar too. They told me that Lee's father was an active policeman and his rank was as a regular patrolman. And as for being a ball boy for the Knicks...his detractors demonstrated its implausibility and showered the concept with a chorus of derisive laughter.

These revelations made me shy away from Lee. A week later, he cornered me in the cafeteria and asked, "Why are you avoiding me." I said, "Pushing down Ty was uncool." He said, "The dean tried to suspend me but once my dad got in his face, everyone realized it was no big deal. Jeez, the weasel didn't even get hurt." I nodded but didn't believe him. Then Lee grinned, "Dad had them sweep the whole mess under the rug."

Weeks passed. Lee approached me in the library. He wanted to do something after school. He sensed my reluctance and said, "You still worried about Ty? Well don't be. We patched up our differences and I invited him to see my gold coin collection next week." I didn't believe him. He continued, "C'mon let's get a slice of pizza later." That's when I got an idea and said, "Yeah, we could do that...and after, I can come back to your house and see your gold coins." Lee let out a loud, "Whoa, whoa, whoa!"
IF LEE'S NOSE GREW WHEN HE FIBBED, IT WOULD HAVE SAVED ME A LOT OF GUESSWORK.

Just as I was thinking that Lee was indeed a pathetic phony he added, "I have to make a confession. The gold isn't mine, it's my father's...and he'll kill me if I showed it to anyone." I said, "You're so full of shit, your eyes just turned brown." "No really," he whined, "my dad is really strict..." I interrupted, "Two seconds ago you said Ty was coming over next week." He said, "Yeah but..." I cut him off, "I'm not interested." Lee said, "Okay, we'll get a slice at Dominic's and then we'll go to my house."

Lee lived in the Canarsie Park section of Canarsie. This area is small, tucked away behind the park and up against the Belt Parkway. Therefore most Canarsians never heard of it. I was only there twice, this visit to Lee's house in 1970 and a wake in 1978. Beyond that, the only other time I remember a reference to it, was my crime novelist friend Charlie Stella setting a sexual liaison scene back there in his book, "EDDIE'S WORLD."

After the pizza, we walked four blocks to Skidmore Avenue.
A CONTEMPORARY PICTURE FACING NORTH ON ROCKAWAY PARKWAY, AT THE CORNER OF SKIDMORE AVENUE.

From the opposite direction, Skidmore Avenue is the second street off the highway. Sometimes people hear my accent and ask, "What part of Brooklyn are you from?" I say, "Canarsie." When they ask, "Where in Canarsie?" To be funny, I steal a line from comedian Sam Kinnison and say, "The corner of Skidmark and Syringe." Nearly every time I use that line, people mistakenly relate Skidmark to Skidmore Avenue and say something like, "Oh yeah, my cousin (or whatever), used to live there."

IF YOU SQUINT, THAT'S THE WORLD TRADE CENTER IN THE DISTANCE. IN THE FOREGROUND, SKIDMORE RUNS IN ONLY ONE DIRECTION, WEST (LEFT) BETWEEN THE STRIP MALLS.

Despite Skidmore Avenue's highly visible sign on Rockaway Parkway, it is short, inconsequential and almost uninhabited. On the way to Lee's, he led me behind a church and quipped, "They call it St. Felons on bingo night because they have a two tattoo minimum to get in."

(OCTOBER - 1970). CANARSIE PARK WAS MY HIGH SCHOOL'S JV FOOTBALL HOME FIELD. THAT'S ME, #72 IN YOUR PROGRAM BUT #1 IN YOUR HEART. ALTHOUGH THAT LADY WAS PENALIZED FOR CLIPPING, I STILL GOT IN ON THE TACKLE. PLEASE NOTE, THE "CANARSIE PARK," SECTION OF MY NEIGHBORHOOD, IS IN THE BACKGROUND.

In Lee's kitchen, he used a step stool to retrieve a key from a sugar bowl on the top shelf. He handed me the stool and said, "Follow me." He stopped at the hall closet and took a wire hanger. On the way to the basement, Lee straightened out the hanger as he swore me to secrecy.

We went towards the utility room. To camouflage the door, it had the same walnut paneling as the walls. As I passed through, I noticed that the width of the door was battleship gray, incredibly thick and made of metal. When I put my hand on its girth Lee said, "It's fireproof."

Next to the washing machine, Lee stood on the stool and used the key to unlock a high-tech hatch at the top of the door. He looked down into the hallowed-out chamber and dropped the hook end of the hanger down. He fished around for a few seconds before pulling up a thin, black attache case. Then another and then a third.

Lee set them on the dryer and unlocked each one. I gasped. The golden sparkle was such an incredible sight that my fifteen-year old imagination lit up like a Christmas tree.

EVEN WITH HIS MIDAS TOUCH, AURIC GOLDFINGER WOULD HAVE BEEN GREEN WITH ENVY AND DAZZLED BY THOSE BABIES.

Lee said, "The best are these two, fifty-dollar commemoratives, from 1915. And this batch is twenty-dollar double eagles." I was marveling at the opulence when his elbow nudged my ribs as he said, "The one from 1856 is also worth a fortune." He then sighed, "The rest are just ten-dollar eagles."

The museum-quality show was over fast. I never had a chance to even touch one of the individual, clear plastic storage cases. Lee reminded me of my oath, hastily returned the whole shebang to its proper place and led me upstairs. He put the key back in the sugar bowl, condensed the hanger with a series of folds and put it in a brown supermarket bag. He looked at the time and said, "I hope you believe me now." When I nodded, he handed me the bag and said, "You gotta go now. And throw this in the garbage somewhere off my street." I agreed. At the door, he reminded me to never tell anyone about the gold.

Our friendship blossomed for a few weeks. In that time, I asked him about being the Knicks ball boy. He went into descriptive explanation of his duties, pay and relationship with the players. When he added specifics about the tokens some of the players gave him, I said, "I'd love to see his autographed ball, Willis Reed's sneakers and Phil Jackson's jersey." He said, "I can't bring people to my house." He then whispered, "You know."

I told my other friends about Lee's Knicks souvenirs without saying anything about the gold. They all agreed that he was a bullshit artist because he was sheltered by the fact that WOR, (Channel-9), didn't televise home games. So his nonsense couldn't be confirmed unless one of us went to a game. I waffled and figured that sometimes he was a liar.

A few weeks later, Lee accosted me in the hall at school and started cursing me. He frantically accused me of breaking into his house and stealing his dad's gold. I said, "You're crazy!" He said, "Well, if you didn't, then who did you tell?" I recalled how routinely he folded the hanger to fit in the bag as if he'd done it before and lashed out, "No one!" Lee became flustered and I continued, "Didn't you show them to Ty?" He said, "No! He's an asshole, I hate him!" Then I chimed in, "So you're saying, I'm the only person you EVER showed them to?" Lee came to some realization and ran off. I never spoke to him again.

In February, I became friends with a girl whose dad was a cop. When I met her father, I name dropped officer Richardson. He said, "Actually, he's a detective sergeant. They're trying to phase him back into restricted duty because he was out for a long time after getting shot during a liquor store hold up."

A month after that the NBA playoffs started. All the games were nationally televised which meant that the home games weren't blacked-out. And guess who scrambled out on the court to wipe the sweat off the floor with a towel after some players fell to the ground while wrestling for a loose ball?
IF LEE HELD ON TO THAT PHIL JACKSON JERSEY AFTER ALL THESE YEARS, I BET IT WOULD FETCH A PRETTY PENNY TOO.

That summer before my junior year, Lee moved away. For a while, I thought I owed him an apology until Ty showed me a tiny, crumpled item from a 1968, East New York community newspaper that congratulated Ty and his Renegade teammates on their championship season.

Forthrightness! What a concept. They knew it was precious in ancient times and today, it maintains every ounce of its luster and allure.