IT'S DISTURBING TO KNOW THAT THERE ARE PEOPLE OUT THERE LIKE THAT

I got a sudden impulse to pound my fist through my friend's glass top coffee table. I never had such a crazy thought in my life but with a stupid Jackie Chan movie on TV and my host asleep at 8:45PM, I felt like a trapped rat.

This happened in the late 1990's, at  KD's house.  He had come home a day early from his vacation and needed to vent.  When I got there, this mind-bending excuse of a movie was on as he ordered a Domino's pizza. We weren't seated long as the enthusiasm to share his negative experiences faded and were replaced by heavy-duty yawning.

KD had reminded me that he had flown back from Venezuela a day early (the day before), due to circumstances beyond his control.  During his explanation, he repeatedly told me that he was on zero sleep. So I was neither shocked nor insulted that the poor boy nodded off on me.

I decided to let him sleep because the pizza would be there in about twenty minutes.

DOMINO'S SINCE 1960, HAS BECOME THE WORLDWIDE PIZZA DELIVERY KING.  IT'S 10,000+ LOCATIONS IN 70 COUNTRIES, EMPLOYS OVER 220,000, (AS OF DECEMBER 2013).  THEY USED TO PROMISE FREE FOOD IF THE DELIVERY WASN'T ACCOMPLISHED IN THIRTY MINUTES OR LESS. BUT THAT UNREASONABLE GUARANTEE CAUSED DRIVERS SPEED, RUN RED LIGHTS AND CAUSE ACCIDENTS.

To ease the problem of being alone with a movie that was such an assault on my sensitivities, I closed my eyes.

JACKIE CHAN (1954-PRESENT) IS A HONG KONG-BORN ACTOR.  ALTHOUGH HIS FILMS ARE NOT MY CUP OF "TEA," HIS ACROBATIC STYLE OF MARITAL ARTS AND COMIC TIMING HAVE MADE HIM WORTHY OF A STAR ON HOLLYWOOD'S, "WALK OF FAME." 

My predicament didn't change when I opened my eyes, (it felt like an eternity but only ninety seconds had passed).  That's when I thought about abandoning my buddy...but I couldn't do that.  So out of frustration the idea of smashing the table came to mind.

Luckily, Domino's came a little early.  Through terribly blood-shot eyes,  KD had renewed vigor as he told me about his mini-vacation to South America.  The plan was to go down with his wife (G), meet her family, stay for four days of sightseeing and come home alone while she stayed a month.

While he was chomping away, I picked friggin' anchovies off my dinner as KD started the story about their day-trip into the Venezuelan frontier. I was imagining KD slashing a machete through the jungle, defending G from a tiger, swimming in an Eden-like lagoon with a waterfall in the background and the two of them making love on a mountaintop.  Instead KD said, "That road trip was the start of a rough couple of days...AND...it might be the beginning of the end of our marriage."

I was thinking that a poisonous snake bit G while blazing that trail to Utopia.  I said, "What happened?"  He said, "Ever have an AK-47 pointed at your head?"  I said, "No."  He said, "How about five of them?"

KD described G's country as an "emerging" third world nation.  That was his way of protecting her culture while also declaring the conditions there, as backward.  He said, "Nonsense like pollution and regular power outages (in normal weather), can be overlooked but the lack of freedom especially due to a suffocating military presence, is intimidating. Even outside the Caracas, there are checkpoints at the border of each province.  It felt like stepping back to the Stone Age.  Just picture an 'armed' tollbooth every time you went into a different state."

They drove two hours for a supposed fun-in-the sun outing.  But the drive was dominated by petty bickering centering around G's newly found home-sickness. In the middle of nowhere, a short distance from their lakeside picnic destination, they turned onto a smaller roadway.  Soon, the "happy" couple approached the only checkpoint that they would encounter. G stated to KD , "Just hand over our credentials without speaking.  Don't even look directly at the sentinel". Due to their arguing, KD defied G's suggestion. He greeted the border guard with a big smile and said in pigeon-Spanish, "How you guys doing today?"

In an instant, the grim-faced sentry pointed his weapon at KD's temple.  KD told me, "Way before four other officers surrounded the car, I really thought I was going to crap my pants!" At gun point they were forced into the only building in the wilderness.

KD said, "An hour later, we were released.  But in that time, we were separated.  I had no idea where they took G.  But with two AK-47's aimed at me, I couldn't protect her from the ugliness I was imagining. All I could do was pray.  My prayers were answered when a sergeant led her down the hall with two rifles at her back."

G huffed, "Our fine is a hundred..."  The sergeant roared in perfect English, "That's one hundred American dollars...in cash...EACH!"  KD told me, "We were a few dollars short even after G emptied her purse including all her Venezuelan currency. They demanded her wedding but she didn't want to give it up.  I wanted to step in and protect the symbol of our love but I was picturing the movie, "MIDNIGHT EXPRESS." I didn't want to wind up in a foreign jail.  I had to negotiate fast. Luckily, the greedy prick settled for my scuba diver watch."

"MIDNIGHT EXPRESS" (1978) WAS A FACT-BASED DRAMA ABOUT DRUG SMUGGLER BILLY HAYES' HARROWING EXPERIENCE IN A TURKISH PRISON.

Back at the car, KD and G realized that it had been ransacked. The nicely packed lunch was missing as well as her designer sunglasses and a small sack of local coins. Without a fuss or consulting his better half, KD made the K-Turn of valor and the penniless pair returned to the city.

During their mostly quiet return to civilization G said, "I have some deep thinking to do.  I want to stay in Caracas till August, (an additional five months).  KD said to me, "She had just defended the sanctity of our marriage and now she's prolonging our separation?  What was she expecting me to do, go postal and kick all those border guard asses?"

I didn't know what to say.  He paused waiting for my answer until he broke the silence, "It's disturbing to know that there are people out there like that."  I said, "Yeah, but like you said, those weasels are trying to survive in a backward country..."  He interrupted, "Not them, I was talking about my wife."

KD was angry with G.  He paid an exorbitant surcharge to switch his flight back to New Jersey for that afternoon. He got no sleep and was physically and mentally exhausted when the plane landed at Newark Airport.

To save money on parking, KD left his jeep in the Bronx, at his seventy-six year old cousin's house, (the only full-blooded Hispanic in the world named Neil). KD was expecting the Latino side of his family to give him a big reception when they delivered his vehicle. Instead, when he entered the terminal, he found nobody. KD was afraid that his sudden change of plans was garbled in the translation.  Until he spotted an elderly stranger with thick glasses, holding small cardboard sign with his last name scribbled on it.

The old man, reeking of cheap liquor introduced himself as Tulio.  In broken English, he informed KD that Primo Neil had died...and that the funeral was the next day.  "My unexpected ride back to the Bronx in Tulio's beat-up '69 Chevy Caprice was scarier than having automatic weapons aimed at my head. That viejo (old-timer) had no depth perception.  It was getting worse and worse. By the time we were on the Major Deegan Expressway, half the car riding the shoulder.  He was so close to hitting the cement retaining wall as he kicked up dust, drove over broken glass, plowed through trash, hit potholes and never slowed down.  I made a comment about his driving but he just laughed and started blithering in Spanish.  The genius wasn't even watching the road when he whipped out a pint of cheap rum, took a couple of swigs and offered me some."

THE ONLY LETTERING KD  MADE-OUT FROM THE OFF-BRAND BOTTLE WAS THE WORD, "RUM."

I said to KD, "That sucks."  He said, "Yeah, it sucks big time.  With guys like that out there, we risk our life every time we leave our house."

"The next morning there was a lot of commotion in the house, I hardly slept. I told my family how tired I was...and tried to cut-out after the funeral. But everyone was so sad, I didn't have the heart to say I wasn't staying for the big dinner. They made sure I was stuffed on pork, rice and flan."

FLAN IS A TYPICALLY ROUND DESSERT CONTAINING A SWEET OR SAVORY CUSTARD FILLING. IT'S ORIGIN DATES BACK TO ANCIENT ROME BUT TODAY IS MOST POPULAR WITH HISPANICS.

KD said, "I didn't make it back into Jersey until after one in the morning. I was okay to drive even though I had a lot of beer.  So to avoid falling asleep at the wheel, I pulled into the Vince Lombardi rest stop" (on the New Jersey Turnpike, milepost 116E, near Ridgefield).

THE TURNPIKE HAS TWELVE REST STOPS.  THEY ALL HAVE BEEN NAMED AFTER PROMINENT INDIVIDUALS WHO HAVE LIVED OR WORKED IN NEW JERSEY, LIKE THOMAS EDISON, CLARA BARTON, ALEXANDER HAMILTON AND LOMBARDI.

KD said, "On my way out after buying a super-sized coffee, I decided to play it safe for the long drive and went to pee.  At the urinal, I placed my giant coffee on the flat surface above the flushing mechanism.  While doing my business, my big dinner decided it was time to evacuate."

He stopped in mid-thought and said, "You know what happened next, right?"  I shrugged. He continued, "Well unbeknownst to me, the Vince Lombardi service area was famous, or should I say infamous, for what was later described to me as, a meeting place for non-homosexual, male-to-male sex."  I said, "Heh?"  He said, "Apparently, straight men who aren't satisfied with the sexual end of their marriage but couldn't afford hookers or the paper trail that might cause a scandal, have liaisons in department store men's rooms or other public places...like a rest stop.  It's an I do you, you do me and we go home to our normal lives situation."

I said, "So what does that have to do with you?"  KD said, "So I go to take a dump.  I'm sitting for a few seconds and someone knocks on the door.  I say, 'Taken.'  The guy whispered, "I'll meet you out front."  I said to KD, "This is bizarre."  KD shrugged, "I don't know what's going on.  So I call out, you have me confused with someone else." 'The guy said in a loud whisper, 'Shush!' Then more quietly, 'Then why did you put your coffee in the spot?' So I called out, Just get the fuck out of here!"

KD didn't appreciate my smirk and said, "My ass tightened up like a drum.  I didn't wait.  I got up, grasped my car keys in my fist and was ready to go full-on Jackie Chan if anyone got in my way."  I said, "Jeez."  He said, "I told you it's disturbing to think who's out there."

VINCE LOMBARDI (1913-1970),  LED THE NFL's GREEN BAY PACKERS TO FIVE WORLD CHAMPIONSHIPS. HE WAS SUCH A RESPECTED HEAD COACH THAT THE SUPER BOWL TROPHY BEARS HIS NAME.  WHEN THE LOMBARDI FAMILY FOUND OUT WHAT THE REST STOP HAD BECOME FAMOUS FOR, THEY THREATENED TO REMOVE THE GREAT NAME OF LOMBARDI IF THE TURNPIKE AUTHORITY DIDN'T CLEAN-UP THEIR ACT.

On the way home, KD passed other rest stops.  He fought the need to use the bathroom, his sleep deprivation and raced onto the Garden State Parkway and finally two hours later, onto the Atlantic City Expressway.  At a little after 3:30AM, KD thought he had clear sailing as approached the lonely, unmanned tollbooth near his neighborhood.  He tossed the exact change into the toll machine. But didn't hear the familiar jiggling clickity clang of the coins getting processed.  The green light to proceed remained red, so he needed Plan-B.

KD thought about driving through but was afraid his shitty day would worsen if his action was misinterpreted by an unseen policeman.  He shut the car radio, listened closely and tossed in an extra quarter.  He heard the tiniest clink.  KD got out of his car and looked in the coin hopper.  There was a ton of change sitting on top of a plastic bag that a dry cleaner would cover his finished work in. To unclog the hole, KD picked out the bag and allowed the coins to flood the hopper. Suddenly, a guy (holding something shiny, like a knife) exploded out of the woods and ranted, 'That's my money MF'er!'"

WHAT A CASH COW!  THIS SIMPLE TOLLBOOTH SCAM CLOGS THE MONEY HOLE.  WHEN NOBODY IS AROUND, YOU COLLECT YOUR ILL-GOTTEN GAINS.

KD jumped in his car.  He was so tired and backed-up that under other circumstances he would have gone home. But he didn't like having some deranged asshole coming after him with a knife. So without a cell-phone, he had to find an all-night convenience store to call 911. KD told his story to the operator and finished with, "It's disturbing to know that there are people out there like that."

Safe at home, KD did his business and settled into bed at 4:00AM.  I said, "That's unbelievable, we should have gone out for drinks."  He said, "Wait, there's more."  KD described how he tossed and turned for a while until he fell asleep.  He added, "Then, forty minutes later I'm startled awake! Outside my bedroom window, there's a wild argument going on."  I said, "That moron Timmy?"  He said, "Yeah."

His Neanderthal next door neighbor used to work with us.  He never got fired for gross incompetence, sleeping, farting or belching on the job or abusing the attendance system.  He was fired for threatening a customer over a parking spot in the garage.  KD said, "This was a road rage situation and this poor unfortunate bastard followed Timmy home. The goon lures this sucker to the back of his car.  Timmy pops the trunk and beats this naive idiot senseless with a hockey stick.  Blood is all over the place as the victim scrambles back to his car.  Timmy was yelling profanity long after that schmuck turned off our street.  I know I should have called the cops, but I collapsed back in bed."

"At six, I was awakened by Timmy yelling again.  Except it was police and the victim, he was screaming at.  Timmy was handcuffed and put in the back of the police cruiser. By that time it was light outside, I could fall back asleep. I might've dozed off a couple of times this afternoon but basically, I'm on no sleep."

I said, "You're right.  It's disturbing enough to know that there are people like that out there...and far worse to live next door to one."  KD groaned, "No, it's far worse to share a bed with one."

ROAD RAGE, NO PROBLEM WHEN YOU'RE SURROUNDED BY SEVEN FRIENDS...

THIS PAST WEEK, MY WIFE GOT TOGETHER WITH SOME HIGH SCHOOL GIRLFRIENDS, AT ANGELINA’S ITALIAN RESTAURANT, IN LYNBROOK LONG ISLAND. I’M HAPPY TO REPORT THAT THE ONLY THING BETTER THAN THE FOOD WAS THE COMPANY. 

ANGELINA'S SHOULD GIVE THEM SELF MORE CREDIT.  THEY CALL IT A PIZZERIA/RESTAURANT BUT EVERYONE IN OUR PARTY OF TWENTY LOVED THE FOOD AND NOBODY ORDERED PIZZA.


THREE YEARS AGO, WE DID THE SAME THING. BUT AFTERWARDS, I WAS DISAPPOINTED IN MYSELF FOR NOT EXTENDING THE INVITATION TO TWO OF MY FRIENDS WHO ALSO SHARED A CONNECTION WITH THAT GROUP.

THIS TIME I DIDN’T FAIL AND THE *TWIN BROTHERS ERIC (TICKLEMEERIC…TIC) AND ERNIE (THEIMPORTANCEOFBEINGEARNEST IMP) AND HIS WIFE ATTENDED.

* THE E AND E BROTHERS WERE THE STARS OF MY JANUARY 11, 2010 BLOG, “HUT TO PEEN AND SMOOTH SAILING.” THE STORY HAS TO DO WITH THEIR CHANCE MEETING WITH CAPTAIN JACK McCARTHY. TO FIND THAT ARTICLE,  GO TO MY MGTP HOME PAGE.  ON THE RIGHT HAND SIDE IS THE ARCHIVES.  CLICK ON 2010 AND SCROLL DOWN TO JANUARY.

WE WERE STILL CLINGING TO OUR TWENTIES, ERIC (TIC) IN THE FOREGROUND WITH TWIN BROTHER ERNIE (IMP) IN THE BACKGROUND WITH ME, AT MY "BROOKLYN VERSUS THE WORLD" THEMED PARTY, AT MY PARENTS HOUSE, JULY 1984.

I HADN’T SEEN THE BROTHERS IN 28 AND 29 YEARS RESPECTIVELY AND TRUE TO FORM, OUR CONVERSATIONS WERE SEAMLESS.

         CLINGING TO OUR SANITY, TIC (left) AND IMP (right), AT ANGELINA'S.

DURING OUR REMINISCIENCE, I WAS REMINDED THAT ON A 1963 BUS TRIP TO BROOKLYN’S MANHATTAN BEACH WITH WINGATE DAY CAMP, THEY POINTED OUT THEIR GRANDPARENTS’ BAKERY, ON WEST END AVENUE.

THAT FACTOID LED ME TO RECALL ANOTHER INCIDENT INVOLVING DIFFERENT “FRIENDS,” LATER IN MY LIFE, ACROSS THE STREET AND DOWN THAT SAME BLOCK.

In 1976-1978, I played organized foot-hockey in the INTERBORO ICELESS HOCKEY LEAGUE (IIHL). My team, (the MP’s) was made up of friends, and friends of friends from Brooklyn College. My only real friend on the team was Captain Krunch (CK). Most of CK’s teammate buddies were jerks so I only slightly warmed up to a few, (see my January 7, 2013 blog, “THE IDIOT SAVANT GOALIE.)” However, CK’s influence with his BFF (AK, the MP’s captain) got me occasional work as a valet parker at a catering hall, (on West End Avenue, down the block from E and E’s family bakery).

Our immediate boss was twenty-three year old Jack. Jack had juice with the caterer and was in charge of maintaining and overseeing the parking crew. In reality, he was a do-nothing.  He delegated his responsibilities to AK which included mid-week recruiting calls, to staff the next gig, (other than two of Jack’s cronies, the parkers were exclusively MP’s).

Another negative about Jack, was that during our idle time, he took a powder, (it was believed that in addition to staying warm in winter and cool in summer that Jack was lavished with food and drink in the kitchen). We couldn’t even gripe behind his back because one his asshole cronies was a cousin and the other, a brother of a close friend.

Jack remained invisible to us, except to greet the incoming cars before the affair and standing out there afterwards, to collect all the tip income (from us) in order to divvy it up later.

For those of us who didn’t have anything better to do on a Saturday night, making $40 off-the-books, for six hours, (mostly hanging out) was better than decent money. Then one night, Jack announced that he had earned his certification and had accepted a big accounting job near Albany.  He also said that AK was now in charge.

Suddenly, this decent job got much better. AK never called Jack’s people which cleared me for more work. Interestingly, suddenly our tip income took a sharp upward spike, (obviously, Jack had been robbing us). Plus, like Jack, AK disappeared during our idle time. The difference was, he came right back with two kitchen utility guys carrying huge soup tureens full of pepper steak, dinner rolls, bottles of soda, ice, cups, plastic silverware and napkins. This perk became a regular practice, (always pepper steak…with much more pepper than steak…which in my case, led to a crippling barrage of farting that was usually well-timed for the guests’ return trip).

The other bonus that AK installed was bringing a hockey net in his car trunk. This allowed us to have a shoot-a-round, to work off the meal and speed along the course of my (our?) gaseous emissions. To his credit, AK’s improvements made the job fun.  We had a lot of laughs which brought a stronger sense of camaraderie between me and my MP teammates.  Soon I felt bad that I had misjudged these guys who were clearly more than just hippie pot-heads or pre-law dullards.

Early one summer morning, the wedding upstairs was breaking up. When I started retrieving the cars, I was happy all my pick-ups were parked on the streets behind the hall, (I had once scraped the molding off somebody’s car, in the cramped quarters of the small underground parking garage). Luckily, it went unnoticed. That’s why I preferred the wide open spaces outside.

A half block to the right of the main entrance was a one way street. There was a tiny parking lot down that street but overwhelming, we parked the majority of the cars throughout the residential neighborhood.

West End Avenue was especially long. So at 1:30AM, in the interest of time and convenience, for cars parked along that first one way street, all of us, even the heavy-duty nerds drove the cars in reverse on the desolate street. Once on West End Avenue, it was simpler to continue in reverse to the hall’s entrance.

On this occasion, I easily backed out of the quiet street. Then after a full and complete stop with the great caution I always used on the much wider and busier West End Avenue, I crept slowly backwards. Suddenly, from far down the street, a souped-up Chevy Impala Super Sport convertible flew towards me, (in the correct, opposite lane). As soon as the muscle car passed me, it made a screeching, high-speed u-turn…and the driver was forced to slam on his breaks, inches from my bumper. As a means to encourage me to pull-up so he could pass, he obnoxiously honked his horn. It was a rare case of us both being in the wrong. But I didn’t like being bullied.  So I stubbornly stuck out my left hand and waved him around me.

THE 1967 IMPLALA SUPER SPORT CONVERTIBLE IN QUESTION HAD ITS ROOF DOWN AND WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF A RESTORATION. IT WAS A FADED MELON COLOR WITH GIANT GRAY SPLOTCHES WHERE COMPOSITE HAD FILLED IN DENTS.

The prick in the convertible was stubborn too.  He didn't like the idea of backing up before going around me.  He stood up in his car and screamed, “Somebody needs their ass kicked!” After I ignored another round of honking, this six-foot-seven bearded behemoth got out.  He slammed his door and used the purest forms of vulgarities while describing how he was going to dismember me before killing me. Under the hall’s portico, I saw seven of my “friends” twenty-five feet away. With tons of back-up so near, a rush of dormant bravery compelled me to get out and face this road-raging jerk-off.

What a mistake! I was staring into the chest of a lumberjack-like guy who looked like Grizzly Adams' evil twin. He was over three-hundred pounds and even though he was fat, I could see he was a strong, manual laborer. Then from deep within my subconscious, a confident roar of my own profanity ripped into him. Every time he tried to say something, I aggressively interrupted. I got on a roll and injected every expletive in my deep arsenal.

In a cresendo of hatefulness, I insulted his family and wished a pox on all his ancestors. I never felt so in control. Everything was happening so fast. I wish they had video apps and cell-phones back then so I could have savored my golden moment forever. Still, I couldn’t believe my eyes when he retreated to his car. I expected some level of stupidity, in his last ditch effort to get the last word but he just whimpered, “I don’t want no trouble, mister.”  Considering that he was ten years older than me, as he sped away and I thought; wow, I won.

Deep down, I knew he had to be somewhat intimidated by my seven, similarly dressed and rapidly approaching calvary of friends.  But when I turned to share my victory with them, they were still twenty-five feet away at the entrance. They had never moved. I guessed that they were disappointed that I didn't get my butt kicked. CK was bringing around another car so I realized that ALL of them were NOT my friends.

Later, CK reminded me about a scene from, “THE IDIOT SAVANT GOALIE,” in which I refused to join a mob of MP's and jump an enemy player. I said, “These geeks didn’t jump him either and neither did you.” He said, “But we said we would. You just caused dissension.”  I shook my head in disbelief.  Then when I realized how amazing it was that I stood-up to that goon, I didn't care that those weasels didn't like me.

I bet the ultimate pacifists, TICKLEMEERIC (TIC) AND THEIMPORTANCEOFBEINGEARNEST (IMP) would have defended me against Charles Manson, a psychopath axe murderer or Bluto from Popeye...unless they had another chance to hang out with Captain Jack.

QUICK CALL GUINNESS...IT'S THE WORLD RECORD FOR SHORTEST FRIENDSHIP

My first craps dealing job (Las Vegas, January-April 1979), was an incredibly terrible experience.  If I knew how my three months at the Slots-A-Fun Casino was to turn out, I probably would have run back to Brooklyn after a few hours of dealing and taken the post office job...hey wait...stupid me...sarcasm aside, I should've quit the casino racket because if we assume I never went postal and murdered all my supervisors, I would have retired with great benefits fourteen years ago.  Geez, now that I think about it, even if I killed a boss or two and was a model prisoner...I might be "out" by now anyway...boy what a schmuck I was !!!

Slots-A-Fun, like the cockroach has survived down through the ages. It was still in operation when I drove by in 2009 and the last time I was inside (1991) that tiny shithouse still only had one craps table, eleven blackjack games and a Big Six wheel.  I hope the latter generation of dealers made-out better than I did because grossing $150.00 a week was pitiful, even for 1979 standards. 

MY FRIEND VEGA44 DEALT CRAPS THERE TWO YEARS BEFORE ME AND HE CLAIMS, I HAD IT EASY.  THIS MUST BE A CONTEMPORARY PHOTO BECAUSE IN MY DAY, ALL DRINKS WERE A HALF-A-BUCK..

Aside from the pay, the physical conditions were brutal too.  In the photo above, the craps table was just inside, to the right of the opening.  That meant that on cold days, (I started in winter), the stickman's back was freezing because it was outside the building, at the same time that heater blew hot air on his face. 

Another discomfort was the Riviera Casino's hotel tower across the street.  It was all-glass which meant on sunny afternoons (there were plenty of sunny afternoons) the reflection blinded the craps (base) dealers. 

If that wasn't enough, a taxi stand was next to the front door.  That meant that the fledgling craps staff was bombarded with savvy cabbies who came in to take a quick "shot."  These low-lifes were able to pick-up a few dollars by making false claims and purposely causing chaos, in order to take advantage of us.

Unfortunately, complaining about the money and the harsh conditions seems petty compared to the way we were treated. I hope they now have a Human Resource department because we were verbally abused by management whenever something went wrong, (and wrong happened several times each roll of the dice).  The work environment was so hostile that the turnover...through quitting and getting fired...was so high that hardly a day would pass without a new dealer starting.

The two main villains were Mr. Broderick Boyle and Willard LaFitte.  Mr. Boyle was the casino manager.  He hated losing and didn't care how bad he was perceived as he tried to profit from every aspect of the operation.  I really think, as impossible as it was, Boyle's constant anger was caused by his disappointment that every gambler didn't leave penniless.

Mr. Boyle, (in my thirty-four career was the only boss that insisted on being called mister), looked like Roger Ebert's evil twin.  When he got in your face to criticize you, his fiery bad breath (that stunk of decayed meat) seemed to singe your eyebrows.  His manical and delusional drive to have the casino fiscally sound meant keeping the place on a shoe-string budget.  He was so commited to this idea that he served as the relief floorman in blackjack and craps.  He also gave the bartender breaks, refilled the cigarette machine and once picked up a broom to sweep-up ice cubes when the porter was on his break. Luckily there was never a serious ruckus because Slots-A-Fun was the only casino I ever heard of that didn't have at least one security guard.

The one thing that truly made Boyle unique to all other bosses I know, is that he owned a quarter of one share in the joint.  So, he wasn't sweating someone else's money...he was sweating his own.

Boyle's yes-man was a sleazy, moronic, bastard named Willard LaFitte.  Willard a rural Louisianan was the lowest life form I ever met.  He was a craps dealer when I started but he undermined our boxman in order to steal his ($62.50/a day), position.  LaFitte was such a slug that he mocked the poor man after he suffered a nervous breakdown (on the job) in front of his wife and two pre-school daughters. 

LaFitte was fat,bald, ugly and always broke...from gambling. He was a white supremacist and hated everyone.  On the job, he made it a point to exaggerate any house advantage against the players.  Consistent with the movie "WILLARD" he was also a rat.  He reported all the dealer errors to Boyle and accused all of us, at one time or another, of NOT trying to beat everyone.

If that wasn't enough, he stalked and sexually harrassed female dealers.  He was such an awful person that I made my short story, "THE HEAT IS ON," a murder mystery and used him as the victim.  Trust me, the line of suspects would have wrapped around the block twice...and I would have been at the head of the line.

We knew Slots-A-Fun was a shit place to work, (my friends from the NEW YORK SCHOOL OF GAMBLING, CIRO THE HERO and JLOOPY worked there too).  But without experience or connections, it seemed impossible to reach out for a better job, (my friends had a big advantage over me, they worked different shifts and weren't exposed to Boyle or LaFitte).

The turnover in craps was so high that I never made new friends.  However, I started to hang-out with three male blackjack dealers outside work, (once a week we went to the El Cortez and had the $3.99 steak dinner and shot twenty-five cent craps).  Soon we graduated to Jai Alai at the MGM, (you may recall, I was with them when we got kicked out for using a big-shot's name to beat the fifty-cent admission fee).  When they all left for better jobs, I was on my own again.

On a cold, stormy, February morning another new face appeared on my crew.   It was so raw outside that the usual hordes of customers never showed. For hours, we dealt to one or two people or stood dead (open without players).  During working moments, Willard was unnecessarily unkind to the new guy so he didn't speak much.  When Willard went on break, Henry Parnell opened up and we established a nice rapport.

Henry was from Buffalo New York.  I was familiar with the area and rattled off towns like Fredonia, Dunkirk, East Aurora and Kenmore.  Then I made him laugh when I said, "Did you know that Buffalo had more bowling alleys per capita than any other city?"  He said, "Well yeah, I did know, I'm on the pro bowler's tour. Well, I was, until I hurt my back. I was making decent money so hopefully I can get myself back together and do it again."

Our new friendship started to bloom as the rain let up to a fine mist.  Henry and I were the base dealers so we shared the same view of the occasional passerby.  One of them was a haggered bag lady with tattered, laceless sneakers.  She had poked her head through a plastic supermarket sack and was using it as a poncho.  This woman was also wearing a short dungaree skirt that helped display her unmistakable stream of urine splashing the already wet pavement. Unencumbered by Willard, Henry and I laughed like hyenas and joked about our shared perception that the female anatomy wouldn't allow the derelict to pee without losing stride.

We were still giggly when Willard returned.  The idiot desperately wanted to know why we were so happy.  Henry and I were on the same page, so like doctors from TV's, "M*A*S*H*" amid all the casino gore we were exposed to in the trenches...we kept our little slice of joy to ourselves.When we saw the effect of keeping the insecure ass hole in the dark, we exaggerated our giddiness.  Even when he asked direct questions or made demands, Henry and I talked in circles (as if we had rehearsed it). When players opened up our table, Willard was clueless and frustrated...and therefore dangerous.

"M*A*S*H*" LASTED ELEVEN SEASONS AND 251 EPISODES.  ALTHOUGH A LOT OF THE HUMOR WAS DARK AND RELATED TO THE  KOREAN WAR, THIS SIT-COM (DRAMEDY) WAS VOTED IN 2002, TV GUIDE'S 25th GREATEST ALL-TIME SHOW.  MY FAVORITE PART WAS WHEN LIBERAL-MINDED HAWKEYE PIERCE (lower center) AND TRAPPER JOHN McINTYRE TALKED CIRCLES AROUND CONSERVATIVE FRANK "FERRET FACE" BURNS (second from right).

We were about five hours into our shift when the sun broke out.  I was basking in the joy of having a compatriot on the game with me but I was also invisioning how to cultivate my man crush with Henry outside of work.

In no time, the crowds reappeared.  Two of Henry's players were middle age women.  These novice gamblers were both playing a dollar-fifty each on the "BIG SIX AND EIGHT."  They won a dollar and a half (even money) each time they won.  Then Henry committed a harsh Slots-A-Fun faux pas...he suggested that they could "place" the six and eight, (be bound by the same rules of winning and losing) and receive 7 for 6 odds, ($1.75 instead of $1.50).

This turn of events pleased Willard.  Bent on revenge, he ran and got Mr.  Boyle.  When Boyle comprehended that Henry had transgressed the unwritten law, he was (physically) pulled off the game.  The action continued with Henry's base vacant so Willard unprofessionally tossed payouts across the table from his boxman position. 

Boyle was yelling profanites and questioning both Henry's intelligence and the legitamacy of his parentage.  I was afraid to watch but I caught a quick glimpse and saw Henry wincing from bully's nuclear breath.  Boyle got so exasperated that this glasses were slightly askew as white, gauzy spittle formed at the corner of his mouth.  Then after a giant cleansing huff, in regard to casino percentages, he rhetorically uttered, "Piss-ant, do you know the difference between playing one-fifty on the Big Six and Eight and placing them for a buck and a half?"  Henry was supposed to be submissively quiet. Or plead ignorance and beg for forgiveness.  But Henry thought Boyle was as stupid as Willard LaFitte and called the prick's bluff, "Yeah I know the difference, twenty-five cents!"  Boyle screamed so loud that I was expecting a plaster shower when he proclaimed, "YOU'RE FIRED!"

Henry wasn't disgraced, he looked relieved as he walked away.  Then LaFitte croaked in his heavy Southern accent to Boyle, "And this thisy here one taint no better." Boyle turned to me and growled, "And you, you better stay on your toes."  I was smart? enough not to answer.

I was disappointed that a friendship with Henry never happened but I felt worse a few days later when I realized that I would never see him again...and I didn't.  I wonder if our choice few hours would qualify us for having the world's shortest friendship?

EPILOGUE - Due to Slots-A-Fun's limited resources, it had no system for extra dealers.  When Henry was fired, Boyle used creativity by closing the BIG-SIX wheel and using a dealer I never saw before, (Yung Yune), as a stop gap replacement.  

In 1979 Asian dealers were rare.  So because of my prejudice, I expected this forty-year old Korean to be an expert.

Mr.  Boyle switched-up the dealer rotation and put Yune as the stickman.  The first roll was a nine and Yune confidently said, "Nine, center field nine."  I was impressed, even if he was shaky in retrieving the dice, but I figured he had to be nervous.  So, perhaps I wasn't prejudice after...maybe I just could spot talent when I saw it.  Of course I was wrong.  The second roll was a seven and Boyle's wunderkind said, "Seven, center field seven."  Because Yune could barely speech English and was never exposed to craps before, he spend the rest of the shift on stick and saying "center field" in every call he made.

EPILOGUE - II  - I just googled Henry Parnell's real name.  And guess what, today, he's a high profile member of the Las Vegas bowling scene.  If I get the time and brass balls, I will try to connect with him and let all you know if it's a strike or a gutter ball.

THE COLD-HEARTED TRUTH ABOUT OLD FRIENDS

My son Andrew just started his second college semester. During the winter break, he experienced the reality check that he and his high school friends have reached a crossroads and are heading, in different directions. 

Andrew wanted concrete answers.  But because there were no fights or arguments, all that was left was their subtle, ever-growing wedge of philosophical differences.  Once he understood that it's a natural and healthy growth process to have new people in your life, a wider range of interests and be exposed to diverse viewpoints, that he realized, old friendships are special...on a lesser level...but will always remain with him. All I can say is...been there, done that...over and over. 

Yes, the immediacy of the emotional baggage is still unsettling, but that's because nobody expects the idea of old friendships withering and dying, to happen to them. 

In February 1973, I was in Brooklyn College...one month. I was clinging to the past with two hands and reaching into the future with another.  In times like that we realize that we just ran out of hands, so you have to let go of something or you'll lose everything.

My rock solid (one year older) friends were LMART and MOBY.  In their travels, they became friendly with BS.  BS, the same age as my friends, was okay but in a short time, it was obvious that he and I would never be close.  I liked his spontaneity so much that when he would shout out, "Road trip!"  I was the first person to say, "Yeah let's go..." even before I knew where.  But ultimately, his wild ways were too advanced for me.

In the beginning, those mystery rides were confined to oddball eateries all over New York's five boroughs, marathon chats on the beach till sunrise or joy rides on the Staten Island ferry.  Soon, expanded excursions turned out to be excuses to visit racetracks, (Roosevelt, Yonkers and Monticello). I was still seventeen, broke and pure of both mind and spirit.  So once we arrived at these dens of inequity, I was forced to map out an uncomfortable strategy, to conserve my twelve or so dollars as the others started betting and drinking. 

LMART and MOBY were enamored by BS and saw him as a conduit to adulthood. I saw his influence changing my BFF's and causing the rift between us to grow.  Then several days before the big George Washington Birthday weekend, while I was considering dumping my buddies, BS made a huge announcement, "Our next road trip will be epic!"  I had gotten use to him blowing nonsense out of proportion, so I adjusted and desensitized myself to BS's BS...but in his short description that followed, I was suckered in...willingly!

You know what they say about, the best LAID plans...

BS, over the last few weeks, had repeatedly bragged about his sexual encounters with a dishwasher during his New Year's Eve trip to Hotel Gilbert, in South Fallsburg New York.

THE GILBERT (lounge above)  WAS LOCATED IN THE CATSKILL MOUNTAINS (THE JEWISH ALPS), NINETY MILES NORTHWEST OF NEW YORK CITY.  IT WAS PART OF THE GOLDEN AGE OF BORSCHT BELT HOTELS, (1920's-1970's).  NOW MOSTLY DEFUNCT, THOSE RESORTS LIKE; BROWN'S, CONCORD, GROSSINGER'S, THE GRANIT, IRVINGTON, KUTSCHER'S AND NEVELE WERE A MECCA FOR VACATIONING MIDDLE-CLASS JEWS.  THE NUMBER OF COMEDIANS AND OTHER ENTERTAINERS WHO GOT THEIR BIG BREAK UP THERE ARE TOO MANY TO LIST.

I was familiar with the Catskills.  My maternal grandparents stayed in a bungalow colony (1950's-70's) and my parents took me for a week at the Irvington,when I was four.

SUMMER - 1959 AT THE IRVINGTON.  YES, YOU CAN TELL BY THE KNOBBY KNEES, THAT'S ME.  PROBABLY THAT SAME DAY OR THE NEXT, I SNUCK AWAY FROM MY FOLKS AFTER THE POOL WAS CLOSED.  I WANTED TO PLAY WITH AN INFLATABLE SEAL IN THE POOL...AND FELL IN.  LUCKILY, A PASSERBY, SAW IT HAPPEN AND FISHED ME OUT...

I also worked as a counselor at a summer camp owned by Kutschers and I used to drive my paternal grandparents to the Rubin's Hotel, in Ellenville.

MAY 1973 - MY SECOND SOJOURN UP TO RUBIN'S.  MOM WAS MY NAVIGATOR AND WE NEVER GOT CAUGHT IN THE SPEED TRAPS IN TUXEDO NEW YORK OR THE EQUALLY DIABOLICAL, SLOATSBURG.


BS told us, we were going to the Gilbert. He said that his dishwasher chick had three girlfriends who also worked late and were starved for entertainment.  That meant, all we had to do was, bring a fifth of scotch, some wine and beer...and we would be both literally and figuratively, in!

By 6:00PM, on the night of our departure, the weather had turned hellaciously cold. Rosie-cheeked BS and LMART arrived at MOBY's house shortly after me.  They were still shivering when I realized they had brought nothing but a toothbrush in their back pocket.  Then they had the audacity to mock me because I had thrown a change of clothes and a copy of the NEW YORK POST into a Waldbaum's brown paper bag.  Then we laughed at MOBY when he came downstairs with a heavy, oversized valise.

BS's BRAND NEW CHEVY CAPRICE WAS IN THE SHOP SO MOBY'S CAR, A BEAT-UP, 1964 OLDSMOBILE F-85 DELUXE WAS PRESSED INTO SERVICE.

We were all seated in MOBY's frigid, nine-year old clunker when he reminded us that his car only starts in neutral.  Then a few blocks from the Belt Parkway entrance, while looking for a parking spot at Canarsie Liquors he added, "Oh yeah, if we get a flat we're screwed, my jack is frozen to the wall of my trunk." 

So, if you believe in omens...

We stopped to eat at the traditional halfway point to the Catskills, the Red Apple.  Unfortunately, we wished we never left the warmth of the car.  Our northern exposure brought fierce winds that almost snapped my car door off its hinges and the temperature dropped under ten.

LOCATED ON ROUTE-17,  IN THE SOUTHFIELDS SECTION OF TUXEDO NEW YORK, THIS CAFETERIA-STYLE RESTAURANT OPENED IN 1931.  A MAJOR ROADSIDE ATTRACTION, IT HAD BEEN IMMORTALIZED IN THE MEMORIES OF COUNTLESS TRAVELERS AND APPEARED IN A HANDFUL OF FILMS.  THE DOORS FINALLY CLOSED IN 2006 AND THE BUILDING WAS CONDEMNED, THE FOLLOWING YEAR. 

The Red Apple's cashier said, "It might get down to zero overnight and the back roads will still be slick from last week's snowstorm." Against a strong gale, we trudged like Eskimos, back to MOBY's Olds. Inside, he blasted the heater as LMART complained about not having gloves and my ears felt like they would shatter and fall off.  Plus, as bundled up as BS and MOBY were, they felt just as frost-bitten.

We got to the hotel an hour before the girls were to get off work.  We got feeling back in all our extremities as we lounged around the lobby and loudly joked about our Arctic experience. The Gilbert had seriously declined as a respected resort but because we were dressed like slobs, it didn't take long for someone to realize that we didn't belong.

A side door behind the front desk opened.  A burly old-timer (about fifty) in a wrinkled suit came out and approached.  He smiled and in a local yokel accent asked, "What room are you fellas staying in?"  We ignored his phoniness and the stench of booze and tobacco as BS said, "We're waiting for some friends."  "Oh," the man said, "what room are they staying in?"  BS said, "Our friends work here." The man shrugged, "Okay.  No problem, but you have to wait outside."  MOBY said, "Outside?"  The man flashed a badge from inside his lapel and said, "Yeah, I'm the house dick, (House dick?  I thought that was only in movies).  When we didn't snap to attention he added, "And if you trespassers come back in, I'll have you arrested."

BS had MOBY drive around back to the kitchen.  The girls would be out in ten minutes and then it would be party time.  Twenty minutes later, after nobody had come out, BS decided to investigate.  I was quietly doubting the whole set up when he came out with his arm around the waist of a giggly cutie.  She told us in a heavy Irish brogue, "Sorry, the heating pipes in our trailers burst and my friends had to make other arrangements..."  She saw the look of disbelief on our faces and said, "Follow me."  Behind some barracks-like hotel rooms were rows of staff trailers.  She brushed aside some icicles hanging over the entrance and unlocked her door.  She said, "Being in there is like being out here."  She motioned us in and showed us that frost had formed on the counter tops and the toilet water was frozen solid.

Back at the car, BS took the Dewar's, one bottle of wine and a six-pack of Rheingold.  He said, "See you tomorrow."  We were still in shock five minutes after the horny couple disappeared inside.

FROM 1883 UNTIL THE MID-1970's, RHEINGOLD WAS MARKETED AS A WORKING MAN'S BEER.  IN ADDITION TO BEING THE PRIMARY NEW YORK METS SPONSOR AND USING JOHN WAYNE, JACKIE ROBINSON AND THE MARX BROTHERS IN THEIR TV ADS,  IT APPEALED TO ME AND MY FRIENDS BECAUSE IT WAS THE LAST OF THE 99c SIX-PACKS.

MOBY wanted to find a motel but LMART and I were delusional.  We thought, we needed to conserve our money so we would have a shot with the girls the next night.  So by a vote of two-to-one the descesion in our ranks was quelled.

We stupidly drove for an hour through the icy, empty countryside hoping for some inspiration...that never came. Even if we had decided on a motel, most were closed for the season and the few that were open had no vacancies, due to the holiday.  

Our bickering escalated.  LMART commented, "If we properly invested our time, we could have been almost home by now... and could have still come back tomorrow."  On the far side of Ellenville, our teeth-chattering whining was still worsening until we skidded sideways off the road, inches from a fallen tree and into a ditch.  Before getting out to check for damage, we looked at each other in astonishment.  Nobody said anything but I'm sure we were all thinking; we're freezing our asses off, laying our lives on the line while BS is snug as a bug in a rug and getting laid.

Luckily, we all survived and after a couple of minutes of pushing, we got the car back on level ground.  I told MOBY, "Some day, we'll look back on all this and laugh."  He rolled his eyes as he cautiously accelerated back onto the road.

Our next stop was the hotel parking lot.  The three of us took turns cursing BS as we tried to sleep in the car.  MOBY cried, "We could actually freeze to death." I suggested stuffing my newspaper under our coats...but I guess that only works in the movies.  We were trembling with our eyes closed for about an hour when MOBY had a great idea, "Let's go to the Ellenville police station.  We'll tell them our situation..."  LMART interrupted, "And we'll tell them we won't need anything...just a place to lie down for a few hours."  And I added, "It's four degrees, how could they possibly say no."  We went...and of course they did say, "No!"

Back behind the Gilbert, near the steps that led to the kitchen LMART said, "I can't feel my fingers."  Then one at a time, men (some dressed in white, presumably cooks and others in street clothes), parked or were dropped off.  The first hint of dawn was nowhere to be seen when I said, "Let's follow those guys up there and find a place to hide."  LMART moaned, "My hands really hurt."  MOBY said, "But if we get caught, we'll get thrown in real jail."  I said, "Screw that, LMART is hurting...hell, we're all hurting."

We got behind a chef and went up into the kitchen. In the bustle of activity, nobody questioned us as we walked through to the dining room and into the quiet, empty lounge (the photo above).  In the corridor, I saw a door labeled "CASINO" and led my friends in.  In the semi-darkness there was a sea of card tables in the center of the room and sofas lining the walls.  In a hidden alcove, we each dropped dead on couches and crashed.

A little after 7:00AM, I was awakened by a couple of biddies.  They came in, turned on the lights and played canasta.  Soon the others woke up.  We yawned and stretched before stumbling towards the door.  The women paid us no mind as we left the card room and entered the lounge.  We plopped down on a sofa that overlooked the dining room and tried to form a plan. LMART said, "The smells are making me hungry."  MOBY said, "What I wouldn't do for some bacon and eggs..."  When LMART and I gave him the stink-eye he added, "What?"  Then the *second best miracle I could have imagined...happened. 

A hotel guest (DORF), the mom of an old friend from my neighborhood recognized me.  I explained our predicament and she zoomed to the buffet line.  Her motherly instincts took over and she smeared cream cheese on bagels, added lox, tomato and onion.  DORF wrapped them in napkins, dropped the cache into her big, faux-rattan handbag and smuggled them out to us.

*The only way this miracle could have been better would have been if the dishwasher chicks were bringing our breakfast.

DORF went back in and brought us seconds and a carafe of coffee.  We thanked her and she left.  Then a giggly female, in an Irish brogue announced over the PA system, "MOBY, please report to your car."

BS and the girl were at the backdoor of the kitchen when we got to the car.  BS kissed her hard and squeezed her bottom before bounding down the steps.  He had that freshly laid look on his face as he proclaimed, "We can go home now!" 

We wanted to stay and take a shot with the other girls the next night.  But BS said, "They slept with busboys, in regular rooms...they aren't going to give that up."  MOBY said, "Well, tell them to let us use their shower..."  BS said, "You're out of your mind...let's go."

On my depressing ride home both LMART and MOBY listened with admiration to every word BS said.  He even cut them off every time they tried to tell him what we went through. I believed his triumph but saw him only as a self-absorbed braggart.  I never hung-out with BS or LMART again.  But they stood the test of time and are still tight friends and business partners today. 

I saw a lot less of MOBYand within two years, our friendship had dissolved too.  Over the years, at mutual friend's functions I bumped into him three times.  Our conversations were short and he never wanted to rehash the Gilbert Hotel story even when I said, "Remember when I said...someday we'll laugh about that night?" Even with social media, we never pursued rekindling a computer relationship.

In October 1978, I drove past DORF's house and saw my old friend, (her son), MIKF.  I stopped because MIKF and I hadn't seen each other in eight years.  We had been bosom buddies in junior high but due to philosophical differences when we reached high school, we split.  I told MIKF the circumstances of his mom rescuing me and my friend's at the Gilbert.  He didn't seem to care.  Then his younger brother GLEF came out and MIKF went inside.  GLEF and I were on the same wave length but we never became friends because I was moving to Nevada.

I still have a warm spot in my heart for my old friends but we all must evolve.  That was proven when I went back to Las Vegas three years ago and introduced my family to "CIRO the HERO."  Nobody was ever more in tune with me than Ciro...but the twenty-five year gap took its toll.  I was never so embarrassed to say that someone was once my friend.  But at least I got to illustrate to my son Andrew how people, our interests and viewpoints change because I feel justified, to now refer to my ex-friend as, "CIRO the ZERO."  But that's another story.

THE SHORT FUSE OF OFFICER DEAN-MICHAEL HUGHES

Winston Churchill once said of the Russians, "They are a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma." (see the MGTP Wall of Quotes).

I recently saw a re-run of, "SOUTH PARK's" Asperger Syndrome episode. It reminded me of the first time that my friend's dad said of him, "Dean-Michael either has Aspergers or he's a sociopath."

"SOUTH PARK," IS A CURRENT, CABLE-TV SENSATION THAT HAS LASTED 16 SEASONS (230 EPISODES AND A MOVIE).  IT HAS EARNED A PEABODY AND FOUR EMMYS BY TACKLING TOPICAL CONTROVERSIES AND USING CHILDREN (FOUR 4th GRADERS FROM A SMALL TOWN), TO BE THE VOICE OF REASON WHEN ADULTS ARE IRRATIONAL OR GULLIBLE.  ALTHOUGH MANY SHOWS SEEM TO BE IN BAD TASTE, ITS DISTORTED VIEW OF MORALITY IS USUALLY TIED TOGETHER NEATLY IN THE END. 

The central issue in South Park's Aspergers episode was Kyle, Stan, Cartman and Kenny's misconception that another kid has "ass burgers."

ASPERGER SYNDROME IS IDENTIFIED AS A SIGNIFICANT DIFFICULTY IN SOCIAL INTERACTION COUPLED WITH REPETITIVE BEHAVIOR PATTERNS.  MANY SUFFERERS HAVE LIMITED INTERESTS BUT TEND TO BE EXPERTS IN THOSE AREAS.  IT IS SUPPOSED THAT ALBERT EINSTEIN AND BILL GATES HAD THIS MALADY AS WELL AS FICTIONAL CHARACTERS LIKE, MR. SPOCK, LISA SIMPSON AND JIM PARSONS (above) AS THE EINSTEIN-LIKE DR. SHELDON COOPER FROM TV's, "THE BIG BANG THEORY."

My friendship with Dean-Michael Hughes (I called him Dean) ranged from 1989-1995 and again when he temporarily resurfaced in 2007. When I think back, maybe his father was right and he did have Aspergers. 

Our relationship started in 1989, when a nerdy ex-coworker of my wife Sue, shockingly called.  She wanted Sue and I to double-date with her and new boyfriend, Dean-Michael.

This all-day escapade included us traipsing through the rural farmlands of South Jersey and ended at a seafood restaurant in Vineland.  During that long afternoon,  Dean was so withdrawn that I never would have imagined that a friendship would blossom. He usually responded to my questions with one word answers.  Far worse, he frequently went off-topic, injected James Bond trivia or household repairs into the conversation. The only time he seemed normal was when he said he was a policeman.

During lunch, Dean was interesting (to me) when explaining his greatest piece of police work, the discovery of "Old Lady Campbell's" maggot-ridden, six-month old corpse, in her bathtub, (the visions brought to mind somehow disturbed the girls' meal).  He got the stink-eye from his date and changed the subject to how dull the work was in his municipality.  So on occasional days off, he had gotten into the habit of arranging squad car rides in Baltimore, the Bronx and Atlantic City.  This death-wish hobby seemed crazy but I gave him the benefit of the doubt because he had also been a marine.

For several months, Sue dodged her "friend's" tries to hang out with us.  So in 1990, it was a big surprise that we received a wedding invitation.  Our "no" RSVP included a polite, handwritten apology.  Dean's fiance called Sue.  She begged us to reconsider.  Sue cited an actual scheduling clash and how hard it was for both of us (in casino work), to get a Saturday off.  The poor girl started crying, "I have no family! And only one girl from work and an elderly neighbor agreed to come." 

You guessed it, we caved in.  On their big day, we were selected to serve as witnesses at the Hughes' courthouse wedding.  Later, at the tiny reception, in an unimpressive restaurant, we were introduced as if we were royalty.  At the bar, a drunken cop friend of Dean cornered me.  He pointed out Dean's three-times divorced father.  The elder (sixty-ish) Hughes was a prominent local businessman.  He had a Don Cordeleone-like aura that was enhanced by his girlfriend, an attractive woman, half his age.

The hiccuping cop singed my eyebrows with his caustic liquor breath as he identified Dean's six, half siblings. According to him, these conniving rivals tried to out-kiss their dad's ass.  Even though Mr. Hughes was still paying his former wives an incredible lump of alimony, his children hoped to tear-off a bigger hunk of whatever was left of his monetary carcass. 

The drunk slammed another shot of Jameson and sloppily chased it with a Guinness before laughing, "If he marries this bimbo, she already has two kids...and don't let that black, loose-fitting dress fool you, it looks like she already has another bun in the oven.  So if my count is right and daddio marries her, that'll make nine nasty bastards competing with each other for the lion's share of the Hughes family fortune."  I said, "Not exactly the Brady bunch..."  He cut me off, "It gets worse, see that eighty-five year-old fossil, that's GMH."  I said, "Heh?"  "GMH, that's what Dean-Michael calls his granny, (Grand Mother Hughes).  He got the idea from the TV beer commercials for MGD." Later I found out, Dean sometime refers to her as, "GDC," the Great Dame of Camden.

THE MILLER BREWING COMPANY WAS FOUNDED IN 1855.  IN 1985, THEY INTRODUCED MILLER GENUINE DRAFT (MGD) AS THE FIRST COLD FILTERED, PACKAGED DRAFT BEER...WHICH MEANT, TO HAVE IT TASTE LIKE IT CAME FROM A KEG, THE BEER WAS NOT PASTEURIZED.

The sot waved for the bartender's attention as he continued, "When GMH isn't belching or farting, the "Great Dame of Camden," pays Dean to spy on his father. She's got a big chunk of change herself and wants to leave the whole kit and kaboodle to her only child. But...and here's here it get interesting... the old crone is leery of his latest gold-digging trollop.  I bet the shit hits the fan when the old coot finds out that her sonny-boy already knocked her up."

In the months that followed, we got together with the Hughes' for movies or dinners at each others home.  Mostly due to Dean's earthiness and warped sense of humor, I enjoyed his company and grew to value his friendship.  One time after a delicious Thanksgiving dinner, he and I cleared the dishes and set up for dessert.  He was unusually anxious for me to try the beautiful, chocolate glazed cookies imported from Denmark, as he artistically arranged them on a plate.

Dean had photographed the full dinner table before the meal so I didn't suspect foul play when he focused his Nikon on me and said, "Try a cookie."  The multiple camera flashes irritated my eyes as I took my first (only) bite.  The cookie was nauseating and I gagged.  I spit the cardboard-like remnants into an antique lace napkin and cursed like a longshoreman who hammered his thumb. 

Dean laughed in my face, "I got those at the dollar store, they are sugar-free AND taste-free." I thought he was going to piss himself when he added, "Wait till I get these pictures developed, your expression was to die for!"

I invited Dean to one of my Thursday night poker games. His awkwardness with strangers was obvious but once someone else farted, he took it as a cue to give his own command performance.  The volume and regularity of the formerly bashful prodigy's serenade brought delighted encouragement from the masses... until somebody had had enough..  The impresario smiled at his lone detractor, "I shouldn't have had so much pizza, I'm lactose intolerant."  He paused and sighed, "It's the only thing I'll ever inherit from my friggin' grandmother." He perked back up and said, "My farts don't smell. I'll show you, get me pencil and paper."

Dean amazed us with a detailed caricature of an electric fan with its breeze hitting smiling faces.  Then he drew an identical fan with a smelly piece of poop between it and unhappy faces. "The first fan represents my lactose intolerant butt.  The second fan, is everyone else..."  We were all hysterical before he finished with, "Hence...my shit don't stink!"

ONE OF THE GREATEST DISAPPOINTMENTS IN MY LIFE WAS NOT SAVING DEAN'S MASTERFUL SKETCHES.

One Friday night in 1992 at midnight, the shelf my walk-in bedroom closet began to sag under the weight.  When it started to rip away from the wall, I panicked and called Dean.  He averted the catastrophe of a cave-in by bringing a power screw-driver and in one minute, he secured the meager builder's grade brackets.  Afterwards, in a pleasant manner he said, "I realize that I once old you to call me any time.  But things have changed.  Your 'emergency' interrupted his rare opportunity to study.  You see, I hate my work situation.  It started as a hazing, but the veteran cops saw my need for acceptance as a weakness...and took advantage of me. Now they permanently mistreat me.  I get all the dirty jobs within the precinct, all the bad shifts nobody wants and I've been bullied into typing one jerk's reports, for over three years." I was feeling guilty for dragging him to my house for such Mickey Mouse nonsense when he continued, "I can't complain to my lieutenant because of the 'old boy network.' So to get out before I kill one of them, I'm going to take an exam for a much better job that will qualify me to be a county investigator."

A week later, I dropped a glass spaghetti sauce jar on my kitchen floor.  Some of it oozed under the refrigerator.  Sue and I pulled out the Frigidaire to thoroughly clean underneath.  That's when I noticed a small, brown, rubber cylinder attached to the fridge's leg.  When Sue reached for it, my stupid reflex was, "Don't touch it, it's a fuse!  I'll call Dean."

Dean was there in fifteen minutes.  When I showed him the "problem" he calmly pulled it off and said, "That's not a fuse."  I said, "Oh?"  He pantomimed taking a bite out of it and said, "It's a petrified Vienna sausage... probably part of a careless construction workers lunch."  When we thanked him he took me aside and sarcastically said, "Got any more search and destroy missions for me?  Some militant spiders? Any trolls coming up through your toilet?"  "I blushed, "No."  Venomously he said, "This wasn't payback for my sugar-free cookie prank, was it?"  He didn't wait for an answer and stormed out.

Two hours later, Dean's wife called us from the emergency room.  She said, "Did Dean-Michael tell you that Petey, (the only sibling he communicated with) died last week from a drug overdose?  I guess Dean-Michael was so frustrated about it that after he got back from your house, he punched through our bedroom door.  Luckily, that old door was hollow and his knuckles are only bruised."

I was afraid to contact Dean but a few days later, he uncharacteristically called me.  He said, "I'm inviting you and Sue to a business meeting on Thursday night." Other than where and when, I was uncomfortable asking many questions.  But when I arrived at his dad's house, I was ready for some sort of childish retaliation...but none came.

Dean's new step-mother greeted us at the door.  She carried her two-year old out of the room and was never seen again that night.  Dean opened the meeting by saying, "We are considering buying the Jonathan Pitney House in Absecon.  The price right now is a ridiculously low, $150,000.00.  Our idea is a three-family partnership that would involve fixing the place up and running it as a Bed and Breakfast."

Dean's wife was an accountant.  In her usual monotone, rigid and regimented way she said, "We can secure a low-interest loan because the property qualifies as a national monument.  To save money, you (me) and Dean can do the simple repairs and grunt work."  She took out a hand-made chart and recited from a prepared index card, "With no other B and B's nearby, there'll be no competition."

Dean said to me, "You know antique dealers, right?  You can be in charge of the furnishings  And you can also use your state gambling credentials to get our entity a New Jersey, casino service vendor's license.  That way, we can deal with Atlantic City hotels, to ecourage them to send us their overflow and freebies."

The senior Mr.  Hughes said, "I have real estate connections and they tell me, there hasn't been an offer made on the place in eight months...we're in a great position to low-ball them.  In a few years, with a lot of hard work by you four, I bet we can sell our successful inn for over a million."

Dean took the floor, "My dad will be a silent partner and front half the start-up capital.  You and I will split the other half.  Once the place is operational, the four of us will keep our jobs and devise a fair rotation of the day-to-day responsibilities."

"Before you decide,"  Mr. Hughes said, "meet us there tomorrow at noon and see for your self."

THE PITNEY HOUSE WAS BUILT IN 1799 AND RENOVATED IN 1848. IN THE TEN YEARS I LIVED IN SOUTH JERSEY, ALL I SAW WAS THIS HISTORICAL CITE DECAYING.

The next day, a realtor showed us in.  During the tour, we were reminded that a lot of the wiring was not up to code.  But surprisingly, the inside looked ready for business.  Even better, the building's exterior and the grounds seemed to only need fresh paint and a top-notch maintenance job.

Sue and I discussed the proposal that night.  I called Dean to tell him that we wanted in.  Dryly he said, "My father is out." I said, "What?"  He said, "The prick told me that he changed his will and to be fair, he's leaving everything to his baby.  The good news is, we're replacing his interest with my friend, Mr. Lui."

Mr. Lui owned the Chinese restaurant that Dean liked.  When we all got together, Lui made it clear that he wanted to put up a third and have an equal share without having anything to do with the daily operations.  I was disgusted.  I was relying on the stability of Mr. Hughes.  I dropped out the next day, (the Pitney House remained dormant until 1997 until someone else made it into a B and B.  They must have done well because a year later, it made the National Register of Historical Places).

Sue gave birth to my son Andrew in 1994.  Shortly there after, Dean and his wife turned their back on us. By 1996, they divorced.  I wouldn't see Dean again until we crossed paths in the supermarket in 2007.  Three times, he and I hung out.  The last time, he drove me out of town to Mr. Lui's new restaurant.  Along the way, his cell phone rang.  It was his roommate, (the drunken cop from his wedding) who was hearing strange noises in their backyard.  Dean said, "It might be my ex-wife, go outside and take your gun."

At dinner, Dean reminded me how much he loved his current job with the county.  Then he contradicted himself and glumly said, "But I was put on probation a year ago."  Dean claimed that he told a harmless joke, at a Christmas party. "Yesterday," he continued, "I was brought back into my commander's office and told that I was being put back on probation for another year because...human resources wasn't satisfied that I exhibited enough improvement in my sensitivity, (Dean made air quotes when he said; exhibit). And in order to go forward, the bureaucratic jackass said he has no choice but to suspend me for two weeks, to help me see the gravity of my shortcomings."

If he was being truthful, the joke was indeed harmless. So, I figured he wasn't telling me the whole story.  Dean sighed, "The whole department hates me.  Every day I feel so much pressure, they stare, whisper and point fingers at me. I can't bear it any more, I'm going to quit and move to Iowa."  "Quit?  How long until you qualify for full pension?"  "Fourteen months."  "Screw them, you were a marine, you should be able to handle this level of bullshit for a year."  He said, "Fourteen months!"

Dean-Michael Hughes quit the next day and I never saw him again.

I recently bumped into the senior Mr. Hughes at Lowe's.  He shook his head, "Dean-Michael loved this place and fixing things.  But he's a sick boy.  I'm sure you figured it out that he's a dangerous liar but far worse, he either has Asperger Syndrome or is a sociopath.  I tried to get him professional help but he always refused.  I thought the Pitney House project would help him channel his anger while doing something he loved..."  He groaned, "Now, he's in goddamned Idaho."  I said, "He told me Iowa."  "Yeah, he's living in a fantasy world, he told my wife Indiana and his ex, Illinois.  He's so out there, I guess he's working his way through the alphabet, the "J" states must be next."  I said, "Wow."  Mr. Hughes said, "Don't look so puzzled.  It wouldn't surprise me if Dean-Michael was using his survival skills, living in the woods and never left his neighborhood."  In a low-tone he added, "I'm not sure what his twisted mind is capable of..."

Now, five more years later, Dean is completely off the grid.  I haven't given him much thought until I saw a History Channel documentary on the "Unabomber," Ted Kaczynski.

TED "THE UNABOMBER" KACZYNSKI DROPPED OUT OF SOCIETY AND MOVED TO A REMOTE CABIN IN MONTANA.  FROM THERE, OUT OF REVENGE, OVER A TWENTY-YEAR PERIOD, HE SENT LETTER BOMBS THAT CAUSED MANY INJURIES AND RESULTED IN THREE FATALITIES.

But I won't worry about Dean-Michael Hughes...unless his photos of me eating the sugar-free cookie suddenly surface.

CHEF PATRICK CLARK: # 61 IN YOUR PROGRAM AND #1 IN OUR HEARTS

Patrick Clark was the first black celebrity chef. Before the TV superstar status shined on the likes of Emeril, Patrick placed his image on the stamp of the burgeoning industry. Clark's influence and award winning credentials are owed mainly to fusing his classic French culinary training with Southern cuisine to become a passionate innovator in, "New American Cooking." TO ME, PAT WAS A FELLOW CANARSIAN, FRIEND, TEAMMATE AND COWORKER.

Pat and I had mutual friends, saw each other in Junior High School and around the neighborhood. In the late 60's, we began playing sandlot football together. Pat was a year ahead of me and joined the Canarsie High School football team. He became a dedicated weight-lifter when it wasn't overly popular and developed a superman physique. His confidence grew and he became a no-nonsense competitor.

The following year, he encouraged me to try-out for the JV. I was overrun by uncertainty but I put a lot of faith in Pat's opinion...and he was right, I could play organized football.

IF IT WASN'T FOR PAT BUGGING ME, (#72), I MIGHT'VE MISSED FOOTBALL AND ITS MANY GREAT LIFE LESSONS...(left) QB JAN SOODAK #17.

The following season, I made varsity. As teammates, I witnessed Pat (#61), etch a place in our school's earliest success. He displayed great leadership qualities while starring on both offense (center) and defense, (linebacker). His talents helped earn our team its first ever winning season while also garnering him recognition as an honorable mention selection, on the New York City public school All-City Team.

Pat was teased a lot because his allergies frequently left his eyes teary. At first his intensity wouldn't allow for jokes at his expense...especially those involving crying. Eventually he became more comfortable with himself and handled the razzing with his famous infectious smile.

After Pat graduated, during the summer before my senior year, he recommended me and another friend, DRJ to work at "BUCK'S ROCK WORK CAMP," in New Milford, Connecticut. Pat was the assistant chef and my other friend Jay and I were kitchen utility men.

My position unfortunately led me pot washing. The work was hard but the camp was generous with all the kitchen staff and let us have full use of their facilities in our spare time.

AT BUCK'S ROCK, AUGUST 1972, I APPEARED FOR THE LAST TIME ON STAGE IN A PLAY CALLED, "EMPTINESSES."

The director of the play wanted a bagel to use as a prop. He sent me to the kitchen to get one. Pat thought an actual bagel was too small for a theatrical production. So he bored different sized holes into kaiser rolls until he found the right affect...thus delighting the director.

At the end of the season, Pat capped the summer by buying DRJ and I steaks. After the kitchen was closed, he prepared it, with a big salad, garlic bread, saucy asparagus and twice baked potatoes. We washed the whole business down with one Heineken each. I was 17 and loved the whole meal...except I wasn't sophisticated enough to enjoy the asparagus and I hadn't yet developed an appreciation for beer.

Patrick Clark's dad Melvin was also a chef. Inspired by his father, Pat entered the culinary program at New York City Technical College. His education then took him to both England and France where he served an apprenticeship under the intense tutelage of Michael Guerard.

Professionally, Pat (25) opened people's eyes as the head chef at the Odeon Restaurant, in the area of Manhattan now know as Tribeca...before it was cool. He then gained prominence at the Luxembourg restaurant. His shooting star to success continued to rise and in 1988, he opened his own upscale restaurant, METRO, on the upper east side.

In the early 1990's, Patrick Clark was a household name in the cooking world. He traveled and worked extensively in the best restaurants like Bice of Beverly Hills and the Hay-Adams Hotel in Washington DC. While in Washington, President Bill Clinton invited Pat to be the White House chef. However, he turned the offer down.

CLICK ON THE LINK BELOW TO SEE CHEF PATRICK CLARK'S 1996 APPEARANCE (12 minutes), ON JULIA CHILD'S PBS SHOW, "BAKING WITH JULIA."

http://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&frm=1&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&ved=0CB8QFjAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fplaylist%3Flist%3DPLDD752A30E7961F76&ei=zlZmUPj7CaeY0QH4-oGIAg&usg=AFQjCNGy2_DTl2aCyQ8Hi3OoFtA4FKNtcQ

Fate would return Pat, along with his wife and five children to New York City . He became the executive chef at Tavern on the Green, in Central Park. At the busiest restaurant in the USA, he was responsible for fifteen-hundred meals daily. Although he preferred a smaller work environment, he flourished there until the long hours and pressure effected his health.

While waiting for a heart transplant, Pat was interviewed and asked about being a role model for young blacks. He said that many feel, a lot is against them. So he wanted to be an example of somebody who succeeded by working hard and believing in himself.

When complications set-in, Pat was deemed ineligible for a transplant because another problem, amyloidosis had to be controlled first. On February 11, 1998, Patrick Clark died of congestive heart failure...he was 42.

Way ahead of his time, Pat should have survived to see himself as a gazillionaire, hawking his cookbooks, designer coffee, steak sauce and a line of soups. Instead, all I have to offer are memories of a wonderful person, this blog and a suggestion to google "Chef Patrick Clark," for a more complete image of his genius. Then you can see what he, his family, friends and the general public missed out on.