YOU CAN'T TRUST A FART AFTER FORTY

PLEASE BE ADVISED, THIS COLUMN CONTAINS: ETHNIC SLURS, TOILET HUMOR, EXTREME VIOLENCE, RAW SEXUALITY, HARSH LANGUAGE, DRUG USE, FAMILY BETRAYAL AND WHAT MIGHT BE CONSTRUED AS CRUELTY TO ANIMALS.

Everybody loves Las Vegas stories.  Mine are usually sanitized for the enjoyment of the majority but today's has a hardcore spin on politically incorrect issues.

Casino life subjects its workers to knuckleheads and oddballs, on both sides of the table. I dealt, in both Atlantic City and Las Vegas, and my experiences out west were far more frequent and acute. In Vegas, it seemed every other person was an eccentric, weirdo or character. So looking back, it's laughable to think of the caliber of the loonies whose company I avoided when you consider the rejects I befriended.

The downtown Holiday International Casino, (1979), was a tremendous career boost. I only had five months experience and was working with savvy masters of the business . So during my four-month stint, I had fun getting quality mentoring by a kooky yet entertaining staff.

"THE HOLIDAY" WAS MY THIRD CRAPS DEALING HOUSE.  IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL, MODERN CASINO THAT WAS DESTINED TO FAIL BECAUSE OF ITS TERRIBLE LOCATION, AT THE NORTH END OF MAIN STREET.

The Holiday was step up for beginners like me but it was a hellish refuge for polished professionals who fell from high places. Paul "Shag" Darrow (33), a free-spirited coke-fiend typified that notion and was my favorite pit boss, ever..

IN THE 70's BEFORE CRACK,  USERS DILUTED THEMSELVES INTO THINKING THAT COCAINE WAS THE CADILLAC OF HARMLESS,  RECREATIONAL DRUGS.   STATUS-MINDED PEOPLE LIKE PAUL DARROW ADVERTISED HOW "COOL" THEY WERE BY WEARING COKE PARAPHERNALIA AS JEWELRY.  IN SHAG'S CASE, A RAZOR BLADE TIE CLIP.  

Darrow had dealt high-limit craps in the best casinos in town.  Despite his fancy credentials, he was only toiling at our dump until something better came along. To cushion his massive fall from grace and the boredom, was to be wired, (we used twenty-five cent chips and had a fifty-dollar house maximum).  He also had a strange curiosity concerning vermin.  His worldliness was limited to have only lived in upscale Newport Beach (California) and Las Vegas.  So he took a liking to me because I was a New Yorker who could spin exaggerated yarns about roaches, water bugs and his favorite, rats.

My four main supervisors under him were characters too.  Jess (26) a Vietnam vet who shared his graphic sexual exploits with innocent civilians he "met" while in action. 

Dwayne (28) the pride of Bend Oregon was a ridiculous liar.  If he said the sky was blue, I wouldn't bet on it. He concentrated on implausible gambling dribble but his audience knew it was nonsense due to his tell, (the habit of widened his eyes and leaning in close to his target). 

Noah (32) was spacey but the most intelligent of the group.  He dwelled on missing the hippie lifestyle and fantasized about moving to a commune in Maine.  

The biggest screwball of them all was Dick Paynlewski (41).  He was a dopey loser, who drank too much, gambled too much and with the exception of prostitutes, had trouble relating to women.  

In their own way, these men were all supportive in helping to hone my craps dealing craft. But Paynlewski stood out as the only one, I ever thought of as a friend.

PUT A YOUNGER BOB UECKER (above) IN A CHEAP, WRINKLED SUIT.  ADD BAD TEETH,  A CONFUSED, DOUR AND PASTY COMPLEXION AND YOU HAVE THE PERFECT ACTOR TO PLAY DICK PAYNLEWSKI IN THE FILM VERSION OF HIS LIFE.

Dick was a prime character in my short story, "AGNES CARMICHAEL, OF THE CARMICHAEL CALIFORNIA CARMICHAELS."  If you think the title is mouthful then you're a perceptive person.  Because there was a two-year gap from the time I worked with Paynlewski at the Holiday until I saw him again...that's when Agnes "the Mouthpiece" Carmichael, (in a match made in heaven), became his first ever "real" girlfriend.

In 1981, I lost my craps dealer position at the Stardust Casino. Similar to the Holiday, the best rebound  job I could muster was a toilet called the Vegas Club.  To lament this devastation, after my first night, I met my former roommate Ciro the Hero, (before he became Ciro the Zero), at Binion's Horseshoe.  

We caught-up for an hour and at 5:AM, we crossed the street to Hotel Fremont and shot craps. The one other player at their only open table, was a  plumpish woman around thirty with a shiny face full of purple zits and a low-cut blouse.  She approached.after our unsuccessful session and tried hitting on Ciro.  Up close, she had frizzy, disorganized hair and chipped tooth that made her goofy.

Ciro politely brushed her off.  We tried to pass but she blocked his path, arced her back to promote her stretch-mark ravaged cleavage and said, "What's the rush?  I just want to be friendly."  Ciro got serious fast, "Get your fat tits and fat ass out of my face."  She grabbed his arm, "Hey, my father can make big trouble for you.  He's a big man in Carmichael...everyone in Sacramento knows him."  Ciro said, "Well you ain't him and the last time I looked Dorothy, you ain't in Kansas no more."  She said, "Daddy's a big man here too.  He has a forty-thousand dollar credit line at the Landmark (casino) alone.  Everyone in Vegas knows the name Cyrus Carmichael.  And when I finish blackjack school, he's gonna juice me into any casino I want."

Ciro faked an apology.  She smiled, "That's okay, let's go for a drink."  He said, "You're cute but I have a girl and she's the jealous type."  It was a half-truth because his girlfriend was a married woman that he was having Thursday afternoon relations with...and she didn't care how he spent the rest of his time.  Coincidentally, this girl was an assistant cage manager at the Landmark.  The next day, Ciro called her at work.  She confirmed that Cyrus Carmichael owned a real estate company and was indeed a big player from Carmichael California.

In the weeks that followed, I didn't transition well to the lowly Vegas Club.  In addition to making peanuts compared to the Stardust, one of my new supervisors, Ralph Winters, (a Wayne Newton wannabe), kept trying to jackpot me, (get me in trouble).  

Winters' reputation as an ignorant hater was well deserved. Once on a live game, a blackjack floorman Edmund Khalifa (a Catholic born in Dearborn Michigan of Arab descent), came to take up a collection for our terminally ill shift manager's surprise party.  Winters was such a prick and scoffed in front of the customers, "Beat it you fuckin' pushy camel jockey."

Khalifa left in a huff. To lighten the mood Winters bragged to us, "There's a new keno writer, a real train-wreck, who loves to give head."  We were a captive audience at our craps stations and compelled to listen.  He rattled off names of our coworkers who, "The Mouthpiece" had already serviced on the roof of the Horseshoe garage. 

That keno writer was Agnes Carmichael.  Her Mr. Wonderful daddy, didn't make good on his promise to get her a great dealing job.  So "Carmichael" as her name-tag read took her future into her own hands...or in this case, mouth.

Soon her persuasiveness or as she called it, "friendliness" paid-off as she sucked her way to a blackjack dealer job, at our bottom-of-the-barrel Vegas Club. She had a couple of weeks experience when I saw my long-lost supervisor Dick Paynlewski walk in.  He was with a local casino hustler, Simon "Coat-Rack" Rhett.  When Rhett left, fate brought Paynlewski to Carmichael's BJ table.

On one of my breaks I spotted Dick dousing a chili dog with hot sauce, at the snack bar.  He was drunk, slurring his words and holding the counter for stability. I didn't mention the dog crap-like dollop of beans on his brown shoe as he made it obvious that he hadn't changed.  

Paynlewski was still at the Holiday and frustrated about gambling away all his money.  He said unkind things about female Asian dealers and added, "I don't even know why they let scum like that in our country.  Hell, they ain't even Christians."  I said, "Dick, I'm not Christian."  "Don't worry buddy," he burped, "you know you're okay."

He grilled me about Carmichael but I wanted to know why he was hanging around with that parasite Coat-Rack.  Coat-Rack (70+) had been famous for selling table game systems to naive suckers, as a "past-poster," short-change artist and rail thief. In his advanced age, he evolved into supposed leigtamacy by being a walking pawn shop.  He loaned down-and-out gamblers money but took disproportionally expensive items as collateral.  

I asked, "What did you hock with Coat-Rack?"  Dick said, "Nuthin'.  This time I bought a big-ass attache case full of eight track tapes.  Now tell me about Carmichael?"  I shrugged, "She's new.  I don't really know..."  Dick interrupted, "She's really funny.  Wanna hear what she said?"  Before I could respond he added, "After I lost my last buck she said, 'After work, I'm having a party in my mouth.  Wanna come?'''  He saw my raised eyebrows and said, "Get this.  Then she says, 'don't worry about my chipped tooth, I know what I'm doing.'"  I said, "Sounds like a keeper."

We were walking back to my game and Dick whined, "I'm tired of all the Pollack jokes...do you think I should change my name?"  I said, "To what...Joe Paynlewski?"  He called me an asshole and added, "Remember the time Shag was all coked-up and threw a ferret on our (craps) table.  At that split second, how was I supposed to know that he was the one who did it.  Shit, I broke my nose trying to catch that rat." 

How could I forget...that is the funniest thing I ever saw inside a casino...or out.  Dick showed me the scar where the varmint bit him, "I was a victim of circumstance.  That could've happened to anyone but every goddamned day, all I hear at work are dumb Pollack jokes......" I cut his rant off, "When did you splurge and get a car and since when do you listen to music?"  He pointed to his temple, "I got an old beater off Coat-Rack and for ten more bucks, he threw-in all those eight tracks.  I don't need a player for it 'cause it's an investment. I'm going to resell those babies."  I went off-topic because my head was about to explode, "Dick, don't change your name.  Save your money, that shit is expensive.  Besides, you should be proud of your heritage.  Don't let small minds influence you."  I didn't think he was listening as he asked, "Could you spot me a twenty till pay-day?"  I said, "Sorry. I work here. I'm broke."  He muttered, "Some friend you are."

Carmichael and Dick soon were a couple.  He became a mature father figure who provided unconditional acceptance to her shortcomings.  And he got his first prolonged relationship and a sense of calm.  But after a short time, their co-dependency, (drinking and gambling), accentuated the boundless insecurities of their purposeless, helter-skelter lives.  Still, Carmichael came off as happy-go-lucky but when Dick found out that she considered her ongoing oral sex escapades as an act of friendliness, he became more irrational each time.

In the middle of a Vegas Club shift, I snuck out to take an audition for a better job, (the Horseshoe).  On my way back in the stinking alley behind the Golden Goose Slot Parlor, I saw Dick and Carmichael having a violent argument.  He said, "I heard you took on five guys last night."  She said, "I'm faithful to you.  That isn't sex...I was only being friendly...besides, it was only three guys."  Dick palmed her face like a basketball and shoved her down onto the wet, filthy pavement.  He cried, "Even one guy is cheating!"  Dick was about to kick her side when I said, "Hey!"  He ran off and yelled, "Whore!"

Why they stayed together, I'll never know because she never changed. It seemed that whenever I saw them, they were drunk, gambling, arguing or all three simultaneously.

   

Around that time, Ciro's casino cronies were meeting at a spa on an Indian Reservation, near the Utah state line. He invited me along.

(STOCK PHOTO)  I CAN'T REMEMBER THE NAME OF THE PLACE. BUT I KNOW THE KIDDIE POOL WAS SHAPED LIKE A TOMAHAWK AND THE ONLY BUILDING HAD A BAR, GIFT SHOP AND LUNCH COUNTER.

At the resort, we were surprised to see Carmichael and Dick in the tiny crowd.  She greeted me enthusiastically in a one-piece crimson bathing suit.  Dick, in brown trousers, a dress shirt and loafers looked like he was ready to go to work.  He and Ciro seemed acquainted. They shook hands but Dick remained serious and indifferent.  Carmichael smiled and poked his rib, "I know Steve from work but..." Dick snarled, "Ciro, this is Agg.  It's short for Aggravating." 

Later, Ciro and I were walking into the men's locker room and Carmichael followed us in.  She blithered about how great the mineral hot springs were and unzipped her swimsuit.  She removed one of her shoulder straps and said, "Am I getting a sun burn?"  Before we answered she pouted, "Maybe its hard to tell."  So she pulled down the other side, to fully expose her boobs.  Ciro said, "A lady needs privacy when she gets undressed."  She said, "A gentleman would look the other way."  He walked up to her, guided her into a shower stall and began kissing her breasts.  I scurried out.

I went into the U-shaped bar. I found Dick nodding out with his elbow on the bar with his hand propping up his head.  A half eaten hamburger, some nibbled onion rings and a double-scotch was in front of him.  I went on the opposite side and ordered a beer.  

In a while, grinning Ciro marched in.  Dick suddenly woke-up and bolted out the door.  Ciro and I laughed at his odd behavior.  Dick returned, gulped down his drink and blushed, "You can't trust a fart after forty."  Ciro couldn't hold back his hysterics and walked out.  Dick got the attention of the Native-American bartender, held up his empty glass and used a poor, stereotypical accent to say, "Hey chief, me trade-um wampum for heap more fire-water." 

Outside, Ciro bumped into Carmichael and she led him back in.  Instead of sitting with her boyfriend, she stood between Ciro and me.  She pinched Ciro's nose and declared, "I'll be your best friend if you buy me a beer." She chugged the big mug dry and began massaging both of our crotches at the same time.  Her hands were hiddened by the bar as Dick said, "You better not be giving Ciro a hand job."  He was walking out in disgust as Carmichael said, "I wouldn't think of giving Ciro a hand job."  She whispered to us, "I'm giving Ciro AND Steve a hand job."

On the hour-long drive back Ciro gushed, "Carmichael is fuckin' talented.  It must come from gobs of experience.  If giving head was an Olympic event, she'd win the gold medal. She puts these exploding Pop Rocks candies in her mouth when...wait!"  He interrupted himself and said, "Forget that, check this out.  Carmichael said Dick farts in his sleep, farts during sex and once shit in the bed when he came."  I said, "No?"  Ciro said, "Well, even a medium-sized wet fart would be shitting the bed to me." We laughed all the way back to Vegas.

That night at the Vegas Club, Edmund Khalifa told Carmichael that Ralph Winters complained to the terminally ill shift manager about getting strong-armed for his now, non-surprise birthday party. She told off Winters and turned her interest to family man Khalifa.  A week later, after a few oral sessions in his car, Edmund implied that he was leaving his wife for her.  She decided to dump Dick.

Khalifa brought Carmichael to one of his brother's unoccupied rental properties.  Two hours later, at six-thirty in the morning, he insisted on giving her cab fare.  To save time, they waited outside on the second floor landing.  Khalifa become aloof.  He looked at his watch and calculated that he might be able to get home before his wife.  Carmichael didn't appreciate how the festivities were unfolding.  She thought that Dick would never discard her this way, until with a deep sigh she realized that Edmund just rocked her world like no other...and for so long.  Her disappointment in "Eddie" for not taking her back to her car subsided as a new sensation radiated within her.  She smiled grabbed Khalifa's crotch, unzipped his fly and said, "Eddie, you were right, I did like it in the butt.  Let's go back inside and..."  Suddenly a yellow taxi turned the corner. He pulled up his zipper and said, "What are crazy?  I have neighbors."  He gave her a ten-dollar bill...and the bum's rush.

Back in her car, the digital clock atop the Mint Casino read, 7:11.  She felt lucky and headed home to cook her twelve-year old daughter Harlene breakfast and drive her to school.

The Gilbert O'Sullivan song  "Alone Again, Naturally," came on the radio as Carmichael drove south on Paradise Road.  She was singing along as she entered the Charleston Boulevard intersection.  Carmichael smiled lightly.  She was squirming from the pleasant feeling in her rectum as a speeding drunk ran the light and plowed into her driver side door.

Carmichael spent the next seventy-two hours in ICU, clinging to life with the help of a respirator.  

Harlene had left a message for her powerful grandfather. He didn't come to town, return her call or contact the hospital.  Instead, a reprentative of Carmichael Realty Enterprises arranged with the billing department, "to spare no expense."  Carmichael was situated in a deluxe private room.  By the third day, the room was adorned with three over-sized bouquets with an identical new "note:"  From Cyrus Carmichael.

On that third day, Harlene phoned Dick.  The lost soul was tipsy but arrived fifteen minutes later at the hospital with the apparent sobriety of a judge. He bickered with the nurses but because he wasn't family, he wasn't allowed in...until sobbing Harlene insisted.  

Carmichael had feeder tubes coming from her abdomen.  She was breathing on her own but was still in a coma. Dick's belly shuddered as a nurse summarized from her chart, "Ms. Agnes has suffered a broken hip and has internal bleeding." He cried as she continued, "In addition to innumerable other injuries, her spleen and a kidney have already been removed, and she'll never get pregnant again."

Harlene left with her friend's parents at 10:PM. Dick decided to stay the night.  He lovingly, kissed Carmichael's face, rubbed her arm and whispered words of encouragement.  Hours later, he emptied her bedpan and was washing it as he began rehearsing a marriage proposal. He returned to her side and contorted his body so he could clean her bottom. He was giving her one last wipe as she painfully moaned.

Dick sprang up.  He was about to ring for help as Carmichael softly groaned, "Eddie, put it in my butt again..."  Dick couldn't believe his ears.  He snuggled up to her and whispered, "What did you say?"  There was no answer.  Dick said, "This is Eddie, what do you want?"  Barely audible she croaked, "You were right Eddie, I did like it in the butt...do it again."

Paynlewski punched the wall.  In a frenzy, he paced while trying to figure out what to do.  Carmichael garbled, "E-E-Eddie," he grabbed her throat and choked her.  At that same instant Dick's stomach seized up on him.  His mad dash avoided a tragedy and the ultimate embarrassment.  He got out of the toilet, smashed one of the lavish bouquets to the ground and stormed away.

Dick guessed that Eddie was Carmichael's coworker.  He sped through the sparse traffic downtown.  At 3:AM, he haphazardly parked on Ogden Street and jogged to the Vegas Club's rear entrance.  Dick began asking employees, "Is Eddie working tonight?"  His quest was made more difficult because everyone knew Khalifa, only as Edmund. Finally a roulette dealer answered, "There's no Eddie's on this shift...unless you mean Edmund, he's the floorman watching that last BJ table."

Paynlewski was seething in hatred and bent on revenge.  He recognized Edmund's Middle Eastern coloring and wanted to attack the reprehensible heathen who defiled the girl he wanted to marry.  Dick noticed an approaching security guard and decided that this was not the time to confront his rival.

Dick ran out and began searching every downtown casino.  Hours passed.  He was so sleep deprived that it looked like he was in a trance.  The third time he checked the Union Plaza Casino he saw a short, downtrodden hustler and asked, "Have you seen Coat-Rack?"  The flea said, "No, he's probably home.  Simon only comes out at night."  Dick said, "Night? What time is it?"  He slowly pulled out a beat-up, antique, silver pocket watch and said, "That's funny.  I bought this off Simon five years ago..."  Dick stopped him, "Yeah, yeah whatever..."  The man said, "Hold your horses buddy boy," as he donned a pair of glasses with one frame missing.  He held the watch to his ear and muttered, "Jeez.  It musta stopped. But I can tell you with certainty that it's half past noon."  Dick was confused as the man pointed to the digital clock on the roof of the Mint Casino.

Paynlewski's reflex was to hit him, instead he demanded, "Where does he live?"  The opportunist extended his right palm, "Don't get so bossy.  My memory ain't what it used to be."  Dick slammed a five into the derelect's palm and yelled, "Where?" 

Dick ran back to his car.  He ripped a parking ticket off the windshield and raced away. Six blocks away, he saw a dilapidated two-car garage behind 37 Cincinnati Street. In a shady spot, Coat-Rack, in green leisure-suit pants, a western shirt and bolo tie, sat on a tree stump sipping apricot brandy from a pint bottle .

Paynlewski grabbed the old-timer's elbow and prodded him inside."Simon, you gotta gun for sale?" Coat-Rack drawled, "Whoa big fella...before I tell you if I have such an item, you gotta tell me what you need it for."  Dick didn't answer.  Coat-Rack probed Dick's eyes and said, "You look like shit."  He didn't wait for a response. "This ain't another one of your stupid POE-LACK ideas...you know you still gotta back-up the five C's you owe me from last week's Poe-Lack bullshit."  Paynlewski nodded as he  silently absorbed the shame.  The old man shouted,  "Y'all think I just fell off a turnip truck?  C'mon now Buster, speak up!  Swear to me that you ain't aimin' to kill nobody?"  Dick was staring at the ground as he sniveled, "I-I swear."

Through a sea of hapharzard merchandise littering every inch of the floor, Coat-Rack tip-toed to a bureau. His matching polyester suit jacket was dangling on a hangar from the open drawer as he shuffled through small items until pulling out a .25.

The sermon started with keeping the good name of Simon Rhett out of any police reports.  He took a deep breath, "Lookey here sonny, if the cow patty hits the fan, you found this piece behind a dumpster!  If you fuck-up, remember, this pee-shooter might be hot.  Plus you got no license and you ain't getting no paperwork neither.  Jesus H.  Christ, I don't even know if you know how to use this damned thing."  Dick said, "Looks like a toy"  He grabbed for it but Coat-Rack pulled it back, "Sixty, in cash, now."

Armed with a two-minute tutorial and a loaded Saturday Night Special, Paynlewski returned to his tiny efficiency apartment. In a juvenile manner he stood in front of the bathroom mirror and practiced drawing.  Soon, he felt like a pro and put it in his pants pocket.

Dick went to the hospital and trudged up the corridor towards Carmichael's room.  At the nurse's station, he got mobbed and was given the rock star treatment.  The women called it a miracle and congratulated his TLC and patience for pulling Agnes out of her coma.

In the room, a fourth bouquet was set next to the reassembled one that Dick had broken.  He was surprised to see Harlene and her friend cheerfully sitting beside lucid Carmichael.  The patient was sipping cranberry juice when Dick asked the two adolescents to give him a little one-on-one time with Carmichael.  The gigglers were on the way out as Zombie-like Dick confidently gripped the concealed gun .  He was swooping in for the kill as Carmichael gasped, "I'm sorry." Dick withdrew an empty hand from his pocket.  She continued, "I was weak, I strayed, please forgive me...I did 'it' with another man."  Tears streamed down her face.  Paynlewski was at a loss.  His anger melted.

He took her hand. She sobbed, "They told me what you did for me...I almost died."  Dick gingerly kissed all over her face.  She was becoming woozy and weakly grabbed at his groin.  She was on the verge of passing out as she felt the gun's short barrel, "Wow, you are happy to see me."

The head nurse barged in, "Visiting hours are over."  She looked at Dick, "This one's dead on his feet.  Go home, Aggie will be fine."  Carmichael strained to be heard, "My own fuckin' father never came and neither did any of my friends."  She started coughing, "Dick, I'm never going to be 'friendly' again....I love you."  Dick's heart was pounding but before he could spit out his marriage proposal, the nurse pulled the curtain and ordered him out.

Dick went home.  He was emotionally wrought and physically exhausted but Edmund's face was indelibly etched in his psyche.   Consumed by vengeance, he decided to stay awake until eight.  All he could think about was blowing away that sodomizing Arab bastard.  Dick started hallucinating.  He washed his face and stood out on his tiny terrace.  He stretched and took deep breaths of fresh air but still felt lightheaded.  Dick returned to splash more water on his face. He stared down his reflection and drew his pistol as he mumbled cliches from old westerns.  Finally he croaked, "Edmund, this town isn't big enough for the two us," and fumbled the weapon.

The gun went off.  The sound in the claustrophobic bathroom was deafening.  It was followed by his lingering painful wail from shooting himself in the foot.

The next day, Dick phoned me.  I couldnt believe he had my number and shocked by what happened. Far stranger, I remained skeptical that he was handcuffed to a hospital bed.  He added, "Steve, I told the police that I found the fuckin' gun by a dumpster, I was messing around with it and didn't realize it was loaded.  They gotta investigate first. Hopefully those jerkoffs won't press charges."

I agreed to visit Carmichael. and tell her the story.  Before we hung up Dick added, "Do you think Coat-Rack sells engagement rings?"  "I said, "Wow.  I guess?"  He was grabbing his stomach and said, "Lookit, my gut is killing me. I gotta run but one more thing.  I went through with it and legally changed my name."  I said, "Isn't that expensive...I thought you were broke?"  "Yeah, I borrowed $500.00 from Coat-Rack."  I was speechless as he continued, "Anyhoo, you are now speaking with Richard Thomas Payne.  Like the Revolutionary War patriot, you know, the dude who wrote that 'Common Sense' pamphlet.  From now on, no more Pollack jokes."  I said, "So you want everyone to call you Richard?"  He said, "No, I'll still be Dick."  I said, "Then your name will be Dick Payne...like dick pain and Carmichael will be Mrs. Dick Payne."  Richard Thomas Payne angrily said, "Steve, you're crazy, nobody thinks like you."  I was about to say, good luck as Mr. Dick Payne shouted, "FUCK! I just shit myself."

Something tells me, he'll always be 'Mr.  Payne...in the Ass,' too.

                                                                         # # #

I've always said, "Vegas is a great place to work but I wouldn't want to live there." The main reason is, it's a transient town .  Most people gravitate there to live a permanent luxurious and carefree lifestyle or wanted a quick fix to "restart" their lives, or were running away from something.

At some point, reality sets in and most leave.  This creates a revolving door of neighbors and coworkers.  Leaving the town with, a decent percentage of  desperate dregs struggling to live. 

For me, reliable friends were difficult to find.  Sadly, the ones I took into my life usually had harsh, hidden agendas too. This wasn't an environment where my wife and I wanted to start a family.

Since leaving in 1984, the few friends I kept in contact with dwindled.  By 2009 when we spent part of a family vacation in Las Vegas, all that was left was Ciro the Hero.  Unfortunately for all involved, our hour-long meeting didn't go well.  He was such a major diappointment that I was embarrassed to have exposed the newly dubbed, "Ciro the Zero," to my wife and son. 

THE Z-MOBILE

My friend Zac, "Zee" and his family bribed their way out of Communist Yugoslavia (today's Croatia), in the late 60's.  They settled in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn.  In 1970, while a high school freshman, the swimming coach noticed Zee's uncanny speed and perfect breast-stroke form.  In an attempt to resurrect his perennial losing squad, he enlisted Zee for a swim meet later that same day.  Due to Zee's heavy Eastern European accent and spotty mastery for English, the coach nicknamed his wunderkind, "Johnny Weissmuller."

THE TITLE: WUNDERKIND, (WONDER CHILD), IS RESERVED FOR THE RAREST OF YOUNG PRODIGIES (UNDER 18) WHO EXCEL IN A SPECIFIC FIELD, ON AN ADULT LEVEL.  LIKE PABLO PICASSO IN ART, MOZART (above) AT AGE 5, COMPOSED SOME THE MOST FAMOUS MUSIC OF ALL TIME.

The coach was pre-mature with his Weissmuller honorarium because he soon found out that Zee, despite his abundance of raw talent, had never been a competitive swimmer. 

JOHNNY WEISSMULLER (1904-1984) WON FIVE OLYMPIC GOLD MEDALS AND A BRONZE FOR SWIMMING,  IN THE 1920's.  LATER HE BECAME THE SIXTH OF A DOZEN OR SO ACTORS TO PORTRAY TARZAN IN THE MOVIES.  HIS DISTINCTIVE CHEST-BEATING YELL AND HUNGARIAN ACCENT MADE HIM THE BEST KNOWN, "KING OF THE APES."

In Zee's early teens, while still in his homeland, he honed his swim skills as a lifeguard, at a private beach club on the Sea of Dalmatia.  Therefore he had never formally raced.  This was made clear by Zee's awkward turns in the pool.  Nevertheless, he cruised to an apparent, easy victory in his first (only) event.  Unfortunately, nobody mentioned that he had to physically touch the end of the pool to complete the race.  Not only did Zee get disqualified but the coach's abusive tongue-lashing caused him to quit in shame. Plus upon hearing this news, his austere parents forbade him from future extra-curricular activities without their permission.

This mandate seemed natural because Zee was already getting taunted at school due to his foreign accent and a stammering problem.  His overly protective parents tried to insulate him from the less sophisticated portion of the population but their actions only served to reinforce his inferiority issues and delay his development.  A few years later (1976), at Brooklyn College, is where I came in.

I met (was thrown together with) Zee through a mutual friend, MBF.  We were going to a party in Staten Island but MBF wanted the autonomy to "fly solo" in case he picked-up a girl.  So he introduced me to Zee and suggested that I get a ride in his Z-Mobile. 

The Z-Mobile was a high school graduation present from his parents.  For a hundred dollars, they bought him a deteriorated, 1954 Nash Rambler that had been buried under debris in a cousin's barn for ten years.

THE NASH RAMBLER, WAS KNOWN FOR ITS QUALITY AND NOT BEING A "CHEAP LITTLE CAR. "  DURING ITS PRODUCTION RUN (1950-1955),  IT BECAME ACKNOWLEDGED AS AMERICA'S FIRST COMPACT.  ABOVE IS A 1950 CONVERTIBLE LANDAU  COUPE.  YOU MIGHT RECALL THAT THIS MODEL, IN BLACK, WAS DRIVEN BY LOIS LANE ON THE "SUPERMAN" TV SHOW. 

Zee's folks put a lot more money into getting the car running but almost nothing was spent on anything else. Therefore a sheet was thrown over the naked seat springs and all the passengers sat on throw pillows.  The car also had no radio, no heater and only the driver's window rolled down which really sucked because there was no air-conditioning either.  That meant that my first meeting (an hour car ride) with the self-conscious, generally quiet, stammering foreigner was excruciatingly cold and boring.

THE Z-MOBILE WAS THE 1954 NASH RAMBLER COUNTRY CLUB MODEL.  RE-PAINTED WITH A SOLID BATTLESHIP GRAY PRIMER,  IT EARNED IT'S NICKNAME BECAUSE ZEE SPRAY-PAINTED A GIANT SILVER "Z" ON THE ROOF...SO HE COULD SPOT HIS RIDE FROM THE TERRACE OF HIS EIGHTH FLOOR APARTMENT, (THESE DAYS, FULLY RESTORED, HIS Z-MOBILE WOULD HAVE BEEN WORTH A FORTUNE).

Against the wishes of his parents, Zee and I became close friends.  They didn't like me.  They thought I was a bad influence just because I had him staying out late, going to pool halls and drinking.  They couldn't have been more right!

Our first major conflict occurred at the end of June, 1976. A large group of friends decided to go on a canoe trip down the Delaware Water Gap.  Zee was familiar with the Callicoon New York area and wanted to go up a day early so he could show me around.  His plan concentrated on taking me to a "great" bar called, Bend-N-Elbow.  He claimed it had a reputation for easy girls plus his parent's summer home was nearby.  Well...last call came and we didn't pick anybody up. Zee who really wasn't in any condition to drive (neither was I) thought I still needed to be entertained.  So he drove to a field next to a small county airport where local teenage couples went for romantic liaisons.  We had a long heart to heart conversation but by 2:30AM, it was time to go to his family's bungalow.

Four hours later, I don't know who was more shocked, me, Zee or his folks but they showed up a week before the Fourth of July, to open the house for the season  They smelled the alcohol on Zee and woke him up.  An argument ensued.  My head was pounding as his mother rousted us outside to help his father while she made breakfast.

The chore of the day was to dig out a fair-sized stump, (or as Zee's dad called it, a schtoomp).  Zee's dad took a pick ax, a spade and a shovel from the shed.  Then with as much sarcastic venom as my hung-over head could produce I said, "Where's the dynamite?"  Zee's dad countered, "To fully appreciate the bountiful breakfast you are about to receive, you must first experience suffering." 

I knew his family endured tremendous hardships when they escaped through the iron curtain but this all-day project really required better tools.  Out of respect, I gave his dad about twenty minutes.  Zee was feeling the same way.  That's when he and I recognized the potential futility and exchanged harsh glares.  When dad left us alone, we conferred and decided to give up and leave.  His dad didn't take the news well. He followed us when we collected our stuff.  Inside, the table was set with four bowls, a small container of milk and a variety pack of little cereal boxes. We ignored the bounty, said some kind words and jumped into the Z-Mobile.  His mother followed us out and was muttering in her native tongue as we drove off.

Towards the end of that summer, after getting tanked-up at Davey Jones Bar on Emmons Avenue in Sheepshead Bay, six of us piled into the Z-Mobile and drove to nearby Manhattan Beach. 


HARD TO BELIEVE THAT THIS IS THE BEST PHOTO OF MANHATTAN BEACH ON THE INTERNET.  IF YOU ARE WONDERING WHY MANHATTAN BEACH IS IN BROOKLYN...IT'S BECAUSE THAT IS THE NAME OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD.

In the center of the big, empty parking lot, we were throwing glow-in-the-dark Frisbees. At around 2:00AM, a hysterical girl came running towards us.  She pointed into the farthest, darkest corner and said that her boyfriend had passed out.  I was expecting it to be a prank but Zee and MBF's brother (Scotty) sprinted to the scene.  Zee used his lifeguard training and tried to give this kid mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.  Scotty opened the victim's shirt and discovered a thick, zipper-like scar across his chest before he tried to massage the kid's heart.  While one of our girls comforted the girlfriend, another girl took the fallen nineteen-year old's hand to test his pulse. She shook her head.  I followed and felt no pulse either. 

These were the days before 9-1-1.  One of our girls took the boy's car to find a phone.  It took about thirty minutes before an ambulance arrived.  During the wait, Zee and Scotty never stopped trying to revive the boy. The EMT's then confirmed our worst suspicions.

Zee and Scotty decided to go to the wake.  When Zee came out of his room wearing a suit, his mom asked questions.  She didn't believe that the poor boy had a heart attack.  She assumed he was on drugs and blamed the low-life (me) for having her angel associate with other low-life's.

The next time I reached the top of his family's shit-list was in 1977. I took Zee to an illegal after-hours bar that featured nude dancers. It turned out to be pretty lame.  The skeevie place had almost no customers, the skanky girls danced like they were indifferent (or on barbiturates) and the Neanderthal bouncers who out numbered the patrons, were rude.  We separated after having our first beer.  Zee drifted over to chat with a peroxide blond dancer while she was on a break.

The place was dreary and I was so bored that I started to nod off.  A huge goon with no neck poked me to remind me that I hadn't reached the two-drink minimum.  I didn't want to stay and didn't want another over-priced drink.  But because I was a good wingman, I wanted to stall long enough for Zee to get his foot in the door with the girl. 

I told the overbearing jerk, "I'm not ready for another drink yet."  Ten minutes later he returned with a posse of two equally large henchmen and said, "Ready for another drink, now?"  I said, "Nah, maybe later."  One of the other enforcers said, "You ain't drinkin', you ain't stayin'."  I said, "You throwing me out?"  The first guy said, "Yeah."  I said, "If you throw me out, I'm taking ALL my friends with me!"  They looked around the empty club, called my bluff and smirked, "Wise-ass, yuh outta here."  I held my head high and yelled across the room, "C'mon Zee, we're leaving."

In the Z-Mobile, Zee told me he pitied Blondie.  She wanted to go to college but had ten-month old twins, her boyfriend left her and her mother refused to help.  The next day, Zee saw it fit to share that tidbit with his mom.  She threatened to disown him if he continued hanging around with that derelict (me) or if he ever went to a strip club again.

Zee remained loyal to me and nothing changed except I never called his house...well actually, there was one time.  The exception happened in late December 1977 when twelve of us rented a ski chalet in Killington Vermont, for the New Years Eve weekend.  I was driving that night. I was supposed to start picking people up but my car wouldn't start.  I had to call Zee (luckily he answered) and tell him the heater-less, radio-less Z-Mobile needed to be pressed into service for the long trek north.

MY CAR WAS A 1968 DODGE POLARA, (a.k.a. THE THUNDERBOLT GREASE SLAPPER).  I ACHIEVED TONS OF FAHRVERGNUGEN WITH IT, LIKE THE 1977 TRIP (above) TO ELLENVILLE NEW YORK.

Zee and I had three other passengers.  We wrapped ourselves in blankets and still had a great time on the ride up.  One of the girls taught us the words to the 1958, "LITTLE NASH RAMBLER," song by the Playmates. We sung it ad nauseum, (mainly the beep-beeps and the chorus).  Click on the link below to see the video.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o1c4QZGQw5o

Unfortunately, Zee never told his folks where he was going and for how long. 

THAT'S ZEE.  HE AND I BOTH DIDN'T TAKE WELL TO SKI LESSONS.  SO ON THE SECOND DAY, WHILE EVERYONE ELSE HIT THE SLOPES, WE WENT TOBOGGANING.  WE WERE ALONE SO WE HAD TO TAKE SEPARATE PICTURES OF EACH OTHER. UNFORTUNATELY FOR ME, WE WERE BEST SERVED RIDING TOGETHER...WITH HIM LYING ON TOP OF ME. 

When Zee got back to Flatbush, he accidentally included my name in his explanation to his folks.  By this time, I was their all-purpose scapegoat.  His parents dragged my name in the mud as they listed every cataclysm that could have befallen him.  He protested, "I-I-I'm twenty-two.  You c-c-can't choose my friends and n-n-nothing went wrong.  We had a g-g-great time!" They blamed his new-found arrogance on me and punished him by confiscating his car keys for a few days...he had spare keys, (wasn't my idea but I'm certain mom and pop thought so).

In November 1978, I pissed off his family again.  It started at the Gil Hodges Bowling Alley.  While waiting for other friends, Zee and I went into the modest, blue collar bar.  I got a Miller High Life but Zee stammered, "I-I-I'll have a Grand M-Marnier."  The bartender responded to his accent and roared, "Grand Marnier?  Where do you think you are, Buckingham fucking Palace?" 

When the rest of my friends showed up, nobody wanted to bowl.  So the plan was changed to a road trip out to a disco on Long Island called Rumbottoms.

Our three-car caravan arrived at 11:00PM.  Outside the club was a gigantic, colorful tarpaulin sign tied to the wall advertising, "BUSCH BEER COMING SOON!" Then in a blank space, hand-painted in black, the sign read: "RUMBUTTOMS WELCOMES - WET TEE-SHIRT CONTEST EVERY TUESDAY AT MIDNIGHT. FIRST PRIZE $250.00."

ANHEUSER BUSCH INTRODUCED "BUSCH BAVARIAN BEER" IN 1955.  IN 1979 WHEN THE BEER WENT NATIONAL, THE NAME WAS SHORTENED TO, "BUSCH."  TODAY, IT IS THE LARGEST SELLING SUB-PREMIUM PRICED BEER IN THE USA.  AFICIONADOS JOKE THAT IT IS THE WORST TASTING BEER ON THE PLANET.  THE ONLY REASON ITS SALES ARE SO HIGH IS BECAUSE OF THE LOW PRICE.  THE EXPERTS ONLY RETRACT THEIR NEGATIVITY WHEN THE SUBJECT OF "BUSCH LIGHT" IS BROUGHT UP.

Rumbottoms was as big as an airplane hangar and jammed with nearly all males. Inside, our ten-man group formed cliques and immediately dispersed. I was talking to another friend as I noticed Zee hitting-on the busty bartender.  When the announcement was made that the contest was starting, almost everyone migrated towards the stage.  The emcee inter-spliced the contestant introductions with a humorous review of the grounds rules. The crowd's biggest roar was when he reminded the girls, "If you want to avoid getting disqualified, remember, NO BUSH!"

Spirits were high in the Z-Mobile during the drive home.  Zee showed off the Rumbottoms tee-shirt he bought as the other passengers and I relived the night's highlights with excitement and laughter. But Zee wasn't contributing to the conversation so I said to him, "It was too bad that bouncer broke up the cat-fight before it really got started."  Zee had to have the term cat-fight explained.  Someone else said, "Dude, how did you miss that?  It was the best part."  Zee said, "I-I didn't go over there."  I said, "WHAT?  Why?"  He said, "I d-d-didn't realize what kind of contest it was.  I was just glad everyone left and I got a s-s-seat at the bar." My other friend said, "C'mon.  Didn't you hear when the emcee said, 'NO BUSH?'  Weren't you curious why we all went crazy?"  Zee shrugged, "I thought whoever was in the contest c-c-couldn't drink beer."

It didn't take Zee's mom long to find the Rumbottoms shirt.  In the interrogation that followed, he was threatened with getting kicked out of the house.  When he didn't flinch his dad said, "If you don't drop that bum as a friend, maybe you can pay off your own grad-school loans!"  Zee pretended to be intimidated as he internally laughed it off because dad had no clue that I was moving to Las Vegas in a month.

Six years later when the Z-Mobile was long forgotten, I attended Zee's wedding.  During the ceremony and the reception, his folks shunned me.  Their son was already a successful professional but in their parochial, inflexible, black and white world, they still thought I had some sort of despicable Svengali hold over him.  Then in their own mind their fears were validated when they found out that I led a contemptible, corrupt life of moral shortcomings and degradation, in the casino industry.

Zee's folks understandably wanted to keep their boy safe.  But their rigidity couldn't stop Zee's basic instinct for progress.  Once he allowed his curiosity to take him down new streets and beyond the horizon, he still had the proper upbringing and responsibility ethic, to know when to back down.  During our adventures, we never let our fun be an excuse to hurt anyone.  We never strayed too far from the spirit of the law and we didn't do anything that we would regret. 

I believe it's crucial for all of us to have the freedom to learn from our mistakes.  The discovery of new things, is the key to our personal evolution.  Like the advancement of civilization, we accept some new knowledge but reject most. That is what progress is, a gradual cultural exchange of sharing and diversity.  So even if we don't adopt the new ideas we are exposed to, a more sophisticated mind would be at least opened to other possibilities. If we remained so rigid that we could never intellectually grow then being king of the apes, and teasing foreigners, might be the best we could aspire to.

Who knows, if I didn't take that first ride in the Z-Mobile maybe our fates would have been different.  But I'm positive that I'm a better person for having had him as a friend and perhaps, in some small way, I helped liberate him from being a stammering, perpetual victim.

In the last twenty-eight years I saw Zee twice.  The last time was in Atlantic City, (1993).  I told him that I was disappointed that his gray Lexus didn't have a spray-painted silver "Z" on the roof.  He didn't stammer when he changed subject.

On several occasions with the popularity of social networking being what it is, I have tried in vain to see Zee.  He lives in New York and remains in contact with MBF.  When I tried to include Zee when MBF and I met two years ago, Zee never responded to the invitation or any of the other E-Mails I sent.  Wouldn't it be crazy if his parents poisoned his bride's mind.   Maybe he couldn't see me because she was l worried that I would lure him into strip clubs or other dens of iniquity?

CELEBRITY SOFA; JAMES GLEASON, THE TREE THAT GREW IN BROOKLYN

IN THE NOVEL/MOVIE, "A TREE GROWS IN BROOKLYN, " THE MAIN CHARACTER FRANCIE NOLAN, IS AN IMPOVERISHED ELEVEN-YEAR OLD GIRL. SHE COMPLAINS TO HER DRUNKEN, IDEALISTIC FATHER WHEN THE TREE SHE CALLS, "THE TREE OF HEAVEN," (A METAPHOR OF HER), IS ABOUT TO BE CUT DOWN. 

HIS RESPONSE IS;  Why sure baby.  Don't tell me that tree is gonna lay down and die that easily.  Look at that tree.  See where its coming from.  Right out of the cement!  Didn't nobody plant it.  Didn't ask (permission from) the cement to grow.  It just couldn't help growing so much it just pushed the old cement out of the way.  Now when you bust it, with something like that, can't nobody help it, like, like that little ole bird up there.  He didn't ask anybody could he sing and he certainly didn't take any lessons.  He's so full of it, it just has to bust out someplace.  Why they couldn't cut that tree to the ground and (still) a root would push up somewhere else in the cement.

Old movies are one of my great escapes. The ones I like, I'll watch over and over.  Somehow, thanks mainly to "TURNER CLASSIC MOVIES" (TCM),  even if years get between viewings, these gems can't help pushing their way through the cracks to entertainment me, (and millions of others).  This guiltless pleasure radiates within me on several levels but mostly, I appreciate their quality, familiarity and consistency.  I rarely get caught-up in their inner, technical workings, I prefer the style, enjoy the stories and love the characters.

I get a warm and fuzzy feeling from the actors and their roles.  Like old home movies of a long lost relative or friend, my movies are a time capsule.  Remember the old home movies at grandma's Thanksgiving in 1961?  And isn't it priceless how the memories are stirred when you see your Uncle Charlie sleeping on the sofa...for the thirtieth time. That's the affect I get when watching the big Hollywood superstars in action. 

My friend HJ recently experienced something similar.  He informed me that his dad appeared in the late 60's as an impostor on the TV show, "TO TELL THE TRUTH."

"TO TELL THE TRUTH," USED A PANEL OF FOUR CELEBRITIES TO SEPARATE TWO IMPOSTORS FROM THE REAL CONTESTANT WHO HAD AN USUAL OCCUPATION OR EXPERIENCE. IN VARIOUS VERSIONS, THE SHOW,  IN NON-CONSECUTIVE YEARS, APPEARED FROM 1956 TO 2002, FOR 25 SEASONS

Some of the notable To Tell The Truth guests were; aviator Douglas "Wrong-Way" Corrigan, (1957), Berry Gordy Jr., the founder of Motown Records, (1965), Frank Abignale Jr., for whom the Leonardo DiCaprio movie, "CATCH ME IF YOU CAN," was based as well as popcorn mogul Orville Redenbacher. I even went with a girlfriend in 1971, to 30 Rockefeller Center and saw an NBC production of it, (in studio 6-A).  Our episode included Francis Gary Powers, the CIA, U2 spy plane pilot who was shot down and captured in Russia.

AMERICAN FRANCIS GARY POWERS, (1929-1977), WAS ON A RECONNAISSANCE FLIGHT IN 1960.  HE WAS HELD IN THE USSR FOR TWO YEARS UNTIL HE WAS INCLUDED IN A SPY SWAP.  

Luckily for HJ the "GAME SHOW NETWORK," began airing To Tell The Truth, re-runs.  When he found out, his wife taped them.  It took a long time but the fruits of their labor resulted in a rare glimpse (for the pre-camcorder generation) of his father, captured forever in time, in his prime, speaking.  Seeing it sparks great memories for him that might have never been rekindled.

I'm jealous, I wish I had some youthful video of  my dad speaking.  Therefore, I admit that seeing the icons of the silver screen pales by comparison but I still love watching "my" Hollywood friends perform. 

Sometimes, the less than iconic stars are fun too. This is true in the case of balding, slender character actor, James Gleason.  While casual movie fans might not know him by name, this native of Manhattan is highly noticeable because from 1931-1958, he made a career out of being typecast as a tough New Yorker (usually from Brooklyn) with a warm heart.  My connection with this craggy voiced master of double-talk probably stems from me being from Brooklyn and that I could identify with his accurate portrayals. 

NEVER A LEADING MAN, JAMES GLEASON (1882-1959) APPEARED IN OVER 40 MOVIES. WHILE HE WAS ALSO A SCREEN WRITER AND A PLAYWRIGHT, HE WAS BEST KNOW FOR HIS SECONDARY ROLES IN ALL SIX, "HILDEGARDE WITHERS" MYSTERIES OF THE 30's, "MEET JOHN DOE" 1941, "HERE COMES MR. JORDAN," 1941, "ARSENIC AND OLD LACE," 1944, "THE BISHOP'S WIFE," 1947 AND "SUDDENLY," 1954.  

My favorite James Gleason role, (he received seventh billing) was from 1945's, "A TREE GROWS IN BROOKLYN."  In this three-and-a-half star adaption of Betty Smith's semi-autobiographical novel from two years earlier, Gleason plays  "McGarrity," a low-end saloon keeper/bartender.

As mentioned in the prologue above, young Francie Nolan grows up in the turn-of-the-century slums of Williamsburg Brooklyn.  Her personality is a combination of her stern, pragmatic, hard working mother and her charismatic, imaginative, deadbeat father.

FRANCIE NOLAN WILL GROW UP TO BE AN AUTHOR. SINCE I FIRST READ "TREE" IN JUNIOR HIGH, MY WRITING HAS BEEN INFLUENCED BY ONE OF IT'S STRONGEST THEMES...WRITING WHAT YOU KNOW.

Francie's pretty mother (Katie) in exchange for free rent, is forced to be the janitor where she lives.  She is frequently shown scrubbing floors to barely support her family. Her dad (Johnny) gets intermittent work as a singing waiter but when he has some money, he proves his worthlessness by squandering it on booze.

Gleason's role (more richly described in the book) is typical of him.  Perhaps because of the difficult nature of running a dive in a poor neighborhood, he is seen as a miserable, cantankerous soul.  When Johnny Nolan (32) dies from complications from pneumonia and alcohol poisoning, Katie, who never met McGarrity, feels compelled by her sense of fair play to face the ogre, relinquish her sparse savings, settle her husband's bar tab and retrieve his personal mug, (so Johnny can be buried with it).

Before going to the male oriented bar room, Francie's mother goes to the coroner's office.  She pleads (successfully) for the sake of her children to omit any inference of liquor from her husband's death certificate.  Then at McGarrity's, she sees the curmudgeon's negativity in action.  Still, she prods herself forward, introduces herself and explains her visit.

Johnny's charismatic spirit squeezes up through the grave, through the most unlikely cracks in the concrete of McGarrity's outward appearance and into his heart. The gin mill operator lightens up when he sees Katie's beauty.  Then he lies and says that Johnny Nolan already paid off his account. 

In reality, Johnny (The Brooklyn Nightingale) was a barfly who was frequently mocked and/or thrown out.  He pan-handed free drinks by singing and telling wild yarns about his wonderful family. When McGarrity saw Katie, he figured that Johnny wasn't full of blarney after all. He then confesses to her that he has a miserable personal life.  But Johnny's incredible, loving stories made him feel good and made anything seem possible.

This sequence is the catalyst that turns Francie's family fortunes around and will eventually lead to a happy ending for everyone.  Well, not Johnny Nolan, who's worth more dead, than alive.  This is proven immediately when McGarrity offers Francie's younger brother a job after school, (even though financially, this gesture is poor business decision and unnecessary...it slips through the cracks and becomes an emotional windfall for McGarrity by keeping a part of Johnny nearby).

I once made the mistake of relating myself to the Johnny Nolan character.  When my son was young, I couldn't control my enthusiasm for sharing, the great details of my family life.  After all, to quote baseball legend Reggie Jackson, "It ain't braggin' if you can do it." But I soon realized that people (many more than I imagined) led tough lives and didn't want to hear so much, so often.  Then when I considered that Johnny Nolan died a young man, I toned-down that aspect of my life.

"A TREE GROWS IN BROOKLYN," is a sensitive coming of age story.  Written in a social commentary wrapper, it reflects the American dream as well as being a nostalgic look back to simpler times. So please don't let anyone tell you that, "Tree" is a girlie book or a chick-flick. 

FRANCIE AND JOHNNY NOLAN, AT  THE COURTYARD WINDOW WHERE THEY ADMIRE THE "TREE OF HEAVEN" WHICH PERSEVERED WITHOUT WATER, SUNLIGHT OR EVEN SOIL.

But today, whether you're an old softy like me or not, I'm selling James Gleason's, McGarrity.  Like the tree, once you get past his gruffness, you realize that he is common and humble.  And it's his humility that makes him and the tree more powerful. 

If it sounds like I'm bragging...GOOD!  Because there is something inside me that can't stop my praise.  So the next time you get an urge to watch a great old movie,  do yourself a favor because it's worth seeing (or reading) over and over.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY...A LOT OF LOVE FROM A SMALL PACKAGE.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY !  Whether you are the celebrator or the celebratee...or both, today is the day to honor the special women who should be honored everyday of the year.

My earliest memory of this holiday has to with the first Mother's Day gift I bestowed upon my mom.  In third grade, there was a flower sale in the school library. I scraped together a nickel and five pennies and got a tiny plant, in a three-inch square, white pot.

My mom made me feel good even though my dot-sized present was displayed on the kitchen counter, side-by-side with the mammoth fern my sister got. Mom glamorized my wee green sprout and told me that this kind of plant (ivy) will grow bigger than I could imagine and with her tender loving care, it would last a long time.

Mom was a feminine, old-fashion girl.  Her instincts towards motherhood extended into a glorious gardening touch.  In my childhood, this talent produced a beautiful backyard of roses. 

(CIRCA 1953)  BEFORE MOVING "ON UP" TO CANARSIE, PRIOR TO MY BIRTH, MOM DEVELOPED HER GREEN THUMB AT THEIR BROWNSVILLE APARTMENT HOUSE.  HERE WE SEE HER CULTIVATING THE RARE, "PITKIN ORCHID."

While Brooklyn might be associated with concrete and asphalt, a passerby to our house in Canarsie could easily see the artistic, colorful arrangement blooming in the flower beds that lined the alley along side our house. Mom also adorned the walkway to our front door with pretty azaleas and pom-poms as well as keeping up a window box laden with petunias.

Mom's tendency to stay a housewife set the woman's rights movement back twenty years.  She was highly intelligent but because of the economics caused by the Great Depression and the social labeling of the time, it seemed natural to not pursue a college education.  So in the early stages of marriage, she was usually seen barefoot, pregnant and in the kitchen.

1946 CONEY ISLAND.  CYNDI LAUPER GOT HER IDEA FOR "GIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE FUN," FROM MY MOM.

Mom wasn't athletic either.  She never had any interest in learning how to drive and almost never went on any amusement park rides.  It's too bad she smoked because that women's rights "privilege" would severely damage the quality of her later life.

In 1967, during a family vacation down south, mom filled some of the dull driving time by telling me the developments in the life of my four-year old Mother's Day plant.  Maybe she was just killing time with idle chatter or this was a clever device to talk about the birds and the bees, because she flattered me by saying that a cutting from my humble gift was now dominating the wall in my grandfather's apartment, (I'm guessing I didn't pick-up on the reproductive point she was making because when my sister realized she was talking about sex, she started laughing.  Then mom told dad to make sure he spoke to me privately).

Some of the highlights on that vacation were, Smoky National Park, Gatlinsburg Tennessee, Maggie Valley Frontier Town in North Carolina, Natural Bridge Virginia and Atlantic City.

AT A WEAK MOMENT IN SMOKY NATIONAL PARK, MOM ENCOURAGED ME TO TAUNT THIS CUB IN FRONT OF ITS MOTHER.  I TRIED TO RAT HER OUT BY CALLING CHILDREN'S SERVICES ON MY IMAGINARY CELL PHONE BUT I WASN'T GETTING ANY BARS. 

Mom stayed clear of those bears but that same night, she orchestrated our attendance at a local sock-hop in Gatlinsburg.  She and dad encouraged me to ask a girl (Serita from Georgia), to dance.  It's too bad dad didn't explain the birds and the bees that day but I still had a great time with her.  We even remained pen pals for several years, (if it's not too creepy, maybe I'll see if she's on FACEBOOK)?

NEAR GATLINSBURG, AT THE CHEROKEE INDIAN RESERVATION, MOM HAD ME POSE ON THIS PLASTIC STALLION.

My parents weakness for tobacco included us touring a couple of cigarette factories in Winston-Salem and Raleigh...yuck!  On the way back north, navigator mom noticed a "must see" landmark in our AAA TRIP-TIK, so we detoured to Natural Bridge Virginia.

HEY DAD, THERE'S A SPOT ON YOUR SHIRT! NOT FAR FROM THE WORLD'S BIGGEST MAYONNAISE JAR,  IN THE HEART OF THE BLUE RIDGE MOUNTAIN REGION, NATURAL BRIDGE OR AS THE LOCALS IN ROCKBRIDGE COUNTY CALL IT, "NATTY B," WAS A COOL WAY TO KILL TWENTY MINUTES.

Our last stop was Atlantic City.  A couple of towns west on the Black Horse Pike, mom and dad took us to one of their favorite restaurants, Zaberer's.

MOM WASN'T KEEN ON SWIMMING EITHER.  I HOPE SHE DIDN'T CHIP A NAIL TAKING DAD'S PICTURE AT THE SEA-BREEZE MOTEL, IN WEST ATLANTIC CITY.  ODDLY, THIS MOTEL IS STILL THERE, (LESS THE POOL), EXCEPT THEY NOW CATER TO WELFARE RECIPIENTS AND CRACK WHORES.

One morning before breakfast, we got on the boardwalk at 7:AM.  We rented bicycles with the idea of riding for an hour.  Even mom participated but because she couldn't ride a bike, she was given an adult tricycle.  In the minute she rode, (twenty feet tops) dad managed to get one terrible photo of her looking away in embarrassment, (some how, after my father passed away, that unflattering picture vanished)?  Mom then abandoned her wheels and let us be on our way while she waited.  We saw the floats getting ready for the Miss America parade, the JFK bust and Steel Pier before reconnecting with her.

Whether you called her mom, Aunt Suzala, gramma, great-gramma, Suzie or Mrs. E., my mother always remained trendy.

LIKE MY LITTLE IVY PLANT, MOM GREW WITH THE TIMES.  IN THE PSYCHEDELIC 60's AND INTO THE DISCO 70's, SHE WAS ALWAYS AN A-LISTER.

My mother had a great sense of humor.  Unlike my dad who tried so hard to be funny but wasn't, mom, if you took the time to listen to her, was hysterical without trying.

ONE OF MY FAVORITE PICTURES.  EARLY 70's ON A BOAT RIDE NEAR RIMOUSKI, QUEBEC, CANADA

Mom loved to travel.  She could remember the smallest details of each trip.

OUR BEST FAMILY TRIP WAS OUR TWENTY-TWO DAY EUROPEAN EXTRAVAGANZA, (AUGUST 1968).  MOM'S MEMORY WAS SO GREAT THAT SHE REMEMBERED STANDING SLIGHTLY TO THE RIGHT OF CENTER, NEXT TO A FELLOW WHO MADE IT A POINT TO HIT A BORDELLO, (TO VISIT ALL HIS SISTERS)  IN ALL SEVEN COUNTRIES WE WENT TO.

Mom continued traveling after my dad died.  She even earned the distinction of being the first Edelblum to set foot in Africa when she chaperoned my niece's class trip to Morocco, (no there are NO embarrassing pictures of her on a camel...maybe if they came with training wheels...too bad for us, I blame my niece).

THE BULK OF MY HUMOR I GOT FROM MOM.  IN THE MID 70's, AS I GREW TALLER THAN HER, (AS YOU CAN TELL FROM THAT CLOWN SHIRT), MY AUDACIOUSNESS DID TOO, (TOO BAD I WASN'T WEARING THE SQUIRTING FLOWER ACCESSORY). 



By the time I was twenty, my little ivy clipping, despite being trimmed regularly had crept halfway up the kitchen cabinet.

MY SISTER ORGANIZED A 25th ANNIVERSARY TRIP (1975) TO HAWAII FOR MY FOLKS.  HERE, UNDER THE ALIAS "LELANI" MY EVER-PHOTOGENIC MOM POSES IN PARADISE.

Maybe if my plant was never cropped, it could have climbed as high as the World Trade Center.

IN THE EARLY 80's, MY MOM (left) AND HER SISTER ATOP ONE OF THE TWIN TOWERS.

In 1998, together with my mom, we took my son Andrew to the Philadelphia Zoo.  It was a long walk from the parking lot to the entrance and within minutes inside, mom declared that she would sit out the rest of the trip.  Although she had side-stepped other health problems up to that point, that moment has stayed with me as the beginning of her major physical problems.

FIVE YEARS LATER  (2003),  AT THE MARGATE STREET FAIR.  EVEN WHEN THE RIGORS OF AGE AND THE PAIN ASSOCIATED WITH FORTY YEARS OF SMOKING THAT DETERIORATED HER HEALTH, MOM REMAINED A PLEASURE TO BE AROUND ESPECIALLY FOR HER SEEDLING-LIKE GRAND CHILDREN AND GREAT-GRAND CHILDREN.

Mom's golden years were spent connected to an oxygen tank.  Emphysema and many emergency trips to the hospital made her last five years, painfully terrible.  Part of my job when she was away from the house for prolonged periods was to water her plants. As sick as she was, mom always asked how they were.

I discovered that there is more to horticulture than just watering.  Soon under my care, all mom's plants seemed to suffer.  Maybe her trick was to move them around to maximize the sun light or maybe she snuck in some Miracle-Gro or maybe she spoke to them.  Either way, I know she loved them.  And from that idea, the one thing I know for certain is that between her tender loving care, proper feeding and knowing the right thing to say, she always made me feel good...and loved.

When the end came, my mother's inner strength helped her remain dignified, brave and lady-like.  Who would ever have guessed that my ten-cent gift would still be going strong forty-seven years later, grow as tall as her six-foot-five grandson and out live her.

I know my mom would never own a computer so I hope one of her or dad's cronies in heaven has a lap-top so that she can read this column. 

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY TO ALL !

IN THE IMMORTAL WORDS OF MR. JINKS...

My folks took my sister and I to Coney Island a few times every summer. I was about ten when after a big night of fun, fireworks and junk food, we headed back to the car.  Along the way, dad, as was his custom, pointed to the distant, Half Moon Hotel and reminded us of its link to murder incorporated.

BUILT IN 1927, THE HALF MOON, (IN THE BACKGROUND TO THE LEFT OF THE PARACHUTE JUMP), WAS A 14-STORY HOTEL ON THE BOARDWALK.  ITS BEST KNOWN AS THE LOCATION, (NOVEMBER 12, 1941), WHERE MOB INFORMANT, ABE RELES (THE EPITOME OF A RAT), WAS PUSHED OUT A WINDOW, HOURS BEFORE TESTIFYING AGAINST CRIME BOSS ALBERT ANASTASIA.  LATER DURING WWII, THE HOTEL SERVED AS A NAVY CONVALESCENT CENTER.  IN THE LATE 40's, IT BECAME A MATERNITY HOSPITAL AND IN THE 70's,  IT WAS CONVERTED INTO A SENIOR CITIZEN HOME.  THE HALF MOON WAS DEMOLISHED IN 1995.

When my family turned onto Surf Avenue, somewhere between the Colossal Slide and the Bumper Cars, two kids about the same age as sis and I, approached.  They were carrying a shoebox with holes in the lid.  Inside, we soon discovered that they had won three mice, at a carnival game. The girl said, "Our parents will kill us if we bring these home."  Then in unison, they begged us to take the vermin off their hands.

I was shocked!  Even forty-seven years later, I'm still surprised that mom accepted them.  I guess she saw the excited looks on our faces, the price was right and she didn't see any harm.  Our new pets were easy to tell apart, one was black, another white and the other brown. During the drive home, dad said he'd buy a cage the next day as my sister dubbed them, Moe, Larry and Curly. 

Dad parked in our driveway.  While we were getting out of the car, the brown cutie, (Curly), escaped in the darkness. Oh well, so we had two pets.

It was an especially hot night and our house wasn't air conditioned.  So twenty minutes later, it was easy to hear our Tugboat Annie-like neighbor from four doors down, cursing and screaming bloody murder.  We all assumed that her house was getting vandalized and ran outside.  There was a small crowd in front of her house as we saw her husband laughing as he held our Curly by the tail and taunted his wife.

On the walk home, after our third mouseketeer was restored to us, I imagined that if our lady neighbor was as tough as I thought, she would have eaten him.  From that night on, I never feared her again.

NYUK, NYUK, NYUK, JEROME "CURLY" HOWARD (1903-1952)...THE ULTIMATE VICTIM OF SOIKUMSTANCE...WAS THE FIRST OF THE THREE STOOGES TO DIE.  MY CURLY THE BROWN MOUSE, SURVIVED OUR TUGBOAT ANNIE-ESQUE NEIGHBOR AND WOULD OUTLIVE HIS TWO BUDDIES.

My sister insisted that our pets stay in her room.  On Sundays when my grandmother babysat, granny couldn't stand the sight of them.  So, one day a week, the cage and all three inhabitants were exiled to Siberia, (our basement). 

Moe and Larry soon died.  But Curly was vital and was going strong months later.  My four-year old cousin Cal came to visit and I brought the cage into my room.  Then I took Curly out and we played with him on the floor.  Before long, Curly darted between us and scurried behind the open door.  Cal tried to "head" him off and closed the door.  Curly's head was crushed between the door and the door jamb.  He writhed in agony for a few seconds and died.  To this day, his vibrating body is still a clear and haunting image.

Other than that experience, (and those mice were pets), I have never seen a mouse, in any place that I lived.  In fact, I was twenty-two, the first time, I saw one in someone else's house. My friend MBF got married in 1977 and rented a basement apartment, near the Kings Plaza Mall, in Brooklyn.

If you've never experienced this type of invasion, it's quite disconcerting.  Usually you see a sudden movement out of the corner of your eye.  It happens so fast that you figure it's nothing.  The next time this impulse gets your attention, you realize you must investigate.

Mouse catching is not for the squeamish, so MBF and I half-heartedly tried but failed miserably.  However, the next day MBF solicited the aid of his father-in-law. Within a week, I got a call saying that his wife's dad used Sicilian ingenuity and some household items to capture the bugger. Lured by the scent of a spoonful of peanut butter placed in a steep-walled soup tureen...greased with butter, the rascal crept up a ramp made from a broken Venetian blind slat. At the top, the hungry pest fell into the bowl.  The combination of the high walls and slippery slope assured that the little bastard couldn't escape. I wasn't exactly heartbroken that I missed the profanity-laced ceremony when MBF's father-in-law dumped his quarry in the toilet.  At least with one flush, the varmint had a proper burial, at sea.

It's at this point that many of you empathize for the fallen critter.  It's easy to forget that these filthy, gnawing, disruptive devils, foster disease and are the scourge of society. After all, since we were children, cartoon, Lilliputian-like mice are associated as cuddly, heroic or as underdogs.

BEFORE THE AGE OF TALKING MOVIES, WALT DISNEY DEVELOPED HIS ENTIRE EMPIRE AROUND MICKEY, (AND MINNIE).  AND TODAY IT'S GLOBAL POPULARITY IS STRONGER THAN EVER.

Think about it, cartoon mice are always sympathetic characters.  They are at the bottom of the animated food chain and are hunted by boring farmers, mean old ladies and of course, hungry cats.  Certainly we Baby-Boomers know Jerry's struggles to survive Tom.  The generation before that knew the travails of Ignatz as he avoided the certain death of Krazy Kat's romantic advances.

THE CRIME SOLVING DUO OF, "SNOOPPER AND BLABBER" AIRED 45 EPISODES FROM 1959-1961.  IN MOST ADVENTURES BLABBER, COMPLETE WITH SPEECH IMPEDIMENT, WAS THE SUBORDINATE MOUSE TO A CAT, SUPER SNOOPER.

Other cat and mouse cartoon rivalries featured, "PIXIE AND DIXIE," against Mr. Jinks, "HERMAN AND KATNIP" and let's not forget the cartoon inside the, "SIMPSON'S" cartoon, "THE ITCHY AND SCRATCHY SHOW." 

"PIXIE AND DIXIE," RAN FROM 1958-1961.  THEIR CAREER WAS CUT SHORT IN PART BECAUSE THEY DID THEIR OWN STUNTS.  IN THOSE MINUSCULE 57 INSTALLMENTS, MR. JINKS' CATCHPHRASE, (IN A MARLON BRANDO IMPERSONATED VOICE), "I HATE MEECES TO PIECES," BECAME A NATIONAL PHENOMENON.

Other cartoon mice that were highly esteemed were, "MIGHTY MOUSE," "SPEEDY GONZALEZ," Minute Mouse from, "COURAGEOUS CAT," and a favorite of my early youth, "SNIFFLES."

"SNIFFLES," WAS PRODUCED AS A THEATRICAL CARTOON STARTING IN 1939.  THE TWELVE SHORT SUBJECTS PLAYED OFF HIS CHILDISH SWEETNESS WHILE STRUGGLING WITH THE PERILS OF A DANGEROUS WORLD.

On the other side of the Atlantic, the English had heroic, "DANGER MOUSE."  I checked this program out but perhaps something was lost in the translation.

"DANGER MOUSE" AND HIS SIDEKICK PENFOLD WERE HUMOROUS SPIES.  THIS SUCCESSFUL SHOW AIRED 161 EPISODES FROM 1981-1992.  WHEN I WATCHED THE RERUNS WITH MY SON IN THE LATE 90's, WE BOTH AGREED THAT IT, "WASN'T OUR CUP OF TEA."

I was afraid that my whole cutesy perception of mice was going to change five Decembers ago.  I was in my garage and out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw a sudden movement behind my bicycle.  It's amazing how thirty years later, I immediately correlated that impulse with MBF's basement apartment. 

I stood still, stared into the clutter and waited.  In a short time my suspicions were validated.  While trying to decide how to proceed against the mouse, I took a closer inspection of the area. I found tell-tale signs of a rodent infestation like; organized bits of straw, tiny turds and of course gnawed through cereal boxes as well as spillage from a hole at the bottom of our dog's forty-pound food bag.

The defense of the inside of my house became paramount! Instead of an old world remedy, I went straight to the hardware store and invested in ten, 29c traps.  That night, I discussed my situation at one of my poker games and KURUDAVE, (thirty minutes away), confessed to having the same problem.  We entered into a friendly competition and called it, "THE MOUSE TRAP GAME."  In a short time, I netted four mice to his three.

MGTP TAKES THE HIGH ROAD. BEHOLD THE OLD MOUSE TRAP BOARD GAME.  THE GREAT BWANA IS SUPPOSED TO DISPLAY HIS GREASY, BROKEN BACK MOUSE TROPHIES HERE...BUT I SAY, "NO!"

My wife didn't appreciate the joy of the mouse hunt.  And she was especially nauseated, (her scream confirmed it), when she saw one barely alive, dragging the trap behind him.  I remember running to the garage and having the tune, "WHEN JOHNNY COMES MARCHING HOME AGAIN," come to mind when I saw the ensnared demon limping past an empty anti-freeze jug.

The next day, she made me remove every item from the garage.  It was then I saw the impossible!  In cartoons, you know the little mouse holes in the baseboards? 

I HATE TO SIDE WITH CATS BUT I GUESS THEY CAN SERVE A PRACTICAL PURPOSE.

Well I had always thought mouse holes in the wall were just cartoon schtick, but they do exist.  However, my garage isn't rimmed with wooden baseboards, it has cinder blocks built right onto the foundation.

KURUDAVE HYPOTHESIZED THAT THE MICE GOT DESPERATE AT THE ONSET OF WINTER AND SMELLED THE DOG FOOD.  THEN...MOTIVATED BY A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH, THEY GNAWED THROUGH THE CONCRETE, ENTERED THE HALLOW CENTER CHAMBER AND ATE THROUGH MORE CEMENT TO THE PERCEIVED NIRVANA INSIDE MY GARAGE.

I bought some patch mortar and sealed the holes.  Then we bolstered how our food items are stored.  Luckily, we never had another rodent raid.  Unfortunately, Kurudave can't say the same thing.  The little intruders always return to his garage in the cold months.  Even worse, in a matter unrelated to pestilence, he recently decided to move out of state. 

The day before he left, whatever was left of the poker buddies went over to his place to have a few beers, reminisce and say good-bye.

Just off his kitchen, we were at his bar telling stories when someone noticed, (ten feet away), a brazen mouse on the stove, sniffing a skillet of macaroni and cheese.  That's when Kurudave shook-up an aerosol bug spray and squeezed the trigger. 

MR. JINKS TAKES AIM AGAINST POOR LITTLE PIXIE AND DIXIE AS HE EMULATES CAPTAIN BLASTOFF.

Kuru used some newspaper to scoop up his fallen victim.  Then ala Abe Reles, he threw the annoyance out the window and yelled, "I hate meeces to pieces!"

Yuck! I'm sure glad I sealed my garage.