LOOKING LIKE ENZO STUARTI IS NO INSULT!

The 1968 New York City teacher’s strike prolonged summer vacation to a gazillion kids throughout the five boroughs. But this joyful boon did not filter down to everyone.  To me, it was one of the all-time biggest wastes of time.

A major factor why I didn't profit from the extra free time was, my mother. Way before I was thirteen, mom's knack for making me want to go to school started with a torturous mid-winter tradition on Lincoln’s and Washington’s birthdays or the odd snow day.  Instead of frolicking with friends, those "holidays" were reserved for the worst household jobs imaginable.

My dad worked on holidays and mom didn't drive so we were stuck in the house. That meant, from the time I was in first grade, Lincoln’s Birthday was a mandatory cleaning of my room day...or as she put it, “a command performance.”  Even as my age advanced through adolescence and into the early stages of puberty, this Herculean chore was a minimum, two hours of intense awfulness. 

Right after breakfast, mom would remind me that was pissed because my room looked like Yucca Flats after the blast. The death march upstairs was accompanied by her words of confidence.

YUCCA FLATS NEVADA (STARTING IN NOVEMBER 1951) WAS THE SITE OF AMERICA'S FIRST ABOVE GROUND NUCLEAR BOMB TEST.  (above) FROM 65 MILES AWAY, A MUSHROOM CLOUD CAN BE SEEN FROM DOWNTOWN LAS VEGAS.

Mom's words of praise were really a ploy to manipulate me into thinking the job was fun and easy. For the first fifteen minutes, I was indeed motivated to do well and please her.  But there would be obstacles. While I was feebly toiling, it didn't take much to distract me.  Mom's unexpected drop-ins resulted in a lack of progress with me playing with a toy that had been lost for months under the rubble.  If mom’s ire was ignited, she became a hollering hurricane.  So when she caught me lollygagging, it was like switching on an industrial-sized scream machine. 

By the time I was eight, as unsophisticated as I was, I knew the importance of being certain that my foray into cleanliness was complete before proclaiming that the task was done. Nevertheless, there was a big difference between Stevie clean and mommy clean!  Under mom's drill sergeant scrutiny it was a guarantee that she would unearth evidence of laziness and poor workmanship. I don't know how she did it without a divining rod but she sensed where I crammed an emergency Twinkie, tucked some army men under the legs of my bureau or left my all-important baseballs cards under a textbook on the desk.  Upon identifying my failures, I was “encouraged” to return to the scene of the crime, (this unfortunate scenario usually played out more than once).

Lunch on Lincoln’s Birthday was nirvana. On days like this, the usual brown-bagged, oil-soaked tuna sandwich that disintegrated when exposed to my school cafeteria’s atmosphere was replaced by heavenly chicken noodle soup and a grilled cheese with tomato...washed-down by a sweet chocolate milk. 

I HAVEN'T HAD GOODMAN'S CHICKEN SOUP IN OVER  FORTY YEARS, (BACK THEN, ITS BLUE BOX FEATURED A LOGO OF A CHICKEN IN A CHEF'S HAT).  ASSUMING THE RECIPE IS THE SAME,  IT WAS DELICIOUS AND BETTER THAN MY MOM'S HOMEMADE, GRANDMA'S OR ANY RESTAURANT.

Unfortunately, I was never the sharpest tool in the shed, so while I was in this orgasmic food stupor, I always forgot there was a “second game of the doubleheader.”  

What I overlooked was that the entire afternoon would be dedicated to organizing my closet. By the time this realization was realized, I was a broken man.  Whatever meager momentum I might have had was gone. So while feeling bad for myself, I typically made the mistake of pouting and making off-color remarks.  Mom’s response to my childish rebuttals made the heinous, dreadfulness...into argument-filled drudgery.   

Of course the worst was yet to come because a week later, Washington’s Birthday was a purgatory-like affair reserved for restoring order to the lost continent, of my basement.  This all-day cruel and unusual punishment was overwhelmingly my own fault because every year, I turned our lower floor into my own wild kingdom…that others might call a hoarder’s paradise.

So by the time the teacher’s strike postponed the start of eighth grade, I had in the back of my mind that mom might occupy my added leisure time with detestable outdoor projects.  I imagined her warm weather command performance might include; excavating the dead apple tree in the backyard, climbing a two-story ladder to remove the leaves from the gutters and painting our cyclone (chain-link) fence, (mom was partial to silver).

MY MOTHER HAD A LINE RESERVED FOR TAKING OUT THE TRASH.  SHE'D STARE ME DOWN AND SAY, "SOMEBODY BETTER TAKE OUT THE GARBAGE! ISN'T THAT RIGHT MR. SOMEBODY?" OUR CHAIN-LINK FENCE WAS PAINTED EVERY MILLION YEARS WHETHER IT NEEDED IT OR NOT.  SO I KNEW THE DAY WAS OVERDUE FOR HER TO SAY TO ME, "SOMEBODY BETTER PAINT THE CYCLONE FENCE..."

Leave it to my mother to be a step ahead of me.  She found out that despite the strike, a skeleton crew of administrators were keeping John Wilson Junior High, (my school) open.  My first instinct was school was better than being an indentured servant digging out the corpse of a thirty-foot apple tree. That's why I willingly accepted the lesser of two evils and went to school. While every kid I knew was getting an extended summer, me and three percent of the John Wilson student body was sitting without air-conditioning, every day, in the sparsely populated auditorium.

THE ADJACENT, PRISTINE PLAYGROUND SHOT FROM INSIDE JOHN WILSON,  (FALL 1960).  SEVEN YEARS LATER WHEN I ENTERED THE SCHOOL THAT PARK HAD BEEN VANDALIZED BY DRUGGIES WITH EVERY BENCH, SWING AND SEESAW BROKEN AND THE ADMINISTRATION BUILDING BURNED TO THE GROUND.

For those of us being held hostage because of the teachers strike, it was obvious that the powers-that-be were out of touch. They had us watching hygiene films, being indoctrinated into the propaganda of “living right” or getting scholastic lessons that few of those seventh, eighth and ninth graders could relate to.

 

At one point, some genius realized that the natives were getting restless and losing brain cells by being cooped up.  So to improve our minds while entertaining us, this moron thought it was a good idea to dust off, (for the pleasure of their captive audience), a documentary on the Holocaust.  Within a short time, many of the more immature kids were shocked or sickened.  Some screamed and cried until the film was shut off. The absurdity and lack of intelligence behind this poor choice boggles my mind to this day. 

These idiots weren't done yet. They parlayed the insanity by showing us the most depressing “kid-friendly” movie they could find, “OLD YELLER.”  At different times, we all lost interest and stopped watching.  I bet a lot of those kids who weren't aware that hallucinogenics were readily available from the assholes who took over the playground were contemplating jumping off the roof.  More importantly, the two poor girls who clapped at the end of the film, (because they actually followed the plot long enough to find out it had a happy ending), were met with a scornful tongue-lashing by a suit (the assistant superintendent), because the actors weren't there to appreciate the applause.

From that day forward, they showed a lot of cartoons.

All my friends' parents were sharp enough to recognize that this free, six-hour baby-sitting service was less than worthless.  Slowly, the amount of kids attending this ridiculousness lessened. I know this because I never missed a friggin' day, (in June, at the end of the term, I won the Best Attendance Award…lucky me).  That "showing-up at all costs" mentality has followed me because in my current job, I have four call-outs and missed a week twice for medical procedures…in twenty-five years…which has earned me over twenty “Perfect Attendance” certificates.

The Internet says that New York City teachers strike lasted until November 17, 1968 and that schools were closed for thirty-six days, (I would have guessed only three weeks).

During that bullshit time in “school,” one could say: when life comes up all lemons, make lemonade. So while being “incarcerated,” I made new friends.  John “J.D.” Martino and Ray Watt were not my standard issue type friends but I was glad to have them…and we stayed tight for two years.

My new friends were not into sports. I proved it when I referred to the Abbott and Costello, "Who's on first" comedy routine by saying, "Watt's on second."  Ray Watt claimed he didn't know Abbott and Costello and didn't think my rendition of this comedy classic was funny. But J.D. and Ray's allure was well-timed with me out-growing the fraidy-cat, do as you parents say, kids on my street.  

Ray and J.D. were progressive, adventuresome and fun (in a non-criminal way).  So I was able to make quantum leaps towards adulthood with simple unsupervised things like seeing movies, going for pizza or long walks to nowhere.

J.D. even had a job.  On Canarsie’s Rockaway Parkway near Glenwood Road, he made deliveries on a bicycle for a salameria, (a sausage shop but more specifically an Italian butcher).

ON A SIMILAR BIKE, J.D. WORKED FOR PEANUTS BUT HE WAS THE ENVY OF EVERY KID IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD.

On my way back and forth to my dentist, (Dr. Reiss on Farragut Road), I dropped in on J.D. at work. He gave me full rock-star access to the bowels of the store.  While some people may have been disgusted by the odor of the animal fat, the sight of carcasses and recognizable cow and pig body parts, I was amazed.  However, I didn't like seeing animal bones and was reminded of the Holocaust when they were thrown willy-nilly into the “fat truck.”

I TURNED AWAY, THE FIRST TIME I SAW THE FAT TRUCK.  APPARENTLY THE BONES AND FAT ARE BOUGHT-UP BY A SEPARATE ENTITY AND RECONSTITUTED TO MAKE SOAP AND OTHER ITEMS. I COULDN'T FIND A PHOTO ON THE INTERNET THAT CAPTURED HOW GROSS THE BONES, CHUNKS OF WET FAT AND THE OMNIPRESENT FLIES WERE...SO YOU'LL HAVE TO SETTLE FOR THIS ONE.

J.D.’s house was our meeting place.  His old world Italian parents didn't let him have friends in his room or in the gaudy, museum-like living room.  So with his mother, father or both hovering nearby, we were relegated to the basement…which curiously had a full kitchen.  I thought that was odd but there was always the great aroma of something cooking down there.  We infrequently stayed long because his austere folks never offered a smile.  So even a glass water was out of the question.  Maybe they didn't trust us or they thought Ray and I were bad influences?  Who knows, maybe there were bodies buried under the home-grown tomatoes and zucchini in their yard. Besides, we were “into” our new found freedom and wanted to get out.

In 1969, we saw movies like, "BUTCH CASSIDY AND THE SUNDANCE KID" and "THE PRIME OF MISS JEAN BRODIE." In the latter, I saw a woman's breast for the first time on the silver screen. Afterwards on one of our legendary, philosophical walks to a pizza place, I voiced my pleasure over seeing bare bosoms. I was happily surprised that everyone shared my appreciation.

J.D. had contact with older boys at the butcher shop.  A week later he said, "Wanna see hundreds of tits...and maybe more stuff?"  He had Ray's and my attention as he added, "It's gonna take a couple of buses for us to get there and it's a long shot to even get in, but..."

On a Saturday afternoon we took mass transit to Kings Highway and Flatbush Avenue.  From there our adventure took us to the Marine Movie Theater on Flatlands Avenue.  In the distance we read the marquee advertising the X-RATED double-feature, "KAMA SUTRA"and "BALI HAI."

This momentous moment in my coming of age resulted in immediate excitement from my nether regions. However, that erotic feeling in my loins was tempered when J.D. said, "Even though me and Ray are taller than you, you look older.  So you have to get the tickets."  At fourteen, even if you put a handlebar mustache on my face, there was NO WAY I looked seventeen!  I refused.  I was afraid we'd all get arrested and my mother would make me clean the jail.  But Ray whined, "We didn't come all this way for nothing..."  J.D. interrupted, "You'll be our savior."  Ray said, "Just do it," as they ponied-up their money.

The lady in the ticket booth looked like a combination of; a lump of mashed potatoes that had been flung up against the wall and the froggy woman who lived across from my house.  I sheepishly approached and focused on her beehive hairdo and the cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. A million ways to ask for the three tickets crisscrossed my mind as I meandered closer.  She was filing her nails as mumbled incoherently.  She looked up, put on the glasses that were hanging from a chord around her neck and stared me down.  I thought I was going to crap in my pants. Like a deer frozen by oncoming headlights, I stood dumbfounded.  I was avoiding eye-contact as she croaked, "One ticket, one dollar."  I spoke but nothing came out.  I slipped three singles through the transom, lifted three fingers and groaned, "I-I-I n-n-need three."

Inside, J.D. and Ray treated me like a hero and bought me Raisinets and a coke.

CANDY PLUS SEXY MOVIES EQUALS THE GREATEST DAY OF MY LIFE.

Later, I couldn't tell you much about the plots but I knew I never wanted to go to the movies with my parents again.  On the way home, we lustily analyzed every theatrical minute of joy.  I said, "That lady in the leopard-skin sarong should have won an Oscar."  Ray said, "She was in both movies."  I said, "No way..." Ray said,  "Didn't you see that mole on her wrist?"  J.D. said, "I don't think I would ever notice her stupid wrist if I saw those movies a thousand times."  I said, "If she was in both that proves she's a great actress because she was from India in the first and Indonesia in the second." Ray and J.D. nodded.

When we stopped for pizza I expected to maintain my heroic ticket-buyer savior status...but by then I was a mere mortal again and paid for my own.

In June 1970, the John Wilson graduation ceremony was being held at the palatial Albee Theater in downtown Brooklyn. Ray caught a ride with J.D.'s parents.  Out front, I introduced my folks to everyone.  J.D.'s mom and dad were as cold to my mom and dad as they were to me and Ray...their loss.

During that summer, I worked a lot for my father.  One day J.D. and Ray said they were hanging out. I wanted to go but it was an important day for my dad and he couldn't spare me.

Days later, I found out that Ray and J.D. did the usual nonsense but included a long walk along the Belt Parkway.

THE BELT PARKWAY, LIKE A BELT, WRAPS AROUND BROOKLYN.  ON THE EXTREME RIGHT (above) YOU CAN SEE THE MODERN PEDESTRIAN AND BICYCLE PATH.  I WAS TOO YOUNG TO REALIZE THE DANGER AND WOULD HAVE TAKEN THAT STROLL WITH J.D. AND RAY WITHOUT HESITATION  EVEN WITH TODAY'S FANCY TRAIL, YOU NEVER KNOW WHO'S LURKING THERE.

Along the way, some bastard sprang out of the bushes and mugged them.  Ray handed over some chump change.  But J.D. was a working man.  He had over twenty dollars and refused to comply. The thieving punk cold-cocked him. J.D. collapsed. The robber stood over him, threatened to kill him and demanded cash.  When J.D. turned his head to look up, blood was pouring from his left eye. The assailant fled.

J.D. had a torn cornea.  He had successful surgery but to insure a full recovery, he was forced to wear special sunglasses for weeks.  The first time I saw him I remarked, "Hey, it's Enzo Stuarti!" J.D. got offended and told me to screw myself.  Considering how we all spoke to each other, I never thought he'd be so thin-skinned to be put-off by something as vanilla as that. I said, "It's no insult to look like Enzo Stuarti." But J.D. was hurt.  He hurried away and called back at me, "My parents were right about you."

ENZO STUARTI (1919-2005) STARRED ON STAGE AND SPECIALIZED IN SINGING POPULAR ITALIAN SONGS.  WHEN I WAS FOURTEEN, I ONLY KNEW HIM AS THE RAGU SPAGHETTI SAUCE SPOKESPERSON ON TV.  HIS CATCHPHRASE WAS, "THAT'S A'NICE!"

I said to Ray, "What did his parents say about me?"  He said, "Dunno."  I said, "You know Enzo Stuarti.  He's a real good-looking guy.  I just saw him on the "MIKE DOUGLAS SHOW."  He acts on Broadway, sings Italian songs..."  Ray shrugged.  I continued, "Stuarti was an American merchant marine in World War II. He survived his ship getting sunk by a German U-Boat...the man is a freakin' hero...why would J.D. be insulted?"  Ray said, "I never heard of that Stuarti guy."  I had to believe him, he claimed that he didn't know Abbott and Costello either.  When I said, "But..."  Ray said, "He might think we wouldn't have gotten jumped if you were there." I said, "So he's blaming me?  That's too crazy!"  "Maybe he thought you were making fun of his glasses?"  I said, "Enzo Stuarti doesn't wear sunglasses.  I wasn't being mean, I was being silly."  Ray said, "Beats me."  I sighed, "Hey, when I wasn't around, were his parents nice to you?"  Ray said, "No.  They were always quiet.  I figured they were shy because their English wasn't so good."

The following September, I started my Canarsie High School career.  I made new friends and joined the football team.  Ray went to a high school in Manhattan and I never got back in touch with him.  I saw J.D. all the time in school.  He didn't show any ill effects from his eye injury but ignored me every time we crossed paths.

I never unraveled the mystery of why he severed our ties...and don't care.  But I'm glad I endured that colossal waste of time teachers strike because I would have never bonded with J.D. or Ray. And I'll always treasure the time we three hurdled towards maturity together.  But beyond that, I chalked up our short-lived friendship...as J.D.'s loss.