UNDERDOG

Here's the mother of all coincidences!  Aside from being Hollywood celebrities, what does Marlon Brando's close boyhood (and lifelong) friend have in common with the actor who saved Frank Sinatra from drowning?  These seemingly unconnected mystery men come face-to-face in a jumbled set of odd circumstances, to help reach the point of today's blog.

Oh joy of joys! For the last three weeks, it has been spring cleaning at my house.  Each year, I take on the least desirable jobs, (many of which are also done in October).  Of these, snaking (dredging), the drains are my least favorite.  The look and smell of oodles of hairy clumps, made pasty by the stagnant fermentation of hair products, is revolting. To add drama and time to this easy to do, yet disgusting task, is wrestling the snake when it gets caught-up in one of our four sinks or two shower drains.

CLEANING THE DRAINS IS A "LOW-MAN ON THE TOTEM POLE" KIND OF JOB.  BUT I'M NOT COMPLAINING...JUST REALIZE THAT IN NO WAY, SHAPE, MATTER OR FORM THAT I'M RESPONSIBLE FOR CLOGGING DRAINS, AT LEAST WITH HAIR...

The other household projects I take on are also simple but time consuming.  The king of this category is the three-step procedure of dusting the vertical blinds.  The actual dusting is boring dog work but washing the windows at the end, is a breeze. However sandwiched in between, is the epic orgy of painstakingly removing a year's worth of crud, soot, cobwebs, dead bugs and leaf fragments from the narrow metal runners at the bottom of each sill, (those runners help snap the windows shut).

The proper way to wile away the hours while doing this, is to blast the, "Classic Rock and Roll Channel" on the TV. Then it's essential to be armed with a vacuum cleaner, all-purpose spray cleaner, industrial-strength paper towels, a flat-head screwdriver (for the fine work in the corners) and Q-Tips, (for the finer work in those same corners).

To do a crackerjack job, there is a tremendous amount of redundancy.  That means going back and forth, over and over and retracing your steps until each ladybug carcass, grain of sand, nano pebble and stain has been eradicated.

My big problem happened during the confined quarters execution of erasing a stubborn stain. Beyond the most remote nook and cranny, like a man on a mission against the unholy dirt-devil, I scrubbed like a man possessed. Until YOWIE !  I crushed one of my top ten favorite fingers, (the middle right).

Goddamn it, I was in agony.  A lesser man would have voluntarily had it amputated to stop the pain but I chose to gut it out. I soaked my poor crippled digit in cold water but it kept throbbing.  In a short time, a thin line of dried blood formed under the bent back nail of my reddening finger tip.  I thought about working in the casino that night and realized that I would be operating a card dealing machine that requires pushing a button.

LIKE ACTOR MATTHEW PERRY (above) TWO OF MY FRIENDS,  (JOEMAC AND GRANDFATHERKLOCK)  HAVE LOST THE LAST JOINT OF A FINGER TO AN ACCIDENT.

I knew as terrible as my mishap was, I couldn't show up at work and demand to be put on light-duty. Nor could I piss and moan to my friends, (when JOEMAC came close to severing his finger, he shrugged it off, used duct tape and came to work the same night).  So I decided that I'd be okay if I remembered to use my healthy index finger instead. However, at that moment when I looked back at my partially completed spring cleaning, I knew the window runners would have to wait till another day. I switched off the music and took solace in watching TV.

Everybody hates the rates that their cable provider charges.  So many times, you look at the gazillions of available channels and are perplexed by the fact that "there's nothing on." Overwhelmingly, I (most people) still use only a small handful of stations.  Well, we all know that cable companies will NEVER respond to complaints by reducing the cost...so in loyalty to their customers caught-up in their monopoly, they add new channels, to give the impression that they are hooking everyone up.

In my cable company's latest new channel foray, they have actually bequeathed me several stations that I like, (I still hate the company).  Included are vintage movie networks, (with commercial interruptions) like; "MOVIES," "THIS" and "THE WORKS."  Also they have added, "METV" and "DECADE" that air old TV shows.

While my finger ached, I tuned into the newest movie channel, "THE WORKS."  They were showing a 1953 film noire called, "99 RIVER STREET."  The TV synopsis gave this corny, innocent man tracking down his unfaithful wife's killer yarn, three stars?  It was a miracle I stayed awake. MIKE123 one of my friends at work later said, "I heard Martin Scorsese studied the boxing sequences in this film before making 1980's, 'RAGING BULL.'"

THE AMERICAN FILM INSTITUTE (AFI) RATED RAGING BULL, A BIOGRAPHY OF BOXER JAKE LaMOTTA, AS THE FOURTH GREATEST MOVIE OF ALL-TIME...AS WELL AS, THE BEST SPORTS-RELATED FILM...99 RIVER STREET, NOT SO MUCH. 

I came away from 99 River Street thinking it was a dated tapestry of silly banality. However, I was intrigued by a quasi-familiar face.  I waited to see the closing credits because I couldn't put my finger (healthy index finger) on the third billing villain, who turned out to be Brad Dexter.

BRAD DEXTER (1917-2002) HAD A FORTY-FOUR YEAR CAREER ON THE SILVER SCREEN AND TV.  SOME OF HIS MOVIES THAT I'M FAMILIAR WITH ARE; 1950's, "THE ASPHALT JUNGLE," 1958's "RUN SILENT, RUN DEEP" AND "SHAMPOO," FROM 1975.  BUT HIS MOST MEMORABLE ROLE WAS AS HARRY LUCK, THE MOST MERCENARY OF THE HEROES IN 1960's, "THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN."

Dexter was frequently over shadowed by his contemporaries.  To prove it, in the trivia question; name the magnificent seven actors, he is almost always the last to be remembered.

I CHANNEL SURFED DURING A COMMERCIAL.  SESAME STREET WAS ON.  I RECALLED WHEN MY SON ANDREW WAS YOUNG THEY HAD A FUNNY SKIT FEATURING A MAGNIFICENT SEVEN, (above).  BUT FIRST THEY SHOWED A DULL SEVEN, THEN A MAGNIFICENT FIVE...UNTIL THEY GOT IT RIGHT.

Along with my finger, it was killing me during the movie that I couldn't place Dexter's hauntingly familiar face.  I was concentrating on his light-colored eyes when I paused the TV and ran upstairs to look this flick up in my movie book.  But there was something else about him and my 1500+ page book didn't help.

To ease my mind after failing to find the Brad Dexter connection I was looking for,  I clicked the TV and soon found myself on the DECADE network.  They were showing the 1966 pilot episode of, "MISSION IMPOSSIBLE."  It caught my interest because the Peter Graves character Mr. Phelps, was missing. Instead, Stephen Hill of TV's, "LAW AND ORDER" was the team leader, Mr. Briggs.

The rest of the original cast, with one other exception, were the *regulars I was used to.

* If the actual plot didn't catch your attention, seeing sizzling Barbara Bain clad only in a skimpy towel could rationalize becoming a regular viewer.

The one irregular cast member who stood out was Wally Cox, as safe cracker Terry Targo, (it would be his only appearance in the series).

WALLY COX  (1924-1973) WAS A COMIC ACTOR WHO WAS TYPECAST AS A MILQUETOAST, (1950's LINGO FOR NERD). HIS SHOW-BIZ CAREER SKYROCKETED (1952-1955), AS SHY JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL SCIENCE TEACHER,"MR. PEEPERS."  WHILE THAT SIT-COM WAS BEFORE MY TIME, I REMEMBER HIM BEST AS A CELEBRITY ON "HOLLYWOOD SQUARES."  HE ALSO APPEARED AS A DWEEB, IN OVER 20 FILMS.  HOWEVER, HIS MOST FAMOUS ROLE WAS THE CARTOON VOICE OF "UNDERDOG."

Seeing Cox in Mission Impossible in a wife-beater tee-shirt as sweaty, yet confident safe cracker was amazing. The only time I recalled him being self-assured was in the role of Underdog, an animated superhero canine.  You may recall, to hide Underdog's secret identity, he posed as unassuming "Shoeshine Boy." (also voiced by Cox).  So whenever there was a cry for help, "Help, help!" Shoeshine Boy dropped his meek alter ego and declared, "There's no need to fear, Underdog is here!"

"UNDERDOG" RAN FROM 1964-1967 (124 EPISODES).  I LOVED IT AND IT'S CATCHY THEME MUSIC.  UNDERDOG HAD A LOVE INTEREST, SWEET POLLY PUREBRED AND FOUGHT TWO MAIN ARCHENEMIES; MAD SCIENTIST...SIMON BAR SINISTER AND CRIME BOSS...RIFF RAFF. 

You can find the iconic 1:13 Underdog song by going on Youtube or at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tEVsRLhet2k


While recalling Underdog, the wolf-like Riff Raff character came to mind...and that's when I made my connection to Brad Dexter.

I'M BETTING THAT  RIFF RAFF'S LIGHT EYES AND GANGSTER PERSONA WAS INSPIRED BY BRAD DEXTER'S ROLE IN 99 RIVER STREET.  WHILE THE NAME WAS INFLUENCED BY ACTOR GEORGE RAFT, THE LOOK IS ALL DEXTER. 

This startling Riff Raff is Brad Dexter revelation made me happy.  Not happy enough to continue cleaning dead ladybugs out the window runners with my maimed finger, but pleased to look forward to next week, when my spring cleaning goes OUTSIDE.

Sprucing-up the backyard is its own discipline.  Anyone can pick up downed branches, rake leaves and mow the grass. But before anyone dares to take any chances back there, they must cry for help, "Help, help!"  But the only real-life superhero dog who single-handedly keeps squirrels from taking over South Jersey, doesn't come to my rescue.  The reason why is, my superhero dog is the guilty party who perpetrated a whole winter's worth of "Roxy-Bombs."

MY SUPERHERO ROXY DOG (above, flying over downtown Galloway), IS PERFECT IN SO MANY WAYS.  BUT NOW, I UNFORTUNATELY SAY, IT'S TIME TO PUT CONDITIONS ON MY UNCONDITIONAL LOVE FOR HER.  IF THE LAWN IS STREWN WITH HER MOCHA SURPRISES, LET HER CLEAN THAT SHIT UP!

Until my finger heals or until Roxy takes on her responsibilities, I'll have to hire Brad Dexter and his henchmen to make my backyard safe for foot traffic.

                                                                              #

Hard to believe but true, smashing my finger drove me to investigate where I knew Brad Dexter from. Then Wally Cox came to mind.  Incredibly, Cox led me to Underdog and then to his cartoon enemies...after going full circle, there he was, Brad Dexter as the animated baddie, Riff Raff.

                                                                                   

If that was all there was to it, the coincidence would still be fantastic.  But get this, the least cool guy in the world, Wally Cox was the boyhood friend...and lifelong confidant of the essence of cool, Marlon Brando.  It is said that after Cox's untimely death at age 48, that Brando kept his ashes.  Later when Brando passed, he stipulated that his people would intertwine both men's ashes and spread them in Death Valley and Tahiti.

Brad Dexter proved his meddle and gained major ups when he saved Frank Sinatra from drowning. On May 10, 1964 in Hawaii, during time off in the filming of, "NONE BUT THE BRAVE," Sinatra while swimming at the beach was swept out to sea.  Dexter a burly former boxer saved "Old Blues Eyes" and was awarded the Red Cross' medal for bravery.

CASINO WAR STORIES

My wife and I had dinner with another couple last night.  We got on the topic of terrible casino supervisors and unfortunately for anyone who has ever been a dealer, a floodgate of stories gushed forth.  

One of the jerks I mentioned was the main character from my short story, "BLESSING IN DISGUISE."  I hope after you digest the condensed version below, you'll want to read the full-blown story...which I can E-Mail you.   

In Las Vegas (1981), while I was dealing craps at the Stardust, I was meeting friends after work at our favorite watering hole, "Mickey's Appetizer." I got there first and was approached by a noticeably tipsy Vera-Lynne Kirby.  This slinky, blond bombshell was a thirty-ish cocktail waitress who worked with me.  She saw my uniform and wanted to vent about a prick she had been seeing.  

The blood and guts of this piece were made possible by that chance meeting.  Therefore, Vera-Lynne alone, is responsible for the intimate details on the life of her former lover...the Stardust's most hated craps supervisor.

Carl "The Mole" Blessing grew up in rural Utah.  His father was physically abusive to his mom and verbally abusive to him. At a young age, he was an emotional cripple whose damaged personality was perpetuated by an exaggerated over-bite, bed-wetting and stuttering. All through grammar school he was picked on by bullies and left by his parents to fend for himself.

A friendless nerd and an average student, Carl's situation worsened in junior high school as his rodent-like facial features became obvious. Even some teachers called him "The Mole."  If life through adolescence wasn't bad enough, this loner was forced deeper into obscurity by developing a severe case of acne.

In his high school years Carl outgrew his bed-wetting, his face cleared-up and he stopped stuttering. Still, he had bad teeth and little self-esteem when he enlisted in the army, at the height of the Vietnam War.

Carl wanted to validate his life.  He envisioned getting a fresh start in the military and becoming a respected hero. On the day he landed in Vietnam, Carl's odd-ball personality made him an immediate outcast.  None of his new platoon mates took an interest in him and the few that made reference to him called him, "Rat-Face."

On his first night, Carl was deployed (alone) on guard duty, in a foxhole at the perimeter of Danang Air Base. In ninety degrees and oppressive humidity, he shivered in fear for hours as he stared beyond the treeline, at the "in-country's" blackness. Carl fought off the ubiquitous flying insects as surges of fear shuddered his innards every time a branch snapped, an animal howled or he heard distant artillery.

Nervous Carl developed worsening stomach cramps.  When the pain got the better of him, he tried to relieve the pressure with quiet flatulence.  Unfortunately, a wet fart spewed out and he was forced to lay in his own waste all night.

Carl made a buddy on his second day, but it turned out to be the worst day of his miserable life.  His platoon was sent out on patrol and got ambushed.  In the early stages of the firefight, he saw his sergeant get shot through the neck.  He was already in panic mode as a loud ping produced a hole in his helmet and a flesh wound in his scalp.  Carl tossed aside his unfired M-16.  When his friend came to help him snap out of his funk, Carl saw his buddy's arm get blown off.  His friend without thought of his own injury staggered to his feet to rally Carl but a bullet zapping through his eyebrow ended his life.

Before the skirmish was over, Carl was shot again.  When the enemy overran their position, Carl Blessing soiled himself again as he hid under the bodies of fallen comrades.

Private Blessing would be one of three survivors.  In the manic hurry of getting air-lifted to safety, his rescuers and later the triage doctors (under fire themselves) didn't notice one missing boot.

Carl became a craps dealer in Las Vegas.  His stormy life, adult shortcomings and cowardice would prove to be an asset in the casino industry.  He got some experience and two years later was hired by the Stardust.  His new bosses recognized him as insecure, spiteful and ignorant so they groomed him as a spy, to infiltrate the front-line employees.  They called him their "Eager Beaver" because he'd step on anyone who got in the way of his upward mobility. Two promotions later, he had graduated to lead floorman on day shift, (a dual-rate pit-boss,in Atlantic City).

When I worked at night, I understood that all the day-shift dealers hated Carl Blessing and not surprisingly called him, "The Mole." Not only because of his face but because he was also a covert stooge of management.

He was so arrogant that he didn't realize that we knew he took joy in being a hatchet-man and "ratting-out" anyone who hustled tips, stirred unrest among the employees or otherwise strayed from the casino's best interest.

My situation got worse when Carl unforgivably insulted an Asian-American player's heritage. Blessing blamed the North Vietnamese army for maiming him but he outwardly hated all Orientals. This situation put management in an awkward position.  They knew they had valuable asset so rather than cultivating another moron to take his place, they demoted Carl and sent him and his bad leg limping to my shift.

Carl did not endear himself to his counterpart on our shift.  The nighttime lead floorman Werner "Ernie" Trohlmann was a psychotic, Neo-Nazi ass-hole himself.  But he seemed normal compared to Carl Blessing.  Carl confessed to Vera-Lynne that he wanted to undermine Trohlmann and take his position.

Blessing was petty and did everything in his power to make himself look good at the expense of others, particularly dealers. A couple of Ernie Trohlmann's golfing buddies complained about Carl. The hostile work environment every night was awful.  Luckily, I had little exposure to Carl during his short stint on my shift. The only time he seemed human was when he came off like a big-shot and spoke about getting shot-up in Vietnam, (Vera-Lynne would later clarify that his courageous tour of duty...was only a two-day stint).

We received a breath of fresh air when a new dealer was hired who took the wind out of Carl's sails. "Combat" Harry Lorenz was a New Yorker and a Vietnam vet, (he kept laminated photos in his wallet of a couple of Viet Cong he killed).  Despite the ghosts in the former corporal's closet and the uncool "combat" part of his personality, he was immediate smash with the dealers because he was mercenary when it came time to hustling tokes (tips). He and I became close and socialized outside work.  One of the things we had in common was that we were big hockey fans, (specifically of the New York Islanders).

Harry was incredibly brazen.  He approached the head of the Stardust sports book and asked him to put an Islanders playoff game on one of their twenty TV's.  Harry was told, "Nobody bets on hockey." He didn't like being turned down, so Harry tried bribing the man.  This gentleman wasn't going to risk his lofty position for fifty bucks...but to pacify Harry, he offered a free compromise. Two days later, he set-up for Harry, a single TV and a couple of dozen folding chairs, on the dance floor of a rarely unused lounge.

I explained to Harry that we weren't permitted on the property before or after our shift. He didn't care and said, "That lounge is completely away from the casino and no one knows us on day shift." I didn't have my heart in it as I agreed to watch the first two periods before work.

On game day, I took the precaution of leaving my uniform shirt in my car.  Harry didn't and wound-up with a bulls-eye on his back.  I didn't even want to sit next to him. But it got worse because when the seats filled-up, the casino provided cocktail service and that idiot Harry bought three beers before the first intermission.

In the second period, Harry sucked down two more.  I was so antsy, I didn't even order a coke. During the second intermission, it was time for us to go on duty.  Harry needed to pee and I had to get my dealer shirt from my car. On the way, we passed the arcade.  There was a huge crowd watching someone play Pac-Man. We heard a voice say, "This guy is great, he's now going for the grapes."

Harry pushed through the throng to get a closer look.  He recognized the player and called back to me, "Look, it's Carl Blessing!"

Secretly, Carl had Harry in his cross-hairs for two reasons.  One was his sloppy way of hustling tips and secondly, Harry's actual knowledge of Vietnam might expose him as a fraud.  So Harry's best interests (especially while reeking of beer) would have been better served by avoiding Carl.

Blessing was there early because he had a poor home life.  To provide an outlet from mundane domestic accountability as well as a buffer between him and his wife, he tinkered with small appliances in his garage.  Soon he was fixing other people's items, doing bull-work and using his pick-up truck to do light hauling.  One of his repeat customers was Vera-Lynne.  She was so satisfied by his work that she acted as an unpaid dispatcher and hooked him up with her wide range of friends. Carl's business skyrocketed as other waitresses and women from all walks of life kept him out of his house.

Some of these women occasionally bartered sex for his services, including Vera-Lynne.  Vera-Lynne could have any man she wanted but she had a soft spot for Carl because he was wounded in Vietnam. Her sensitivity was proven by the MIA bracelet she wore because her twin brother was still listed as Missing In Action, (MIA) ten years later.

Mrs. Blessing had no idea that Carl was spending many afternoons with females.  But she figured something positive had to be going on because he had a wall safe installed into their walk-in closet.

In the early stages of marriage, Carl had a chance to end the cycle of abuse that he had endured. Instead, he allowed his weak personality and thin-skin to overwhelm him. So Carl drank a lot. Sometimes he smacked his wife around and threatened their two grade school daughters.  These episodes became more frequent when he was given the third degree after he partied with his customers. When Mrs. B. finally suffered enough, she took action.

One day Carl came home to an empty house.  On his gimpy foot, he ran upstairs and found a hole where he had squirreled away $20,000.00 in the safe that had now been excavated out of the wall. On the same day, Carl's wife got a restraining order which forced him out of the house.

Carl was living in an efficiency at the Klondike Motel, just south of the Tropicana Casino. Sometimes, he got bored in the tiny apartment, so that's why on the day of our hockey game, he came to work early.  Harry shouldn't have congratulated Blessing's success in the arcade.  When we came into the employee entrance, Harry wasn't permitted to clock-in; Blessing had already had him fired.

At that time, the Stardust had one Asian craps supervisor, Byron Fong.  This jolly floorman used the same line over and over, "I'm half Chinese, half Korean and a quarter Philippine...but I was born San Bernadino, so I'm just an American."  Fong was a diabetic with a gambling problem who frequently needed to sit down when his feet swelled.

One night Vera-Lynne approached Carl Blessing and said, "That Chinese floorman is stealing from the casino." How do you know?"  "Everyday, he gives me five bucks to bring him a plain tomato juice in a coffee mug."  Carl said, "Yeah, you can't trust Charley (Asians) but as crazy as a coffee mug for tomato juice sounds..."  She interrupted, "He takes one tiny sip, sets in on the craps rail and then replaces the boxman.  While sitting there, he fixes up the chips and then just before he stands back up...he coughs." Carl said, "I see..."  Vera-Lynne said, "Then he takes a big gulp of juice. When he goes on break, he brings the mug with him." Carl said, "I'll fix that U.F.O. (Ugly Fucking Oriental) but good!"

Carl reported these finding as his own to his boss.  The next night, the surveillance cameras and the eye-in-the-sky were focused on Byron Fong.  Throughout the shift, a cordon of undercover security guards were strategically positioned around the craps pit waiting to pounce.

The sting operation when into motion at 1:00AM when Vera-Lynne gave the signal by putting a paper cocktail umbrella in her hair. Everyone went about their business as the target repeated his usual MO. The posse followed him into the men's room and seized the mug. Inside, they found two, hundred dollar chips.

The big bosses fired Fong and planned (after the following week) to give Carl a raise, a package of goodies including dinner for two in their gourmet room and tickets for, "Siegfried and Roy." But more importantly, reinstating Blessing back to his coveted lead floorman position, on day shift.

During the next few days, Carl was especially full of himself.  Even though he had no idea how well he impressed his bosses, he strut around the craps pit like he owned the place.  A big part of his braggadocio was making disparaging remarks to Orientals.

On one of the rare days that Carl was my supervisor, he had no idea that he was about to shoot himself in the foot as "Crazy" Janie Kuhaulua marched towards the craps pit.

Janie was a junket rep from Hawaii.  That meant she was a Stardust VIP because she brought huge groups of wealthy gamblers in from the islands, several times a year.  Apparently, Carl didn't know her because he was new to our shift and she only hung out in the casino at night.

Crazy Janie was an obese six-footer with an entertainingly foul mouth.  All the dealers loved her because she was the essence of positive energy and an incredible tipper.  But on this occasion, she trudged past my table in flip-flops with her Vienna sausage-like toes sticking out of the front without stopping. Her black muumuu with embroidered purple orchids surrounded by golden hibiscus flowers was flowing in the breeze as one of the other dealers on my crew called out to her. Janie's thumping stride never wavered as she announced over her shoulder, "One of my people just hit a big jackpot on a one-armed bandit.  Maybe later..."

Her one-armed bandit statement caused Carl Blessing to have a legitimate Vietnam flashback as he pictured his only buddy's arm get blown off. He leered at the back of Janie's flabby arms, enormous calves and unsculptured ankles as she disappeared behind a row of slot machines.  He squawked, "I'd hate to get between that (her) and the last pork chop."

Months earlier in a drunken stupor, Janie confided in me and other dealers that she was once a fashion model. She showed us lingerie photos when she was a teenager, and she was gorgeous.  Janie sighed, "My fiance got messed-up in Vietnam. He came back in one piece but he saw too much shit and it hurt him deep down inside.  A year later, he was making great progress so we picked a wedding date and made all the plans.  One day, at a lunch counter downtown, he collapsed in my arms and died...a brain aneurysm...I stopped caring about myself...it's been twelve years."

Janie didn't seem so crazy that day.  She had a tear in her eye as she added, "His dad died a month after that.  He had no heirs and willed me his small pineapple plantation.  I can't sit in an office, I hired people to run it.  Now I travel all over the world...I'm afraid to stop."

Luckily, an hour later Janie came by again.  The same dealer from before made a "pocko-lo-lo" reference which is the nickname for high-grade Hawaiian marijuana.  In a nasal voice Janie said, "I can use some.  I feel like shit.  We just came from Frisco and I froze my ass off.  Now I have a fuckin' sore throat."

The dealer who flagged her down was going on break.  He said, "Stay here a sec, I have just the thing that will help you." He scampered off and returned with a thirty-eight cent box of Ludens cough drops.  Janie grabbed a bunch put them in her mouth and said, "I'm feeling better already...maybe I'll play a little." She threw down three hundred dollars and said, "Keep fifty for you guys."  Carl didn't notice her cough drop generosity but his eyes bulged out of his head when she kept tipping us without being prodded.

Janie was doing well.  But when she shot the dice, she got on a serious roll.  Her five-dollar bets across the board were soon increased to a hundred.  Her bet on the hard six was $25.00 and she announced, "When it hits, I'm splittin' it with the dealers."  Carl looked at gratuities as money the casino could not possibly win back.  So he showed his annoyance by pacing and cursing under his breath each time our ton of tips grew.

Carl's fellow supervisors could have have clued him in on Janie's superstar status but they hated him too.  So by ignoring the rising tension, they set him up to take the fall.

Janie noticed Carl's lack of professionalism.  To piss him off, she started making every odd-ball bet on the table for us.  Carl slammed his clipboard down when she raised the amount of each tip.  That's when she started adding to her hard six and said, "I'm gonna keep pressing that hard six till it hits...and then I'm splittin' it with the dealers."

To distract her, began Carl nit-picking us.  Janie addressed Blessing for the first time by saying, "We gotta get you some pocko-lo-lo brudda."  Carl said, "Just shoot the dice."  After a short pause he mumbled, "Fuckin' gook."  She heard him but maybe she wasn't certain or didn't feel well enough to cause a ruckus.  But she was a powerful, liberated woman who wasn't going to take any sass.

Janie turned her ire on superstitious Carl after he started throwing pennies under our table. She was amazing as she concentrated on staring him down as she upped our bets.  Janie was still shooting after fifteen minutes when the hard six (with $90.00 on it), rolled.  She was so hoarse that she held her hand against her throat and shouted, "Boys, you take your half and I'm coming down."  The boxman set aside $450.00 for us when Carl interjected, "The dealers have a $25.00 'max' on hard ways.  They get 270!  $250.00 for the quarter but they had no action on the other twenty."

Janie screamed, "That's fuckin' bullshit!"  Carl said, "Watch your language...there's lady's present."  "Do you know who I am?"  Carl said, "Yeah, a woman who doesn't understand that this is a strict casino policy and there's nothing anyone can do about it."  Janie sneered, "If it lost, you wouldn't have given them shit!"  Carl smugly smiled, "That's not true.  You know why they aren't complaining?  'Cause they know the rules.  Isn't that right boys?"

Enraged Janie barked, "Then fuck the dealers!  Give me the whole damned nine-hundred!"  When she had the chips she added, "And let it be on your head that I never bet for the dealers again.  So fuck the dealers, fuck this place and FUCK YOU too!"

Carl said, "Didn't I tell you to watch your language?" Janie was clutching her painful neck as he murmured the same insult from before. Janie yelled, "What did you say?  Did you call me a fuckin' gook?"  He went into damage control and snarled, "I said...you got your nine hundred.  Now I'm saying...take down all her bets.  This dragon lady has no action here."

Janie smiled, "You don't know who your talking to you weasly fucking piss-ant. Now answer me this. Before you try throwing me out, can I give my fuckin' money away?"  Carl was dumbfounded.  Janie winked at me, counted out $450.00, added an extra hundred and shoved it towards me.  Janie said, "Now you can take all my bets down.  I gotta find the casino manager."

Vera-Lynne said she saw Janie arguing with the biggest boss in the building.  Janie was shaking as she rasped, "Your employee called me a 'dragon lady' in front of everyone.  That's like saying I'm a whore and a mean-spirited, controlling bitch.  Plus, he called me a 'fuckin' gook' twice! I want that ferret-faced imbecile fired!"  He smiled, "Calm down..."  She cut him off, "No!  I'm a full-blooded Hawaiian and as much of an American as anyone...and so was my fiance, who died from getting messed-up fighting the Viet Cong..."

Carl wasn't fired and Janie didn't take her lucrative trade to another casino.  So apparently a deal was struck because instead of Carl getting lavished with bonuses, a raise and being brought back to his former day shift position, he was re-demoted and send to the least desirable shift, graveyard, as a boxman.

Blessing didn't take well to working 4:00AM till noon.  At the suggestion of his accountant, he called out as much as possible to minimize potential alimony while bolsterinjg his private enterprise and undeclared income.  Carl got his own apartment and started exclusively seeing Vera-Lynne.

A week after being served divorce papers, Vera-Lynne was at his place when he got a call from his wife.  She demanded money for ballet lessons for their girls.  He said, "No."  "Well, they are both going to need orthodontic work too..."  Carl spat, "Hell, they don't need braces."  His wife countered, "Yes they do!  Looking like you, is much worse for a girl."  "Shit, if you're that hard-up for cash, why don't you use your stolen money from the safe you ripped out of the goddamned wall."

Months later at an impromptu meeting with the graveyard shift boss Carl was threatened with dismissal because of pattern call-outs. The boss said, "This will be your only warning."  Carl said, "Do whatever you gotta do."  His boss said, "If this is an elaborate scheme to get fired and collect unemployment, you're sadly mistaken."  "Shit!  Is that what you think?  Well, I don't give a rat's ass.  I'll make it easy on you, I quit."

On the following Sunday, Mrs. Blessing marched past the crowded pool at Carl's apartment complex. Carl's door was ajar.  She tried to peer in before knocking but her husband appeared at the door.  Carl was wearing a swimsuit and black socks (he always tried to hide his war wound) as he stirred a pitcher of what looked like lemonade.

Mrs. Blessing came in peace.  But she tried to look past him into the apartment while offering one last stab at reconciliation. Before Carl could react she added, "Of course, we insist on a commitment from you, to seek professional help for your drinking and anger management."

Vera-Lynne got up from her poolside chaise lounge and strolled over.  She exuded confidence in a yellow string bikini that highlighted her deep suntan as she said, "Everything okay pumpkin?" Frumpy and pale, Mrs. Blessing in a black, polyester K-Mart suit was intimidated by her rival. To make matters worse, the door opened enough for her to see a bottle of Gordon's gin on the coffee table and a floor cluttered by clothes including a bra and panties.

Sweaty Mrs. Blessing was demoralized and ready to slither away.  But she gave her outrageous proposal one last try. Carl had his arm around Vera-Lynne's waist, gave her a healthy fanny squeeze and said, "Get the fuck out of here!"  His wife shouted, "You're pretty brave standing behind this bimbo..."

Everyone at the pool was standing, trying to get a better look at the brewing battle. Mrs. Blessing motioned towards Vera-Lynne's MIA bracelet and growled, "He was pretty brave in Vietnam too. You know what the 'million-dollar wound' is?"  Vera-Lynne cautiously shrugged as Mrs. B. continued, "Did you know our little  'yellow' hero shot himself in the foot?"  Had Carl not over-reacted Vera-Lynne probably wouldn't have believed her.

"Who told you that?" Carl seethed. His wife said, "You did!"  She turned towards Vera-Lynne and self-righteously added, "I guess you already know he talks in his sleep..."  Vera-Lynne broke free from his grasp and snapped, "You fuckin' bastard!"  Carl didn't know the scope of what his wife knew and neurotically admitted, "We got ambushed...it was crazy there...everyone getting shot up all around me...it was only my second day..."  The two women simultaneously said, "WHAT?"  In tears, Carl purged his guilt, spilled his guts and unraveled the convoluted resume that he had for years sworn by.  He might have been gaining some sympathy until he shot himself in the foot again by saying, "Blowing off my toe was the only round I fired..."

Sickened, Vera-Lynne went into the apartment and slammed the door.  A minute later, clutching her scant belongings, she came out screaming obscenities. Carl limped behind her as she scurried to her Corvette.  He begged her to come back.  She said, "Don't call, don't look for me and don't expect any more help either."  She burnt rubber as she sped away.

Humiliated, gimpy Carl hid in the shadows as he walked against the farthest wall away from his finger pointing neighbors.  The day had been designed to be an emancipation from casino work. Instead it turned out to be a complete disaster. Inside, he found his wife waiting.  He ignored her and advanced to the bathroom.  He looked with disgust in the mirror and saw his sallow, ratty reflection. He realized he didn't have a conventional job, he was disconnected from the vast majority of his clientele, ineligible for unemployment, spurned by his lover and had his unwanted wife in the other room waiting for a decision.

Carl came out into the unlit living room.  He didn't address his wife as he removed his socks.  With a sense of purpose, without hobbling, he strode out into the sunshine and retrieved some personal items he left at the pool.  Back inside he said to his wife, "I thought about your demands...and I'm not interested.  I'll be fine...so get out."

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.

IT'S A SMALL WORLD...

I went cross-country in the summer of 1976.  My sixty-eight day odyssey was a combination of hitchhiking and using the Greyhound bus.  Along the way, I met other backpackers starting in Brooklyn New York, to New Orleans, Juarez Mexico, Colorado, the Grand Canyon, Vegas, California and across Canada.

The Canadian Rockies was a visual highlight of that trip...and my life.  While hitting such beautiful places as Banff, Jasper and Lake Louise, I traveled with a Danish guy named Bengt, (my March 4, 2011 blog about him was called, "GET BENGT)."

In Banff, Bengt and I were chatting on the cable car line to the Sulphur Peak mountaintop. 

AN ISOLATED PARADISE OF NATURE, MOST PEOPLE NEVER HEARD OF BANFF, ALBERTA, CANADA. IT'S LOCATED ABOVE MONTANA, NEAR THE  BRITISH COLUMBIA BORDER.  BEFORE GOING UP INTO THOSE GORGEOUS MOUNTAINS, BENGT TOOK THIS PICTURE OF ME.

While waiting for the gondola to take us up, another tourist overheard our conversation and asked, "Where are you from?"  Bengt proudly said, "Copenhagen Denmark."  "Not you," the man said. He pointed at me, "I meant him."  I shrugged, "New York..." Before I could get more specific he cut in, "I thought so.  My cousin Rod is from New York.  Do you know Rod Tompkins?"  

What a knucklehead! I didn't even have a chance to narrow-down the possibilities by saying New York City.  This gentleman's ridiculousness was made worse because the odds of me knowing his cousin was no longer an eight million-to-one shot...it was a twenty-million-to-one shot because he was covering the whole damned state.  

In case he was putting me on, I didn't scream out that; I don't know half the families on my street. Instead, out of respect, I thoughtfully said, "Hmmm, Rod..."  He smiled in anticipation, "Well, actually his full name is Rodney Tompkins..." I shook my head, "Sorry.  Doesn't ring a bell."  He walked away.

During a quiet moment on the scenic cable car ride, my mind raced to the song, "IT'S A SMALL WORLD."  I was reminded about the great coincidences we all experience...but the thought of knowing Rod Tompkins wasn't one of them.

FROM THE SULPHUR PEAK OBSERVATION DECK, MY PHOTO (above),  SHOWS HOW  OUR EYES FEASTED ON THE VIEW OF SIX MOUNTAIN RANGES.

The "It's a Small World,"song distracted me before we reached the summit. Soon I was recalling the summer of 1974 when RBOY and I had our mega working vacation at Disney World, (Florida).

AT DISNEY, WE WERE CLEAN-UP GUYS.  PRIOR TO ONE OF OUR SHIFTS, RBOY AND I WALKED THROUGH THE PARK AND USED IT AS A PHOTO-OP.

RBOY and I once had a friendly argument.  I complained how awful it was to work next to the Disneyworld carousel. I said, "The redundancy and repetitiousness of the same tune repeating over and over and over and over again is killing me."  RBOY said, "My torture is worse.  I'm stationed next to the Tiki Room".

THE TIKI ROOM WAS AN EXHIBIT IN ADVENTURELAND.  OUTSIDE, THE NEW TECHNOLOGY OF AUDIO-ANIMATRONICS PROVIDED MECHANICAL CHARACTERS LIKE; SINGING AND DANCING BIRDS AND FLOWERS, A MAGIC FOUNTAIN, DRUMMERS AND TOTEM POLES LURING GUESTS IN WITH A REPETITIVE SCHTICK ON A CONTINUOUS LOOP.

RBOY droned, "I heard that routine a million times.  'Come to the Tiki Room.  Fly with the Tiki Birds.' Over and over..."  I said, "I got you beat...if I got tired of the merry-go-round song, my next stop was sweeping-up in front of, "It's a Small World."

"IT'S A SMALL WORLD" WAS ORIGINALLY IN THE UNICEF PAVILION AT THE NEW YORK WORLD'S FAIR.  IN 1966, IT WAS DISASSEMBLED AND REBUILT IN DISNEYLAND, (CALIFORNIA). THIS DARK, ZERO-DROP LOG FUME RIDE FEATURES 300+ BRIGHTLY COSTUMED CHILDREN-OF-THE-WORLD DOLLS FROLICKING IN THE SPIRIT OF INTERNATIONAL UNITY AND PEACE ON EARTH.

The "It's a Small World'" song is so universally annoying that RBOY immediately conceded.  If you need more ammunition to understand my point, Disney shockingly lampooned the song in their 1994 movie, "THE LION KING."  This sequence happened after Scar, the murderous new lion king lazily allows his kingdom to rot.  At a depressing moment in his monarchy, he demands that his majordomo (Zazu) sing something upbeat.  Zazu chooses, "IT'S A SMALL WORLD."  Within the first few bars Scar snarls, "No, no Zazu...ANYTHING but that!"

CLICK  THE LINK BELOW TO SEE AND HEAR THE 1:45 SCENE BETWEEN SCAR (left) AND ZAZU (right).

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vifVEg7NepI

I had my own, it's a small world moment, a few weeks ago, in the supermarket.  I saw a young woman in the cereal aisle and it killed me that I couldn't figure out where I knew her from.  Minutes later, we cross paths again by the frozen pizza.  She gave me a familiar smile.  I am a staunch believer in boundaries (personal space), especially with women.  So I didn't want to come off like a stalker or bigger weirdo than I already am.  But in a thirty-year rush of memories I blurted out, "Are you Erleen?"  She nodded so I said, "I remember your first day as a teller trainee, at the bank on New Jersey Avenue." She was cordial as she thanked me.  I said, "You were my favorite.  Over the years, you stood out because you were always so nice. You even stayed the same after you were promoted to assistant manager."  She was nodding as I added, "You were pregnant the last time I saw you.  But I switched banks when a more convenient one opened by my house."  She said, "That baby is going to be twenty-seven." A short time later, I walked away feeling good.   

Considering that Erleen and I live comparatively close to each other, it really wasn't such a coincidence to run into her after such a long time.  The real, it's a small world" moment happened at work a week later.

I was dealing roulette and a young woman read my name tag and said, "Wow, you're from Canarsie...I work in Canarsie."  I said, "Where do you work?"  "I'm a teller at the Chase Bank on Seaview Avenue."  I said, "When I was a kid, I had my first savings account there...except back then, it was called the Brevoort Bank."  She said, "We have a photos on the wall of all the different names the bank has had."

I OPENED MY BREVOORT ACCOUNT IN 1967.  THE NAME CHANGED (see above) TO METROPOLITAN BANK AND CROSSLANDS BEFORE BECOMING CHASE.

I told this lady, "Before they opened your branch, the Brevoort was just a tiny storefront, in the Bayview strip mall across the street." I also mentioned the historic Canarsie photo of Lyndon Johnson and Robert Kennedy campaigning on the street where the bank would eventually be built.

CONSIDERING THE CIRCUMSTANCES OF WHAT HAPPENED TO RFK's BOTHER... WHICH LED TO  JOHNSON 'S PRESIDENCY, THIS  "SHOT" FROM FALL 1964,  ELSEWHERE IN BROOKLYN, (FLATBUSH AVENUE?)  IS INCREDIBLE AND FAR MORE COMPELLING THAN THE CANARSIE PICTURE.

I reminded my roulette player that when I was a kid, (late 60's), banker's hours were a standard operating procedure. She knew what I was talking about but some people don't realize that banks were only open 9AM till 3PM Monday to Thursday with extended hours on Friday till 6PM.

I also said, "I wasn't a sophisticated twelve year old.  So while it was important for me to use my pittance to make bank deposits, I frequently made the mistake of going on Friday (when the whole world got paid).  The lines at the bank were incredibly long. But stupidly, I'd wait to hand over some silly amount like $6.12."

The woman commended me.  That's when I connected meeting Erleen with my least favorite bank teller. I said, "Yeah but there was one witch...who used to give me a hard time.  I'd hand over four crumpled singles and two dollars in loose change (with loads of pennies) and get a harsh, dirty look."  My player said, "That's terrible.  You waited on that line as well as any other customer. You should have been congratulated and encouraged."  I thanked her.  She said, "You don't happen to remember her name?"  I said, "Sure do!  Miss Bainbridge..."  The lady choked back a giggle and whispered, "That old maid is still there.  Her name is Louise and she's my manager.  That fossil is coming up on her fiftieth anniversary there...and refuses to retire. You know something?  As a little boy you were perceptive 'cause our Miss Bainbridge is still a mean, frustrated bitch."

I'D PREFER TO REMEMBER THE BEAUTY OF BANFF RATHER THAN THAT NASTY, INTIMIDATING BAINBRIDGE.

At the and of the day...yes, it's a small world after all...as long as you don't sing the song to yourself.

BENGT AND I STUPIDLY TOOK PHOTOS OF EACH OTHER FEEDING THIS RAM ATOP SULPHUR PEAK WITH OUR OWN CAMERA.  SO I HAVE THIS PIC AND HE HAS THE ONE OF ME. I WONDER IF BENGT STILL HAS MY PICTURE?

I would love to own the picture of me feeding that ram.  Luckily, the Internet has an incredible ability to help us network. So, it would be a crazy long shot to locate Bengt without knowing his last name.  But if some genius thought I would know his New York cousin Rodney Tompkins, (without a computer), maybe one of my reader's knows a Bengt from Copenhagen who happened to be in Banff during August 1976?