THE FABULOUS MR. K.

Under GENE K's. thin shell of hardcore depravity, lived a good and decent person.  However, due to his polarizing peccadilloes, others who knew him might not agree.  After all, a wise man once said, "WE ALL RELATE TO THE SAME PEOPLE...DIFFERENTLY."  Oh wait, I said that...so scratch off the wise man comment.

                                                                           

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Way before the, "FABULOUS MR. K" earned his ritzy nickname, he was just Eugene or Gene from 99th Street.  He and I lived, in Brooklyn New York, between the same avenues, four blocks apart but because we went to different elementary schools, I didn't know of him until middle school.

He remained a nameless face in the crowd until we became acquainted, in September 1970, (our sophomore year at Canarsie High School).

Gene and I had nothing in common.  He wasn't athletic when that was an important part of my life and because he was a quiet kid, I assumed he was a nerd.  In tenth grade, we wound-up in the same English class. The teacher had given us a spelling quiz and had us arbitrarily grade each other's exams. Gene's paper fell into my hands.  Curiously, he left out the "i" in three words, (convenience was one). Way before the term, "random act of kindness" was in vogue, it was simple for me, to insert the extra letters for this stranger.

In private, I told Gene what I did.  Days later, he showed his gratefulness for taking his C+ to an A- by giving me a small token of appreciation. Forty-five years later, I still have it.

GENE WAS AN AMATEUR MAGICIAN.  HE BOUGHT THE (above) *BOGUS "TWE DOLLAR BILL," XEROXED TONS OF COPIES AND USED THEM IN HIS ACT AS PRIZES.      *TO EMPHASIZE ITS FRAUDULENCE, THE BILL INCLUDES TERMS LIKE, "U. CAN'T CASHITT" AND "UNITED STATES OF ANEMIA."

For the rest of high school, Gene and I were limited to passing nods in the hall.  But by the time I entered Brooklyn College, we discovered that we had mutual friends.

One-on-one, Gene was  funny, intelligent and had an out going personality.  He was down-to-earth, generous and a caring person. However, in bigger groups, even in the comfort of hanging out, Gene melted into the crowd.  He and I never became close, probably because we were both too independent for our own good?

Gene got a messenger's job that was headquartered at the World Trade Center. The money he earned greatly subsidized two major vices; being a heavy pot smoker and prostitutes, (eventually his range of vices would take a quantum leap).  So despite a full-time job and living at home, he was always broke.

GENE'S GENEROSITY INCLUDED SETTING ME UP FOR AN INTERVIEW WITH HIS EMPLOYER.  WE COULDN'T WORK-OUT A SCHEDULE, SO I TURNED THEM DOWN.  HOWEVER, IT MARKED THE ONLY TIME, I WAS IN THE WORLD TRADE CENTER,  (I ONLY MADE IT UP TO THE SEVENTEENTH FLOOR).

Gene's eccentricities influenced some of our friends.  He encouraged a few guys to sell just enough marijuana to get theirs free, (I wasn't interested because I almost never indulged).  He also introduced them to the 25c peep shows in Times Square and a whorehouse in midtown Manhattan called, "The Meeting Room," or as they encrypted it, "TMR."

I was never led down the TMR path.  Gene was addicted to some pretty kinky stuff.  His stories were indeed fascinating but I was just a good listener. He  liked to call me a "milk and cookies kind of guy" because he couldn't tempt me into even entry-level meat and potatoes debauchery.

In 1975, our group decided to go, in two carloads, to some bar in the Bronx. Gene insisted that our car get diverted to Flatbush first, to a group of high-rise apartments, (Nostrand Avenue and Avenue L).  He said one of his uncles was on his deathbed and he wanted to pay his respects.

Gene came down and admitted that he never had a relationship with his uncle.  He showed his true mercenary colors by bragging about how wealthy the "bastard" was and hoped that the investment of this fifteen-minute visit might result in a big inheritance payday.

Gene and one of his friends (1977), became casino dealers in Las Vegas.  They both influenced me, to become a craps dealer.   While I was in training, at the New York School of Gambling, Gene telephoned me a couple times.  He had a surprising sensitivity and a talent for reassurance. When my insecurity oozed out, he was able to relate and soothe my misgivings.

I moved to Las Vegas in January 1979.  By that time, Gene had relocated to Reno.  We remained in contact and he landed an impressive job at Reno's MGM.  Hourly commuter flights between Nevada's two gambling meccas were $34.00 round trip.  So it was easy and inexpensive, to spend my two days off with Gene, twice, (these visits were explained in detail in previous blogs).

The first time, Gene took me around "the biggest little city in the world" in taxis.

RENO IS 500 MILES NORTH OF LAS VEGAS.  DESPITE GENE'S PROFESSIONAL SUCCESS UP THERE, I PREFERRED THE IMPLIED ENORMITY OF VEGAS.  I WAS WORKING IN TOILETS WITH NO REAL PROSPECTS OF THE BIG-TIME BUT MY CHOICE TO STAY PUT,  IS ONE OF THE BEST DECISIONS I EVER MADE.

Gene's income was high for 1979, (averaging over $100.00/day in tips...I was making $20.00/day in downtown Vegas).  But he was flat broke due to the expensive peculiarities I already knew of.  But he had developed a new corruption that took a heavy toll on his finances...being a degenerate gambler.  Far worse, Gene had no friends.  He seemed content to smoke pot all day, play craps and otherwise live like a hermit...unless he needed comfort from hookers.

GENE WAS VICTIMIZED BY THE IMPLIED EXCITEMENT OF CRAPS.  AFTER YOU'VE BEEN AROUND IT, (EVEN FOR A SHORT TIME), YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO REALIZE; THE FREIGHT TRAIN DOESN'T COME THROUGH TOWN EVERY DAY.  THAT MEMO NEVER CAME ACROSS HIS DESK.  INSTEAD, GENE WHO THOUGHT HE WAS SMARTER THAN EVERYONE ELSE, DEVISED PETTY, (AND RISKY),  SCAMS TO INCREASE HIS CHANCE OF WINNING.

It was clear to me that Gene was a low-life and that he lacked a good grip on reality.  Some of his coworkers called him the, "Mad Russian," (he took it as a compliment but they weren't calling him angry, they were calling him crazy).  Others called him, "FABULOUS," (a short version of the Fabulous Mr. K.), because they enjoyed what they thought were exaggerated tales of his sexual exploits, (I wasn't impressed but I chose to believe those stories).

I soon learned of the desperation in Gene's life and lengths he was willing go...to make a "good' impression on me. For my only night in town, he wanted to treat me to Japanese food.  After dark, we took a taxi to the bus station in Sparks.

Sparks Nevada is just east of Reno.  There's a string of tiny storefront casinos, (that catered to low-rollers). But the town (less than 100,000 people) was best known back then, as the home of Nevada's biggest mental hospital.

The cab slowed as we neared our false destination.  In the shadows of the back seat, Gene showed me a ten dollar bill. The driver announced, "That'll be $3.55."  Before handing over his ten Gene said, "Cabbie, take a dollar for yourself and give me $15.45 change."  The poor soul took the bait of the disproportionate tip.  That successful "short change" gimmick marked the beginning of how our dinner was to be funded.

While looking over his shoulder, Gene hustled me into and through the bus station.  We exited a rear entrance and scurried into one of Sparks' casinos.  This saw dust joint had a ramp that led to gaming area.  Hard to believe but true, at 10:00PM, there wasn't a single customer.  Every employee was looking at us...even the short order cook watched us through the kitchen's transom.

Gene was a petty opportunist.  I didn't pick up on it right away but his plan to scrape up food money called for anonymity. We left and soon found a different target more conducive to his scam.

The casinos in Sparks had so little business that to save on salaries, the craps games frequently had no supervisors (customarily there would be two) and were manned with two dealers, (instead of three).

Gene bought some chips at a blackjack game before wandering over to craps.  I was unaware that he had already cased the joint as he whispered, "Be prepared to run."  I was so naive that I didn't realize that he had found lazy and/or inexperienced dealers and positioned himself in their blind spot. Gene waited patiently. When a seven rolled, he "past posted" the come for $20.00, (cheating the casino with a late bet after the dice landed).  He did this in two other casinos before taking me to eat.

Back in Las Vegas, my roommate was Loopy-Joe.  He struggled with the same disappointment I did of dealing craps for peanuts.  Joe wanted immediate gratification and when he heard how "well" Gene was doing, he decided to take his chances in Reno.

Joe looked-up Gene and they became friendly.  On my second trip up there, Joe chauffeured us in his 1971, dark green Le Sabre convertible, all over, including an afternoon in Lake Tahoe.

THE FIFTY-MINUTE VEGAS TO RENO FLIGHT COMES TO A GORGEOUS CONCLUSION AS IT DESCENDS OVER LAKE TAHOE.

Tehe three of us were on line to cash-out our chips out at Caesar's when Gene asked a big dude in a cowboy hat if he had a green chip, ($25.00).  He took the chip and did a series of sleight-of-hand maneuvers.  The short magic routine ended with Gene saying, "Now you see it...now you don't."   Gene turned away.  The man wasn't as gullible as Gene hoped and he didn't like being preyed upon. He grabbed Gene's shoulder and spun him (hard) around and said, "I ain't no hayseed.  Give me back my chip."  Gene looked him in the eye and said, "Tex, you saw, your quarter vanished."  Gene continued playing dumb until the man cocked his fist back and said, "I'll break your fuckin' face before I let a shit-ass wise-guy like you rob me?" Gene looked at Joe and I for support but we were dumbfounded.  He handed over the green chip and bleated, "Geez, can't you take a joke?"

Gene never confided in me but the Reno, Sparks and Lake Tahoe metropolitan area is small. Something tells me his hustling must have caught-up with him.  So it wouldn't surprise me if he took a beating from other cabbies, casino players, security guards etc., who also couldn't take a joke.  Who knows, his unsavory antics might have resulted in a police record.

On the way back to Reno, Gene led us through some beautiful back country.  Just outside town, we approached the Mustang Ranch.  Gene said, "Let me show you guys around."

IN 1979, FROM THE OUTSIDE, THE MUSTANG RANCH, "NEVADA'S MOST INFAMOUS BROTHEL," LOOKED LIKE A FEW CHEAP TRAILER HOMES CONNECTED TOGETHER.  INSIDE, THE THREE OF US WERE GREETED WITH A STRAIGHT LINE OF TEN WOMEN...WHO CHIMED IN ALL AT ONCE, "GENE'S HERE." 

Don't let the stock photo above fool you...there was NO cute one.  All the "girls" looked like typical, thirty-ish housewives.  I was twenty-four and I came up with the snap judgment that there was nothing there for me, (plus I had little money).  Simultaneously, Loopy-Joe was coming to the same conclusion as Gene grabbed a frumpy brunette and disappeared for a half hour, (Joe and I waited in the bar.  It was actually empowering to have some of these less-than-dazzling ladies try to woo me into their den of iniquity).

On the way back, Gene boasted of all the Sexual Transmitted Diseases, (STD's), he had contracted, (mostly from street-walkers).  This strange boy mentioned symptoms, medications and nearly made me puke with graphic tales of having "things" burnt off his private parts.

I moved to New Jersey in 1984.  While dealing craps, I met an old man with the same unusual last name as Gene. He was also an eccentric, did magic tricks, made petty claims, (on bets he didn't win) and NEVER tipped.   The apple doesn't fall far from the tree because that geezer wound-up being another uncle of Gene's.  I was tempted to ask who profited the most by the other uncle's death but I didn't have that kind of audacity.  However, he did say that Gene got married.

I knew few intimate details of Gene's life but when I shared this knowledge with old friends I found out his marriage was old news.  One friend told me that Gene sent wifey into lesbian bars, to have her pick someone up who was into threesomes, (they called it Foo-Foo).

In August 1988, I returned for a weekend in Las Vegas.  Gene was living there again.  We spent a few laugh-filled hours reminiscing. It would be the last time I ever saw him.

IN 1991, THE BRITISH COMEDY TROUPE MONTY PYTHON PRODUCED A RECORD ALBUM OF SONGS.  THE THIRD CUT IS CALLED, "THE MEDICAL LOVE SONG."  IN THIS LIVELY ROMP, EVERY STD IMAGINABLE IS SET TO MUSIC.  WHENEVER I HEAR IT, "THE FABULOUS MR. K. " COMES TO MIND.

The last time I visited Las Vegas (2009), was with my wife Sue and son Andrew.  I made it a point to see another friend, Ciro the Hero.  I had introduced Ciro to Gene way back when.  During our meeting, I realized that Ciro had gone from hero to zero.  That's when he reminded me that Gene was living in town said, "Let's call the Fabulous Mr. K."

I spoke to Gene.  He wanted to get to together but my meeting with Ciro the Zero was such a disaster...and considering that Gene and Ciro were cut from the same cloth, I decided against it.

Seven years would pass.  Sadly, in late January 2016, the Fabulous Mr. K. passed away.  One of my Canarsie buddies told me that it was from colon cancer.

While we all tend to relate to the same people differently, Gene was a rare case in which all the old friends shared the similar, "likable but shady" opinion of him. I'd go as far to say that his deviant behavior served to unwittingly teach me by example...to do the opposite of what he did.  But the bottom line was, under that superficial veneer of strangeness, Gene was a sensitive, kindhearted person. That's why I regret missing that one last chance to see him.

When I was asked if I had any recollections of him...this blog/eulogy, packed with mixed feelings, was the best I can do.

NICKY'S A PRICK

October is, MENTAL HEALTH AWARENESS MONTH.

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What makes a good person snap?  How can a well-adjusted, intelligent, God-fearing, friendly, generous, caring and confident individual soar so high...only to suddenly fizzle, crash and burn?

We are learning more about the evil inner demons of depression and what can spark the internal downfall of someone who seems to have their act together.   Where might it start?  Getting betrayed by a lover? An untimely death in the family? Disillusionment at the workplace or money matters?   Certainly any one of these could mess someone up...but more than one or all, especially condensed into a short period of time would test the will of a saint. From the outside looking in, a perfect example might be comedian/actor Robin Williams.

ROBIN WILLIAMS (1951-2014)  WAS A UNIVERSALLY BELOVED CELEBRITY.  DURING HIS CAREER IN SHOW BUSINESS, (1976-2014),  HE HAD NOTHING TO BE ASHAMED OF, (WITH THE POSSIBLE EXCEPTION OF THE 1980 MOVIE, "POPEYE.")  HE WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU'D EXCEPT TO HARM HIMSELF. AFTER HIS TRAGIC SUICIDE, WE LEARNED THAT THIS ACT WAS TRIGGERED BY DEPRESSION AND PARANOIA RESULTING FROM A TYPE OF DEMENTIA.

I met a universally beloved man (Nick Tucker), in 1978, while  attending the New York School of Gambling, (West 32nd Street off Broadway). Our original relationship was cemented into a friendship when three years later in Las Vegas, we became coworkers at the Golden Nugget

Tucker (five years older than me), fooled me into thinking he was the world's finest human. I once introduced him to my wife Sue (before we were married) as, a true gentleman.  He was of course flawed.  One of his shortcomings was to say to Sue, "Pardon my language but..."  And then he'd use the harshest profanity that would make a longshoreman blush.  He also thought it was funny to brandish a switchblade on people.  When he did it to Sue and I, I  cracked, "Are you a Shark or a Jet?"  His response started with, Pardon my language but..."

NICK GOT MY REFERENCE TO THE 1957 HIT BROADWAY MUSICAL AND 1961 MOVIE, "WEST SIDE STORY." WHICH WAS INSPIRED BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE'S CLASSIC, "ROMEO AND JULIET." EXCEPT, THE DISAPPROVING FAMILIES ARE REPRESENTED BY WARRING STREET GANGS IN NEW YORK CITY AND THEIR WEAPON OF CHOICE IS KNIVES, SPECIFICALLY SWITCHBLADES.

In those two rare instances, Nick's nastiness came off as cute, so it was a shock later on, to discover that Nick had a disturbing, dark side, (Nick Tucker appears in several of my pieces, which among others includes the short story, "NO HELP'S HALL," and my blog from June 30, 2014, "NICK TUCKER: A PUZZLE THAT WOULD BAFFLE CHURCHILL AND FREUD."

In each case, Nick takes on the hero role.  But, we find out that he was a twisted bastard who carried vendettas and thought nothing of hurting the people who he perceived had hurt him.  It was only after Nick abandoned his position at the Nugget, (December 1983) that I found out about this double life.

In the beginning at dealer school, our student body, like a caste system, had a strict, social status hierarchy.  While our craps dealing class wasn't in session, the jet-setters like Nick Tucker hung-out together.  Regular low-key guys like me, remained in our "good-people" crowd.  While the nerds cast themselves off to the furthest shadows.  Despite the social separation, Tucker stood out as unique because unlike his elite brethren, he was friendly and kind to everyone.

Tucker's running mate at school was John Crotty.  Crotty, was a narcissistic asshole.  Even in the early stages of dealer school, his upward mobility mindset defined his future as a casino games dealer, as a "temporary obstacle" on his way to upper management.

The heart of Crotty's coolness was based on the Vegas connections he bragged about.  So to anyone beneath his strata who didn't get high the way did or go golfing with bigwigs was nothing to him.  So unless a nobody could do something for him, his personality was epitomized by aloofness, shallowness and materialism.  At no point at school did he and I share a spoken word that didn't relate to our course.  However, he was famous for repeating one phrase over and over again, "Don't shit where you eat."

My first interaction outside class with Nick Tucker was during a mid-morning break.  While Tucker thought everyone left the building, I returned to our seventh floor mock casino, to get extra practice.

I found Nick near an open window tying plastic straps to a burlap bank sack.  I had no idea that he was in the process of stealing ten stacks of non-value casino chips.  Down on the street, John Crotty and jet-set wannabe *Barney Kush,  were waiting for Nick's signal to stop pedestrian traffic so the missile-like booty could be tossed down "safely."

*Kush's story was blogged on January 27, 2014.  It was called, "THE COCKAMAMIE KID."

Nick called out as I entered the casino-like classroom, "Hey you, lay chickie for me."  Unwittingly, I became the lookout for the robbery.  Later, I was invited to practice with those stolen chips and hundreds more, on the craps table John Crotty built in his Elizabeth New Jersey garage. I might have taken Nick up on his offer but the harsh glare from Crotty made me feel acutely unwelcome.

In my five years in Las Vegas, I saw Crotty only three times.  I ducked him the first two times but the point of this story centers around our third meeting.  However, first I must introduce you to Mateo. I doubt Mateo and Crotty ever met.

I was hired as a craps dealer at the Las Vegas Golden Nugget in August 1982.  Nick Tucker was already dealing dice there and took me under his wing.  In no time I was traveling in the inner circle clique which included Mateo.

Mateo and I gravitated to each other.  He gave me background on Nick which made Tucker God-like. He said, "Nick proved his generosity many ways including: counseling another dealer and taking him by the hand to a Gamblers Anonymous meeting.  Nick spent several nights off in a gorgeous blackjack dealer's apartment and helped her study and soon gain her GED, (he declined her offers of sexual compensation). To a pit boss on the verge of disowning his fourteen year-old, drug addicted daughter, Nick spoke so highly of a supreme being and convinced the man to speak to a priest." He also mentioned that he once offered Nick a hundred dollars to drive up to Utah with him and help roll a cement mixer into the bed of his truck and bring back to town. Nick went but refused the money.

Nick Tucker was also famous for using up favors to set up parties and other outings for our group, (oddly, he never stuck around for them).  I know now that root of Nick's deeper problems laid in the fact that despite being a social butterfly at work, nobody knew his address or phone number.

Mateo ( a craps dealer), had juice in the Nugget's executive office.  So he had access to the employees personal information.  This influence was so strong that it arranged supervisor pay for him.  The bean-counters didn't catch on to Mateo's bonanza, (an extra $40.00 a day for two years). His connection also saw to it that this "oversight" was swept under the rug.

In November 1983, Nick didn't tell anyone and went on vacation during Thanksgiving.  Nobody knew where he went and two weeks later it was apparent that he wasn't coming back.  That's when Mateo found out that in Nick's file folder, he used a post office box for an address and provided the casino with a phony phone number.

A few days before Christmas, I bumped into John Crotty at the Meadows Mall..  He was wearing an expensive suit and had an unnatural orange glow from a tanning bed session.  I was afraid he was going to bend my ear about how set for life he is.  Instead he asked, "You still at the Nugget?"  I was impressed that he knew I was there as I said, "Yeah.'  He said, "Where's Nicky? It's like he disappeared."  I shrugged, "Dunno. Nobody does..."

Crotty started talking...and at no time did he speak about himself.  At one point his saddened voice cracked, "I thought I had the best friend I always wanted in life...but Nicky was more skitzo than 'Skitzo-Al.'"  (Skitzo-Al was a regular guy from dealer school who hid the fact that he was deaf in one ear, resulting in an erratic personality).

Before long, I would hear the all highlights of John and Nick's friendship. Apparently Nick got to Las Vegas a couple of months before Crotty.  In that time, to minimize costs, Nick became roommates with a kid (Dale) attending UNLV.  When Crotty came to town, he and Nick got a place together.  Crotty said, "Nick's tongue really flapped when he was drunk."

Crotty and I sat on a bench as he shared Nick's life story:

"First! Nick's real name is Lonnie Orlando.  Nicky must have really fucked-up because he bought fake ID.  He wanted to go off the grid...and picked Vegas.  I bet whatever put him on the run was a combination of shitty circumstances.  First, he was an only child.  He was about twenty, still living at home when both his healthy but elderly parents died a month apart.  He inherited their-turn-of-the-century house, in a beaten-down section of Newark...the back of his property touched the tall barbed wire fence that surrounded Newark Airport's freight terminal."

I patiently listened as Crotty continued, "Nick became a high school business teacher.  Which meant for $9,100.00 a year, he was stuck teaching non-college bound juvenile delinquents how to type."

"Soon he married a grade school teacher named Annette and she moved into that house.  They were broke, so he wouldn't let her refurnish or decorate the place to her liking.  Plus, it was the only house left standing on the whole block, in the middle of a slum.  She hated being isolated without convenient shopping and never feeling safe.  In the name of love, she might have made do but the icing on the cake was that Nick had an insane phobia about going too far from home.  So forget romantic vacations, they hardly left Newark."

Nick life didn't seem so tragic to me.  When I pretended to yawn, Crotty spoke faster and his voice went up an octave, "Nick wanted to teach history but there were no openings.  He dedicated himself to instructing his misfits.  Through care and understanding, he got enthusiasm from kids that usually don't give a rat's ass."

"Towards the end of March, Annette felt so neglected that she left him.  Nick told me, her leaving made him so depressed that he considered killing himself.  Then in June, he won the Teacher of the Year Award.  On the last day of the term during a fond farewell with his students, some silliness got personal.  He argued with his pet and lost his temper. They cursed each other.  He was losing the battle of wits and felt the urge to physically attack her.  Instead he quit on the spot, walked out the door without taking his best teacher trophy,clearing out his desk or picking up his last check."

"Wow," I said. Crotty kept talking, "I don't know if he ran because he did something to that girl or if it was something else.  But your buddy Lonny Orlando saw a TV commercial for our dealer school and soon signed up as Nick Tucker."

I said, "That's crazy.  Did he harm his wife?"  Crotty said, "No.  He didn't even contest the divorce. But did you ever notice he always took vacations at Thanksgiving?"  I shook my head as he forged on, "He picked that time of year because Annette and her family followed the same ritual.  So he knew exactly when and where she was.  Then he'd travel incognito back to Jersey and harass her."  I said, "No way.  He was such a great guy, he could never hurt her."  "Well, he felt betrayed by Annette.  Before that, while still mourning for his mom and dad, she wanted to remodel the only house he ever lived in...and, erase the memories of his folks."

"Financially, he screwed himself royally by turning his back on his career and giving up half of everything he owned, even his parent's house."  I said, "I can't believe it. Nick was so smart, he knew right from wrong, he went to church..."  John cut me off, "He NEVER went to church out here!" "Well," I added, "He was a funny man, caring, generous and so confident."  Crotty said, "I'm telling you, he snapped and became schizophrenic. He was usually normal but when pushed, he was capable of doing terrible things."  "No.  You don't think he killed that teacher pet's of his?"  He said, "I can't rule out anything."

John said, "Nick got to Vegas before me and lived with a college kid named Dale.  When we got our apartment together, he told me that he and Dale didn't get along.  Nick was dealing on graveyard at the El Cortez and wanted to sleep from eight at night till two in the morning.  But it was Dale's place and he thought nothing of blasting music and partying all the time.  They clashed over the noise. And when it finally got quiet, Dale had taught Thor, his Norwegian Blue parrot to screech, "NICKY'S A PRICK, NICKY'S A PRICK..."

THERE IS NO SUCH BREED OF PARROT NAMED THE NORWEGIAN BLUE.  DALE CALLED THOR A NORWEGIAN BLUE, AS A HOMAGE TO THE MONTY PYTHON, "DEAD PARROT" SKIT.

John Crotty sighed, "To get even, Nick doused the birdseed with Tabasco Sauce. Thor's shit was blood red for a couple of days...until he died.  I'm no animal rights guy but what Nick did was criminal. Whenever he told me that story, he included lines from the Monty Python sketch. It wasn't funny."  I said, "Parrots live like forty years..."  John said, "That's right.  It's like a member of the family.  So when Dale attacked him, Nick kicked his ass, trashed the apartment and bolted."  "Did the guy press charges?"  "No apparently Nick gave Dale a different phony name when he moved in and quit the El Cortez, so he couldn't be tracked down."

Seven years after moving to Atlantic City, (1991), my wife Sue and I had a Vegas vacation.  We telephoned Mateo and met him for lunch.  I asked if he knew anything about Nick.  He said, "Months after you left, my connection in the executive office sent me a Xerox copy of a November 1983 arrest report from Ionia New Jersey.  He (Nick) had slashed the tires of his ex's new husband, broke into their house, trashed the place and smeared his own shit on wedding and honeymoon pictures.  Then on the morning of Thanksgiving, he broke into her parent's house.  He was holding his own crap and was about to do the same thing to that house when cops burst out of closets, the basement and attic."  I said, "I thought Nick had no family or real friends so nobody would miss him?"  Mateo said, "You're right.  The police got his true identity from Annette and were able to trace him back to his fingerprints, on his application for a Nevada casino dealer license."

I sighed, "That boy needed professional help."  Mateo huffed, "He had too much pride."  I said, "He needed to be on meds...sounds like he went off the deep end and could have become one of the weirdos that goes berserk and drives up on crowded sidewalks and mows down strangers."

Mateo was shaking his head as I continued, "One of Nick's friends (John Crotty) was right, you shouldn't shit where you eat."  Then I shared with him a lot of what Crotty told me.  When I finished with the parrot story I said, "Nicky really was a prick.'"

YOU CAN'T BULLSHIT A BULLSHITTER

Ha Ha.  What a bullshit artist MD was.  We went to high school (Canarsie High), together but didn't actually meet until our third year at Brooklyn College. While I treated the collegiate experience like thirteenth grade, MD seemed more studious...but I was wrong.

Our relationship blossomed when we wound up taking the same Spanish course.

For school, I typically dressed in tatters, (shorts, tee-shirt in warm weather or bib overalls with a flannel undershirt in winter), MD was different.  He was a tall, lean, good looking guy.  Then as if it was his uniform, he wore shiny black dress shoes, perfectly pressed black slacks and a black silk dress shirt...EVERYDAY.  MD also carried a guitar case in addition to his school books.

During the first few months of that class other than an indifferent nod, we never connected.  It wasn't until we had a test on the ultra-difficult subjunctive tense that MD came by and acknowledge how much of a genius I was, (I got a 69% on the test...and EVERYONE else failed).

GZIMBO (above) SHOULDN'T BE SO MODEST.  IN MY BOOK, SHE'S A ROCK STAR! SHE MAJORED IN SPANISH AND KNEW THE PARTICULARS OF WHAT WOULD BE ON A SUBJUNCTIVE TEST.  DURING A CHANCE MEETING A HALF HOUR BEFORE THE EXAM, SHE GAVE ME A CRASH TUTORIAL...AND THAT MEDIOCRE GRADE I EARNED, MADE ME A SUPERSTAR.

While MD complimented my grasp of the subjunctive, he told me he was a Spanish classic guitar major, (talk about a field of study with a intense limited window for opportunity).  He was only taking our course (pass-fail), to fulfill the foreign language requisite.  So as long as he finished with a "D" he didn't care. I soon learned that under his serious exterior, he took as many classes pass-fail as he could.  That meant he was even more of a goofball than me because he found gaps in the system that encouraged him to coast, (the big difference was, he masked his lack of ambition by dressing well).

Still, we didn't really connect until the Spanish literature section of the course, (learning the language was difficult enough but understanding the subtleties of double-meanings, sexual innuendo and symbolism at the same time was nearly impossible).

MD was caught staring off into space.  The professor knew he was unmotivated and wanted to make an example of him.  He asked MD in Spanish, to tell the class about Cervantes.  MD was clueless.

CERVANTES (1547-1616) WAS A SPANISH NOVELIST, POET AND PLAYWRIGHT.  HIS MOST FAMOUS WORK, "DON QUIXOTE" IS CONSIDERED TO BE THE FIRST GREAT EUROPEAN NOVEL. HIS INFLUENCE ON HIS NATIVE TONGUE WAS SO PROFOUND THAT SPANISH IS OFTEN CALLED, "THE LANGUAGE OF CERVANTES."  

The professor knew MD was buried.  After an agonizing forty seconds of silence, (to further throw his reluctant student under the bus), el maestro (as MD liked to to call him), repeated the question in seldom used English. MD stood up and in English stated with conviction, "Cervantes.  Of course, I know everything there is to know about Cervantes. I went to grammar school with Calvin Cervantes, in East New York. He was an ordinary kid but his older, far more interesting brother Myron, was in and out of juvie hall a million times..."

To this day, I don't know how I contained my inner laughter from exploding out loud. MD was my hero and from that hilarity, a friendship developed.  The first time we socialized, he invited me up to his parents' apartment in Howard Beach, (Queens New York).  They had HBO and he wanted me to watch a Steve Martin comedy concert with him.

STEVE MARTIN (1945-PRESENT) STARTED AS A WRITER FOR THE SMOTHERS BROTHERS.  HIS ABSURDIST APPROACH TO STAND-UP COMEDY DURING MY COLLEGE DAYS MADE HIM A GIANT IN HIS FIELD.  CATCHPHRASES LIKE, "I'M A WILD AND CRAZY GUY" AND "LET'S GET SMALL," HELPED EARN HIM THE #6 SPOT IN COMEDY CENTRAL'S TOP 100 STAND-UP COMICS LIST.

MD met me in the lobby of his apartment house. We were waiting for the elevator doors to close as a guy from his building gestured to us to wait for him. MD who was unemployed and broke whispered to me, "Just play along."  The neighbor said, "I'm delivering for New Park (pizza), I make fifty a night in tips alone." MD pushed past the nimrod and said over his shoulder, "Big shit! I can buy and sell you, I'm selling Hon office furniture over the phone and make fifteen an hour before commission..."

I looked at that episode as an MD problem, not a me problem. But in his house, the lying sack of shit struck again!  His dad was a fat, tired old man.  This curmudgeon ignored me and was such a dullard that he probably wouldn't have cared if MD brought home Gina Lollobrigida.

GINA LOLLOBRIGIDA (1927-PRESENT) WAS A HIGH-PROFILE ACTRESS AND SEX SYMBOL IN THE 1950's AND 1960's,  (HIS DAD'S GENERATION).

When the Steve Martin special came on, dad mumbled, "I ain't watchin' dat crap."  MD stood tall and defended his right for him and a guest to see it on the "good" TV.  Dad slunk into the bedroom to watch a ballgame.  That's when MD told me, "Don't be fooled by blubber-boy, my dad made it briefly to the major leagues with the Red Sox."  I perked up, "Really?"  He said, "Yeah but he didn't get much of a chance...they called him Ted Williams caddie.  So don't mention his baseball days, he gets upset."

TED WILLIAMS (1918-2002) WAS NOT ONLY ONE BASEBALL'S BEST HITTERS (1939-1960) BUT HE WAS ALSO A WAR HERO.  HE LOST PRECIOUS PRIME YEARS OF HIS BASEBALL CAREER BY SERVING AS A PILOT IN BOTH WWII AND KOREA. SO BY PLAYING IN THE "SPLENDID SPLINTER'S" SHADOWS, MD's DAD COULDN'T POSSIBLY BEEN MORE THAN AN INSIGNIFICANT BLIP ON BASEBALL'S RADAR SCREEN. 

MD had no idea how impressed I was about his dad being a major leaguer .  He also didn't realize that I was a baseball history freak.Way before the Internet, I took great joy in leafing through the Baseball Encyclopedia.  When I researched MR. D., of course nobody with that last name ever played in the bigs, (please note, I once told SLW that my father was ten-year major leaguer, Jake Gibbs.  But I had the luxury of being eight-years old when I was a lying jerk).

Lies. Everyone in their own way is full of shit.  I know that to be true because I'm the most honest person I know...and I'm full of shit too!

MD had his faults but he was a nice guy. I couldn't help it, I liked him. I never had to depend on him for anything important, so rather than tear him down, it was enough for me to just concentrate on him being good company and funny.

MD seemed to have no other friends.  But he claimed to have a girlfriend at Brooklyn College...who conveniently always seemed to arrive after I left.  I just accepted this unseen lady friend as another one of his fantasies.

The next semester, (our last college hurrah) just for the sake of being together, we took a tennis course. We laughed our asses off everyday while playing and learning the complexities of the game. The two main targets of our humor was our fossilized, dried-up prune of a professor and a fellow student, a gentle man named John.

(STOCK PHOTO)  OUR TEACHER WAS OLDER. LESS VITAL AND FAR UGLIER THAN THE WOMAN (above).  THEREFORE, SHE MADE EXCELLENT FODDER FOR OUR SNIDE REMARKS.  

When the Phyllis Diller jokes about the instructor wore thin, we turned our humor on John. Unfortunately John wasn't especially nimble or athletic. He always looked awkward because his extra large head didn't match his body.  So we childishly called him variations of "Johnny Big Head" or "Embryo Head" or because his name was John, he was also dubbed, "Toilet Bowl Head."

COINCIDENTALLY ON BROOKLYN COLLEGE GRADUATION DAY, (JUNE 1977),  I OPTED TO PLAY TENNIS RATHER THAN SIT THROUGH THE CEREMONY.  ON MY WAY TO THE CAR, THE COMMENCEMENT EXERCISE WAS ENDING.  I SAW JOHNNY EMBRYO HEAD AND HE WAS KIND ENOUGH TO TAKE THIS TREASURED POLAROID (above) WITH ME WEARING HIS OVER-SIZED CAP. 

During our last week at Brooklyn College, when our tennis class was dismissed, MD's mysterious girlfriend showed up.  I felt bad that I doubted him. Her instinct was to hug her beau but she recoiled when she saw how sweaty he was.  While MD was gathering his possessions, I introduced myself.

She seemed stuck-up but I rattled off some of MD's better lines...that were aimed at our fossil of a professor and Toilet Bowl Head's expensive.  I finished with, "When the teacher bent over MD said, 'it was disturbing enough to see her lavender drawers but if she wasn't wearing panties, I would have burned my own eyes out.'" His girlfriend looked at me like I was garbage and said, "My MD talks like that?"

In the year and a half after graduation, MD and I saw less and less of each other.  We never had a disagreement, it was just a natural, going in different directions situation.  In January 1979, I moved to Las Vegas.  So I was surprised two years later when I got a phone call from him.

MD said he was living in McAllen Texas selling RV's, (I believed him, until he said he averaged thirteen hundred a week).  MD said he was meeting his parents in Vegas but didn't want to spend all four days with them.  When I offered to let him to stay on my couch...he told me when I should be at the airport to pick him up. His cocky attitude pissed me off long before I met his plane.

In retrospect, I don't think his parents were in town at all. Why he came, I don't know, but all he did was sponge off me.

Stupidly, I paid for all our meals.  The food was cheap and I fell into my own trap of trying to come off like a big shot."  In addition to rolling out the red carpet for him, I lent him my car while I was at work, (dealing craps at the Stardust Casino).

My car hemorrhaged oil. I left him with a full gas tank but reminded him that if the idiot light went on, to pull into a filling station and buy a can of oil. On his second night at 7:45PM, I was pulling up to the employee entrance to let myself out when I noticed the idiot light flicker. I didn't re-remind MD because it was obvious that he needed to invest a dollar and five minutes, in my car.

Dutiful MD was at the employee entrance at 4:00AM.  I invited him to go out for a drink with the guys from my crew, (Don, Art and Jerry).  On the way to Boodles, a bar in Don's neighborhood, on the edge of town, way out on West Sahara, I saw the check engine light was a solid red beam.  I said, "Why didn't you put oil in my car?"  He had the audacity to say, "I didn't know you wanted me to?" What a cheap prick.  To avert seizing my engine, I pulled into a Union 76 station, to demonstrate the ease of preventing the potential catastrophe.

Boodles had a fair-sized crowd for that time of night.  Their relaxing atmosphere included; country music on the jukebox,  pool tables, dart boards and shuffleboard.

MY CREW AND I PLAYED BAR SHUFFLEBOARD.  ALL FOUR OF US HAD A PILE OF MONEY ON THE BAR AS WE EACH PAID FOR A ROUND OF DRINKS, (MD's TOO).

MD neither played shuffleboard nor socialized with my friends.  I gave him the benefit of the doubt because it was going on five in the morning. While playing, I lost track of MD until I looked over and saw him take a couple of dollars off Jerry's pile, to buy himself a beer.  In that second, I realized that Mr. RV Sales King of McAllen Texas hadn't offered to pay for anything, in his two days with me.

During the ride home, I was trying to think of a diplomatic way to rid myself of this bullshitting freeloader.  That's when he surprised me and said, "You gotta drive me to the airport at 7:30."  I said, "What?" He said, "My boss called and there's a cherry of a deal on the table back home.  But I have to be there to do it." I knew he was full of shit.  Nobody called him while he was at my place. I didn't care why he was leaving so I shrugged, "Okay"  Then I added,. "But I'm not taking you to the airport in an hour and a half.  When I get home, I 'll call you a cab and have them pick you up.  I'm sleeping past noon."

At exactly 7:30AM, there was pounding on my front door.  I looked down from the bedroom window and saw the cab driver.  I called out to him, "I'll be right there."  Downstairs, I saw MD in his tightie-whities cowering with his ear against the front door.  I was still rubbing my eyes and trying to get the cobwebs out of my head.  But it was clear that this lying, cheap-ass weasel was hoping the driver would get frustrated and leave. I yawned, "Your taxi is here to take you to the airport."  MD said, "I thought you were taking me?"  I said, "You better hurry."  I opened the door and asked the driver, "How long does he have before you charge extra?"  MD didn't like his answer.  Like a machine, my little sociopath began stuffing his shit into an old valise. I said, "MD, you can't bullshit a bullshitter."  My only regret was not being at the airport when it was time to pay.  I would have loved to have witnessed the moth fly out of MD's wallet.

While he hustled to pack, I never asked MD for an explanation...and he never offered me one.  But "RIPLEY'S BELIEVE IT OR NOT," would have been impressed, MD was out of my condo and permanently out of my life in five minutes.

Everybody has their own agenda.  Usually embellishment or fibbing is a harmless way people deal with being insecure.  MD was different, he was the Rembrandt of bullshit artists.  If I'm any judge of character, I got the last laugh because I can imagine MD telling people; when I go to Vegas, I stay at the mansion of a professional gambler and hang out with Hugh Hefner's throwaways.

FIFTY SHADES OF GRAY...HAIR

Unlike anchorman (former anchorman?) Brian Williams, I am permitted to inject exaggerations into my blogs for the sake of entertainment. 

THE WAY THINGS ARE GOING, BRIAN WILLIAMS MIGHT REPORT THAT HE WAS SITTING BETWEEN THE KENNEDYS IN DEALEY PLAZA (above), OR ON THE MOON WITH NEIL ARMSTRONG OR RIDING SHOTGUN FOR O.J. IN THE SLOW SPEED CHASE OR THAT HE'S NOW NEW JERSEY'S FIRST POPE.

I base many of my articles on the truth, but the reality is, I am NOT reporting the news.  So I take full advantage of that flexibility to use an estimated 15% embellishment factor, to further insure that my material is interesting. However, this statement is NOT a disclaimer.  It is a reminder that the story below is barely sensationalized and  99% true.

                                                                       *

Today is Friday the thirteenth.  This morning in South Jersey, the temperature is twelve degrees and the wind chill factor is negative one.  So with that double-whammy of bad luck and Arctic weather in mind, I hereby take on the responsibility to warm the cockles of your heart...and hopefully steam up your glasses...with some good old fashion smut.

For this week's MGTP entry, I was playing around with the idea of a movie theme because the Oscars are around the corner...plus tomorrow is Valentine's Day.  I was still struggling for the definitive way to combine the two when a radio talk show got on the topic of, "FIFTY SHADES OF GREY."

THE "FIFTY SHADES OF GREY," MOVIE IS BASED ON THE BEST SELLING EROTIC ROMANCE TRILOGY BY NOVELIST, E. L. JAMES.  COMPLETE WITH SCENES OF BONDAGE/DISCIPLINE AND SADOMASOCHISM, THE HYPE FOR THIS FILM'S OPENING TONIGHT, ( THE EVE OF VALENTINE'S DAY),  IS ENORMOUS.

The radio show host caught my attention by quoting an item in the newspaper.  The piece suggested that in preparation for the strong possibility of the audience engaging in their own sex acts while watching, "FIFTY SHADES OF GREY," that many theater owners were covering their seats with protective plastic. I can't imagine that being true but as a clever marketing gimmick, it's genius.

Whether or not you see, "FIFTY SHADES OF GREY," or not, is secondary.  What is important is, I have a Valentine's Day story about someone whose sexual exploits are really worthy of a movie...and it's NOT a fantasy.

I was twenty-four when I got hired  to deal craps in Las Vegas' Stardust Casino.

(stock photo from 1959)  DEALERS AT THE STARDUST (1958-2006), HAD THE STATUS AND PRESTIGE OF BEING N THE MAJOR LEAGUES...ON A LOW-ECHELON TEAM.  I NEVER LOST SIGHT OF MY UTTER GOOD FORTUNE TO HAVE WORKED THERE. AND...THE COMPANY HAD THE PLEASURE OF MY SERVICE FROM 1980-1982.

Considering my youth and lack of connections, it was a minor miracle that I got such a great job..  At first, I was overwhelmed by the veteran presence there, (that's a nice way of saying, I dealt with a bunch of old men...almost everyone was at least in their forties).

Casino personnel, primarily craps dealers, are weary of newcomers.  The Stardust was no exception. So I had to prove my meddle before I gained acceptance.  I was still in this feeling-out period when one man stepped forward and made me feel at home. His name was Robert E. Lee, (he wasn't related to the Confederate general but was named after him).

Lee was (and still is) the most universally loved craps dealer I ever met.  He was so nice to the players (and everyone else) that he was nicknamed Courtesy Bob.

IF THERE WAS AN AWARD FOR "WORLD'S MOST BELOVED CRAPS DEALER," COURTESY BOB WOULD WIN.  HE WAS SO INTERESTING THAT HE APPEARS IN MORE OF MY BLOGS AND VEGAS SHORT STORIES THAN ANYONE ELSE.  IF I WAS SMART, I'D WRITE A SERIES OF SCREENPLAYS ABOUT HIM...AND I'D WIN A TROPHY CASE FULL OF OSCARS.  

A couple of weeks after I started at the Stardust, management changed the four-man crap dealer teams. Bob would become one of my new crew mates. Prior to our first shift, Bob's magnetic personality poured out as he introduced himself.  In his heavy southern drawl, (with key points punctuated with his ancestral Scottish accent), he was charming, cordial, funny and enthusiastic as he welcomed me.

Bob Lee (to me) was an old man. So I was surprised he was only forty-eight. His sagging, leathery face was dominated by deep, thick wrinkles.  He dyed his short-cropped Afro chestnut brown, but the kinky hair around his temples were left, fifty shades of gray.

Oddly, our first conversation had nothing to do with shop-talk.  To Bob, I was just a kid.  So he thought I could relate better to his son Louis. Later, it turned out that he didn't know much about his son.  So it was natural that he wanted my prospective in suggesting gifts for Louis' all-important, sixteenth birthday.  Little did I know that this seemingly innocent chat would be a prelude to a man obsessed with sex.

Once I got to know Bob, I found out that he was an incredible babe-hound.  In addition to his age, Bob did not possess the physical traits associated with a a ladies man.  He was five-seven, scrawny and not especially good-looking.  It sounds like a fairy tale but Bob's genuine niceness must have given off a scent that women couldn't resist.  I witnessed this and was amazed. Then when you add on a confident demeanor that was more friendly than a predatory swagger, he picked-up customers at work regularly.

Bob did not discriminate due to age, looks or ethnic groups.  When there was more than one girl, he had a pecking order of horny supervisors that gladly volunteered to act as his wing man.  Sometimes these men were afraid of getting stuck with an inferior choice and Bob as if insulted would say, "Hey, the ugly one's mine."

To prove he had a Svengali-like hold on women Bob would seal the deal by saying, "Be back at four o'clock.  And between then and now, make sure you take a shower and brush your teeth."  If I didn't see these ladies coming back after our shift and saying something about showering and brushing their teeth, I'd never believe it.  That catchphrase earned him another nickname, "Be-Back-Bob."  He even bought "B-BACK," vanity license plates   In an industry with countless skirt-chasers, NOBODY in my thirty-six years of casino experience compared to him.

Bob had a lot of practice.  Hardly a night would go by that something sexual didn't happen to him.  If it didn't, he talked about it.  Our first conversation about his son's birthday gift was in reality, him feeling me out about...hiring a prostitute to de-flower his son.

That same night an average-looking woman with an exposed cleavage stopped at our game and said to Bob, "Will the south rise again?"  He was sincere as he said, "Not tonight honey, definitely next time."  I still had no idea how vast his erotica empire was when I said, "What was that all about?" He said, "It's our code. You know that movie, 'MARATHON MAN,' it's about me. She 's a librarian in Phoenix and comes around when she's looking for some action.  She uses the code because it means, I won't take long before the 'south' rises again and again and again."

Bob went on to explain his code system of getting paged over the public address system by various girlfriends. That way, while he's at work, to reduce the chance of a scheduling conflict, he could identify the caller and be prepared to accept or reject the offer.

A short time later, the PBX operator announced, "Telephone call for Mr. Million, Mr. Duane Million telephone."  Bob smiled, "Duane Million, that's my West Covina girl calling."  I said, "Really?"  He said, "I'll call her on my next break.  If she leaves around eleven, she'll be here at four."  He saw I was confused and added, "If you hear a page for Matt Lapper, that's my San Bernadino lady...but I'd have to drive out to Victorville for some of that...but it's always worth it."  I was nodding as Bob continued, "When you hear Dick Marathon, that's my nurse here in town...and I don't have to tell you the true value of a good enema..."

We were interrupted by the busyness of our craps game but Bob managed to add, "If you hear Phil Dole get paged that don't count...it's my wife."

Bob and I took on a mentor/protege relationship.  In addition to teaching me the fine art of buttering up craps players to solicit tips from them, he also taught me about the stock market, real estate, gardening, health foods, travel and so much more.

On one of my breaks, I bragged how great Bob was. A bible thumping dealer disagreed and said some derogatory things about Bob. I defended my friend.  The man politely said, "Go ask your buddy how he lost his virginity.  Trust me, he'll tell you.  Then we'll see how much you admire him."

Later I got Bob on the subject of this son 'losing his cherry" with a prostitute.  Bob bragged, "Do you know Dennis the bell captain?"  I shrugged.  He said, "'Good ol' Den can get you anything, any time...for a price.  He hooked me up with a whore that's perfect for what I need. Her name is Candee Cotton.  Geez, the names they come with.  Let's face it, where's the fantasy if her went by Margaret Waslewsky.  Candee is twenty-two and fits the bill because looks fifteen.  For two-fifty, I arranged it that my kid is gonna think she's a daughter of one of our high-rollers. He'll take her out on the town in taxis, have a bite, go to the movies and whatever the hell kids do these days.  After, she'll take him up to her room at the Dunes.  Nature will take it's course.  She'll be gentle and he'll think he just got lucky."

In addition to all his quirkiness, Bob was also extremely cheap.  So after going on and on how cute, sweet and innocent Ms. Cotton could be he added, "But if the little bastard gets scared off or can't get it up, there's no refunds and I'm stuck two-hundred and fifty bucks."

Bob's candor made it easy for me to transition into asking, "How did you lose your virginity?"  Bob's smiling face lit up like a Christmas tree as he said, "Anna, my sister."  My jaw dropped as without hesitation he detailed how his sixteen year-old sister (Bob was thirteen), extorted him into having sex with her, (my short story "A TALE OF THREE CITIES," deeply describes those circumstances).

It was difficult to comprehend whether Bob was boasting or just reporting the news as he went on, "We did it every other Saturday night, for three years."  With a sly grin he added, "I pretended hating it...but I loved it."  Apparently, Anna was mentally skewed.  Perhaps a psychologist could trace assaulting her brother back to loneliness and perceiving herself to be big, awkward, unattractive and socially inept.

I believed Bob.  I believed everything perverted thing he ever said.  In the 1970's, way before "Fifty Shades of Grey," Bob realized that women are conditioned to protect their virtue and reputation. But in a foreign environment...like Vegas even the most conservative women can let their hair down.   When you consider the current tagline used by the Las Vegas, Better Business Bureau (BBB), "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas," I'm confident my Robert E. Lee was a genius and way ahead of his time. Of course, the "Fifty Shades," movie depicts the extreme of letting yourself go.

THE PHRASE IMPLIES, "IT HAPPENED.  IT ONLY HAPPENED THERE. AND IT HAPPENED FAR ENOUGH AWAY TO NEVER HAVE A NEGATIVE EFFECT ON THE HERE AND NOW."

On the night of the 1981 Super Bowl, my crew did well in tips.  We were walking out when Bob asked us for fifteen dollars each.  One of the other dealers asked, "Why? You at least a buck and a half in your pocket. "  Bob avoided the question and said, "It's for a good cause." The dealer said, "You gotta do better than that, I ain't givin' up squat without a reason." Bob blithered all kinds of nonsense and repeatedly said, "Trust me." Bob was notorious for being cheap.  If he asked you to loan him money, he paid the next day.  But if you asked him for money, he wouldn't give you a dime.  Unless you really begged...then he'd do it but ask for collateral...like your watch.

We knew Bob wasn't a sports fan so he didn't need the cash to cover a losing a Super Bowl debt.  So we stood at an impasse outside the time office until Bob gave in, "Look you cheap bastards.  When you work with me, you get fringe benefits.  I'm connected with Dennis the bell captain, so I get inside information. In two weeks, Mr. C., one of my best players is coming in for Valentine's Day.  For sixty measly bucks, Dennis will go into their suite and have a box of his stinky-ass stogies and a dozen roses for his wife on the bed when they walk in.  PLUS, a note from me, inviting them to our craps table.  So the fifteen bucks that your so afraid of investing with me, is just about guaranteed to return a hundred...EVEN ON A BAD NIGHT!"

We paid up.  Then as we went our separate ways Bob called,back to us, "My West Covina girl is waiting for me...and she loves anal."

Two hours into our Valentine's Day shift, the much ballyhooed Mr. C. was yet to make his grand entrance. It was unlike Bob to be nervous but he "casino-gazed" every chance he got in the hope of spotting his target. That's when I saw a well-dressed couple both around fifty rush towards Bob. The stocky gangster-like man was Mr. C.  He crowed, "Big Bob-A-Lou, how are you?"  Mr. C. paused for a second, blew a huge plume of nauseating cigar smoke across the table and whispered to Bob, "Thanks for the heaters, how'd you remember I only smoke Berings."

Ever so cocksure Bob broadcast, "The best deserves the best...and you got me.  Now, who's this vision of loveliness?" I was expecting it to be Mr. C's wife but he said, "Oh, this Therese, my mother-in-law."  Therese said, "My daughter, wherever the hell she is, liked the flowers."

I DON'T KNOW ONE CIGAR FROM ANOTHER.  TO ME, THEY ALL STINK!  MR. C. WOUND-UP CHAIN-SMOKING THAT CAUSTIC CRAP ALL NIGHT.  MANY TIMES, I THOUGHT I WAS GOING TO LOSE MY LUNCH. BUT HE WAS AN INCREDIBLE TIPPER, SO I HAD TO LITERATELY AND FIGURATIVELY...SUCK IT UP.

Mr. C. and Therese swilled scotch and stayed on our game for four hours. He regularly gave us ten-dollar tips (sometimes more) and she gave us fives. At 2:00AM, a drunken Mrs. C., decadently dragging a narrow gray fur behind her, finally arrived.  Around thirty years-old, this plainly pretty, petite brunette was carrying a pair of black stiletto heels.  She was wearing a bright red silk blouse, a tight black skirt hemmed above her knees and black hose.  To accent her outfit, a gold fleur-de-lis stickpin adorned the lapel of her matching black jacket.

In loud whispers, Therese and Mrs. C. started bickering.  Suddenly Therese announced, "It's late, I'm taking Francine upstairs."  Mr. C. remained generous until we were ready to go home. He tipped us his last twenty-two dollars in small chips and tossed in a fifty-dollar bill."  We made $345.00 a man that night (mostly from Mr. C. and Therese).

Outside the employee entrance Bob crowed, "It's a good thing I'm not an I told you so kind of guy...but the next time I tell you to bet fifteen dollars on a sure thing, you shouldn't think twice."

Bob called out sick the next night.  An Asian kid on his first night took his place. We didn't do well until Mr. C. showed up at 1:00AM.  He asked, "Is Bobby on break?"  Our supervisor said, "No, he called out."  Mr. C. lit the nub of his cigar and said, "We're flying back to Chicago tomorrow, be sure to tell him Tom Cabroni came by to thank him again for everything."

Mr. C. then shrugged, "What the hell," and bought in for there-hundred dollars. We didn't do as well this time but Mr. C. still made our night.  While playing and chugging double Johnny Walker Black he told me, "We ate at Caesar's Bacchanal Room and saw Rodney Dangerfield.  After, the girls started playing slots, I got bored, left them there and came here."

IN JANUARY 1981, MY WIFE SUE AND I TOOK MY PARENTS TO THE BACCHANAL ROOM.  IT WAS AN 8-COURSE, WINE-FILLED GOURMET MEAL REMINISCENT OF A ROMAN ORGY.  THE  ORIGINAL 1966 "GODDESSES" (above) WERE THE SERVERS .  OUR GORGEOUS WAITRESSES WERE CLAD IN SKIMPY TOGAS.  I PRIVATELY TIPPED ONE OF THEM AND SHE MASSAGED MY DAD'S SHOULDERS...MIGHT HAVE BEEN THE BEST IDEA I EVER HAD.  SADLY, DUE TO SOARING COSTS, THAT OPULENT DINING EXPERIENCE IS NOW GONE.  FAR WORSE, IT WAS REPLACED BY THE "BACCHANAL BUFFET"...CHECK YOUR ADVERTISEMENT FLIERS FOR FRIGGIN' COUPONS.

Two weeks after Valentine's Day, Bob came by my condo.  It was the first time I saw his mint condition 1963, split window coupe Corvette...with the "B-BACK," vanity tags.  He said, "Don't look at this baby as a car...it's an investment."  I said, "Looks more like mental masturbation to me."  He laughed, "Hey, I'm gonna use that line."

Inside I said, "How did you explain the B-BACK plates to your wife?"  "Easy, I told her that's what I say to my favorite players."  He nudged his elbow into my ribs and grinned, "She doesn't have to know all my favorites are female."

In my backyard, I showed him the vegetables I grew under his tutelage. He grabbed one of my long zucchinis, toyed with it and made a crude  dido joke.   I interrupted, "How did it go with Candee Cotton?"  He said, "Forget about that.  Check this out!"  He took a wallet-sized photo from his billfold.  I got a quick glimpse and thought it was a woman in a bikini.  Bob carefully placed his thumb over the face, showed me the picture and gushed, "What do you think?"  I said, "She's okay..."  "OKAY! " he squawked. "What are you, fucking blind?"

I took a second look at the spread-eagled woman posed with her hands clasped above her head. I focused on the frilly, black satin, crotch-less panties and matching brassiere with cut-outs at the nipples. I sighed, "It's just a picture.  You could've clipped it from a magazine. Without the face, it's meaningless."  Bob warned me, "Swear you won't tell anyone." I was nodding as he exposed the familiar face.  It was Francine Cabroni, Mr. C's wife.

Bob said, "I call out once a year for her and she bankrolls everything.  This time after we got wasted, she wanted to see pornos.  The first flick was called, "DOUBLE PENETRATION NATION."  I had to stop him because he was telling me highlights of the movie.

He got back on topic and said, "When her Quaalude hit home, she was all over me.  I had to fight her off till we got to the Crest Motel."  He strayed again from his story to brag how Dennis the bell captain gets him a cut-rate at that dump. Bob said, "Frannie is a minx.  She's one of the few who can keep up with me.  Man, she does it all!"

THE CREST STILL OPERATES UNDER A DIFFERENT NAME IN DOWNTOWN VEGAS.  THIRTY YEARS AGO, THE MOTEL CATERED TO BUDGET-MINDED DAY-TRIPPERS FROM CALIFORNIA AND GUYS LIKE BOB WHO PAID A HOURLY RATE.

I said, "Wow."  Bob said, "You think that's great? After, I phoned a taxi for her. When it came, I lifted up her skirt, slapped her bare ass and called her, "A dirty two-bit tramp."  She loved it and the cabbie got a rise out of it too. My pay-off is, I keep what's left of the three-hundred she fronted."  While I struggled to add up all the information he added,  "It beats going to work...plus, I still have her pantyhose."

I didn't want him to think I was impressed so I said, "You were going to tell me about Louis' birthday with Candee Cotton."  He said, "Ah, it was nothing."  I said, "C'mon, its been killing me.  What happened?"  Bob sighed, "An hour before he was going to leave, I was jumpy, breaking his balls on what to wear, how to act and other shit.  I guess he figured out whats what.  Louis said, 'You know I have girlfriend?  We do 'it' all the time."

I said, "You must've been shocked. So what happened?"  Bob said, "So I ask him, in that case Louis, what do you want for your birthday?"  My kid said, "A bike."  The ever-thrifty Bob said, "A bike! Sure, you can have any bike you want."  Louis smiled. Bob realized how devious a person he was and feared his son might be just like him.  Bob continued, "You can have any bike that is...without a motor."

I said, "Well at least you got out of that one cheaply after losing your $250.00 with Candee Cotton." Bob said, "Hell I didn't lose shit. I made Candee Cotton my early birthday present...I went in his place...and I got my three hours worth...and then some!"

I shook my head, "You are amazing, you always come out on top."

Bob furrowed his brow and blasted, "WRONG!  I should have known that little prick was flimflamming me.  How was I supposed to know Louis is a competitive cyclist?  He picked out a seventeen-hundred and eighty-nine dollar bike!"  And could you believe it...for that kind of money...it had no motor."

                                                 
                                                                  *


For a long time, after I left the Stardust, I kicked myself for not keeping in contact with Bob.  He was flipped housing before that term was invented and had his hand on the pulse of every money earning trick in the book.

About five years ago, my wife Sue name-dropped Courtesy Bob, to a former Stardust coworker of his. This man said, "Bob and I closed the place back in 2006.  He was seventy-five years old and still dealing dice."  That probably means Robert E. Lee never struck it rich. Too bad, I pictured Bob retired, on his own private Pacific island and getting pampered and sexually pleasured by native girls. Now with that picture in my mind ruined, I'll have to photo-shop Bob out...and replace it Brian Williams.

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.