

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne

By

Breaker Kuklinski

Copyright © 2018 by Breaker Kuklinski. All rights reserved.

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Copyright © 2018 by Breaker Kuklinski

Furthermore and well within the imagined constraints regarding the precise precision of impressiveness, all spurious and soon to be overstated rights are supposedly reserved as a result of the confines of the US law which provides a modicum of protection to writers; strongly encouraging plagiarism. Though it invariably will be the case, this section is customarily mandated to say in sad futility that no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means except those so authorized, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in the course of writing a review; limited to one of the laudatory type.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Comprende? In fact they are so obviously fictitious that any attempt to assert otherwise would have to be the mercenary ploy of some lazy, non-productive crook or crooks, counseled, aided, and abetted by an otherwise unemployed chiseler or chiselers, as yet un-dismissed from the less than diligent bar. Any fancied apparent similarity to real persons is not intended by the author insofar as the author can conjure every possible archetype and their subdivisions upon subdivisions upon subdivisions ....... and if thought to be detected is either a coincidence or the product of your own sick and troubled imagination; perhaps most practically suggestive of an intensification in treatment and dosage.

Where the names of real places, corporations, institutions, and public figures may be projected onto made up stuff, they are intended to denote only such said made up stuff, not anything presently real as of the time of this entirely conjectural and metaphorical writing.

I hope that you are one of those blessed with common sense, thereby being one who did not bother to read this non-obligatory absurdity.

Portions of this book have previously appeared in the following; non-contentious Goodreads based blogs and threads, Horror Sleaze Trash (HST), and unanswered e-mails addressed to my mother.

Contents

Preface Righteously in Your Yellow Corporate Smiley Face

Yeah; right in yo' face. ........ I guess. Right in yo' tummy, anyway. It's difficult to tell in this advanced, removed, and almost simultaneously neutral and opinionated age lived in by those who pay a modicum of attention to media, some allegedly "social." No doubt some US based confusion emanates from the derived, Western European submission to an accepted, contagious, US Presidential position they would like to be viewed as surreptitiously antithetical to their interests. That being the proverbial farcical replay in modern clothing of an inverted act dating at least as far back as that chronicled in belated recognition of Machiavellian basics, lauded by the inconsequential devotees of passe, post-modern-types; ineffectively seeking to disdain that which is 18th century natural through their "new," repetitive, and anti-commercial formula; ostensibly unaware of their periodically stated lust for mass popularity, seems worthy of an investigation into possible collusion with a foreign power. ......... Never mind. Silly me. Only liberal Democrats are allowed to call for an investigation of the swamp.

The "powerful" accomplish the most minimal aspects of their goals through the use of only their affiliated "Politically Correct Police" approved acceptable language, thereby appearing as "nice" to the voting capable uninformed, most of whom have attended some college. In addition to this impressive accomplishment of their constituency, and on their positive side, the most used bumper sticker slogans of this "radical" end of this "exclusive' contingent may well be the self-contradicting "Bigger is better" and "If you never heard of it, it has to be good." At the very least these slogans generated by those most accomplished at sloganeering are the best of unintended sources of humor for the few cursed to be accidentally aware of their absurd prognostications. ...... Or maybe, their "sophisticated" joke is over my head.

Hmmnnn. The latter of the two catchy phrases is personally beneficial, so maybe it's not all that retarded. ....... Apologies. I digress and I don't even have a horse in this race.

Cable TV distributed "News" is not so much the commonly regarded villain called "fake news," simply because it is neither fake nor is it news. The 24 hour news sources fill their allotted spaces with biased interpretations, biased opinions, and biased discussions provided by amenable, never-previously-heard-of-expert "guests" after having suffered through 15 minutes of the reporting of their carefully chosen events. They don't seem to have a plethora of choices in the matter. But, you, the viewer or reader does; though the odds are against you, as the liberal, socialistic programs still dominate the airways, obscenely disproportional to their percentage of adherents.

The original Frankenstein monster was also fueled by electricity. The only questions became how long the battery can hold its charge and how long it took for the villagers to collectively destroy it.

Ummmnnnn. In yo' face, this spurious guesstimation is not what this book is intended to be about, and probably isn't. It is likely an accident, but this book merely manifested as one result of long put off writer apathy and ersatz embarrassment; one request for a "memoir," likely a "polite" throwaway; a dream suggestive of an incorrect recollection of what happened a half century ago; a 'New Age" defiant disinterest, the NA's a self-serving and calculated, contrary antithesis of another late-stage-hippie-misinterpretation, this one the deification of self, personally and partially learned through the pain abatement experienced by focusing on someone else rather than the overuse of an eternally renewable Xanax prescription; another fucked up journey through a fucked up place, resultant in writer's block married to both a desire for easy money and a participatory disinclination. Yadda fucking yadda. You fill in your own blanks.

One might suggest that this is basically an observation of a question of coincidence with an analogy, hopefully and mercifully incorrect at least in its implied interpretation, such as that gleaned from an auto's gear box. In the likely realm of Godard's "Alphaville," no longer particularly enthralled with the currently fashionable egalitarian and skill irrelevant postures, all is not art. Hierarchies of power or money, whether based upon birth, diligence, abilities, or the result of any other measuring device, are by definition unfairly fascist.

It seems to be the right time to warn you Amazon preview readers just in case. Hehe. That's supposedly a joke, in that it is devoid of mis-communication and/or chrome injury, it was not a precursor of what is to come. The aforementioned has absolutely nothing to do with the rest of this book, especially if one is still an adherent of the Millennial doctrinaire revision which completely ignores any notion of a past.

Be warned. You may prefer a "New Age" yoga book; or maybe mail order yoga pants provided by NYSE bursting LuLuLemon. Please do your own thing, as that is best for all other than Charles Manson, and I really do not care. The apparent reverse is much more likely to be a socially acceptable, conversation stultifying, Oprah book of the month as it is a better rallying cry in being "outrageous" to your nerd high school teacher, a safe and fashionably, "provocative" delineation of your "unique" cunt. A few decades ago David Foster Wallace articulated the tiny phrase "petty rebellion." And he did it right on marginally mainstream TV. No lie.

Is a "fuck you" much too kind? I so crave the income attendant to a NY Times Top 10 level of sales.

Footnote #1. Please be advised that from this point on the writer has chosen to depart from one version of a proper manner of speech. Hereafter, he will revert to the improper manners of phrasing heard at his beginnings. I think that he just feels like doing that, though some confused people have accused him of having ulterior motives. End of Footnote #1.

#1- The Latest and Its Modest and Colorless Bang

Is it rude to be contemptuous of and uncomfortable with the "required," dumbed down condescensions to a "dumbed down" reading public, as that is seen by the mavens cranking out a low income in the literary world? ........ Who really cares?

One of my earliest memories is of the late afternoon when my Uncle Chesty exploded our television. Despite the lack of injuries, it was a precursor of inept terrorism, and was actually much bigger of a deal at the time than it would have been in the bombarded 21st century. Comparisons are problematic, not only because this would be impossible to do now utilizing state-of-the-art equipment.

He was crouched at the back of the four legged floor model when I entered the room. I heard a faint noise much like that one usually doesn't detect when a particularly vociferous lightbulb blows and then saw a spiraling urn of thick black smoke playing on top of the TV. As it dissipated Uncle Chesty rose with a blackened face; his white bulged eyes saying something like; "Oh boy. Am I still alive?"

Having had the advantage of being a five year old who had already read a few books, I sensed that this was one of those tragic Hamletian times not designed for conversation. An internal monologue, often incorrectly referred to as an internal dialogue by the math deficient majority, was strongly suggested. So, I left the room, dived on the bed, put my face tightly in the pillow to muffle the sound, and proceeded to laugh my five-year-old ass off.

Our first exploded television; property of the author.

You might think my mirth inappropriate, inconsiderate or something else in that vein considered politically incorrect in the enlightened year of 2018. Please consider the fact that I had sufficient grace to leave the room before confining my vulgar display to the audience of one well-used pillow and find it absolutely impossible to keep a straight face when someone accidentally does something stupid; such as this.

If you find that explanation to be unsatisfactory, you might prefer reading one of the "Democratically" written anti-Trump books. You'll find many titles to choose from, though they all say the same thing.

You might also or otherwise consider me one of many of those feigning a chuckle-chuckle, sophisticated position, disdainful, uncaring, and oblivious to the joys one obtains from television. Not at all. MSNBC's "All In with Chris Hayes" has been a consistent source of personal enjoyment; the episode which pontificated upon Trump's collusion with Hurricane Florence, a personal favorite.

If sufficiently cursed to be one of the deprived Millennials, you might not know that in those early days of TV's they spent most of their time "on the blink," generating interference OJ would have paid Johnny Cochrane millions to run behind. When a bit more operative they often rolled like the waves in a pre-regurgitating drunkard's ceiling, or found some other way of being simplistically uncooperative.

If you already knew that, don't bother to read the previous paragraph. If you already did, the toughest of shits. This dispassionate, logical eruditions destined to be referred to by its five readers as a rant, is still probably under the auspices of the Amazon free preview. If you choose to bail now, it's between you and Bezos; and I have reason to believe that Jeff doesn't give a yuge shit one way or the other.

My young mind was unfortunately already tarnished with the cynical thought that it was an insidious indication of a conspiracy that even when blessed with the $9.99 plus tax accuracy provided by "rabbit ears," they always just happened to be contrary when the well-loved, common, and popular humor of "I Love Lucy" and "The Honeymooners" were supposed to be on. Please compare and contrast that with the fact that all systems were always "go" whenever "Ozzie and Harriet" displayed the joys and psychologically healthy aspects of the wildly proliferating Levittowns; including but not limited to the enhanced greenery above the septic tanks in the increasingly automobile dependent, suburbanizing USA. The fix was in; but as far as I know, Arthur Godfrey only made it to radio; presenting a regionally based, cynics might say ridiculously biased, glorification of warm, Hurricane Florida; perhaps a pre-cursor to Alabama's state wide worship of the Crimson Tide. ....... In an attempt to be fair and/or bitchy, one cannot help but wonder if there was any TV reception in Birmingham in those days. Just sayin' the obvious. No offense to backwater rubes intended.

On another non-conspiratorial, non-colluding, obvious basis, it seemed that there was only one form of advertising. "You will feel better; your pain will go away; you will become popular and cool; you will become a millionaire; and you will be uncontrollably attractive to the opposite sex, if you just buy our product." At that age I felt fine; was in no discomfort, never mind pain; didn't want to participate in any gross popularity contests; had no concept of money other than the roll sold for a few cents at the five and dime; and my only conceptual thoughts of females was a wonder why the silly creatures wore dresses. They seemed to impose so many types of problems while taking a seat and virtually prevented one from playing for the Yankees. A bit later, a school generated question surfaced. Why did they always have to sit on the other side of the room?

Some things never change; including my unanswered questions.

However, those of you Plato and Socrates challenged unfortunates, might also require being further informed about ancient times. TV's retailed for upwards of $1,000 in those days, while people like my father were making about $40 per week before taxes. The fact that most people didn't have them encouraged one's long lost "friends" to reacquaint themselves with one in possession in the comfort of the possessor's living room without prior announcement and with an expectation of being served a "happy meal." The friendless ones often huddled by the retail store windows where one was playing. Sporting events required no audio; and indeed are still often marred by it.

We only had a TV because two of Dad's brothers were cops assigned to the Supply-Evidence Room. They would often have items for sale well below retail. Ado, short for Adolph, the oldest, passed this one along for a mere smile accompanied by the future expectation of a favor.

It's difficult to pinpoint the date at which these types of understandings and conjectural reveries first manifested. They may well not have been there at age five. I don't know and could care less. But, I can assure you that at the time my sense of humor was not prompted by any sort of cruel disregard. What was going on in my young mind was that the smoke had cleared and it seemed very likely that 1945 Hiroshima was not going to replay in 1954 Bayonne, NJ. I wasn't going to miss having access to an electronic device which chose to crackle at me. Chesty looked like the negative of a Juggalo with about as many interesting things to say; and my Dad was soon going to provide some action unavailable on TV when he kicked Chesty's dumb ass.

You might recall my allusion near the beginning of the prior paragraph to "cruel disregard" and forgive me as it seems likely that this life sustaining attribute came much later in the costume of Jesuit college induced "benign neglect." Yeah, I know. They blamed Sartre.

Chesty was my Mom's only brother; and Dad did not like him one little bit. Neither did Mom, but for other reasons. Dad wasn't much of a talker unless you asked him the mechanics of how to do something. I'm guessing that he didn't like that Chesty was a talkative bachelor who told everyone that he was good at everything; that "leap of faith" covering that which is not possible for an insect with plucked wings.

In 1954, it was that Chesty knew how to fix TV sets, the income from which he used to supplement that of his full time job at the dirty and dangerous General Dynamics Paint Manufacturing plant down on the slippery bricks of Third Street.

Chesty was constantly telling the old jokes people just stare at or politely excuse themselves from.

"You hear about the 'Million Dollar Movie'?"

Obligatory "No."

"Times are so tough it's down to one hundred thousand."

Bada boom boom.

I guess he wasn't a bad guy at all, if you could be Christian and somehow find somewhere within yourself the degree of socially acceptable patience which allows one to tolerate relentless, laugh solicitous blabbing and braggadocio. I mean, he never tried to lean on anybody or otherwise throw his weight around; his 5'4" chubby and baby fat frame a possible detriment to that sort of activity.

Mom still truly resented him and wanted to see his ass kicked by anyone because he was mommy's favored boy in her otherwise overlooked family of three insignificant girls. Dad wasn't thrilled with Chesty because of the way he ran his mouth in such an un-manly, dit-dit-dit manner. Personally, I didn't have any opinion as I was five years old, didn't see him all that much, and the few times I did, I tended to focus on the top of his head. At age thirty he was missing about thirty percent of what belonged up there; the rest combed back in a loose gray-white flounce portending the un-gelled coming of Dr. Zorba. On popular later TV, he resembled a prematurely ageing, short version of "Archie Bunker."

Dad came out of another room and quickly sized up the situation. He solemnly walked to the back of the TV and Chesty in prematurely unacceptable blackface. He saw the internal meltdown of his TV, and concluded that his TV was now dead, and that Chesty had killed it. In later years Dad would tell me that it was a distinct possibility that his brother Ado had given him a stinker he had obtained for "a song" in order to extract a favor. But that was not of any relevance at the time. So, Chesty was standing there looking stupid, and thinking that he had just fucked up big time.

To put it in other words; Chesty was standing there silent, stupefied and black-faced. Dad was 5'11', just a tad short of the time's big man mantra of "He's a six footer!," and he had donned that controlled angry thing, and I was watching hoping that the unexplainable giggles didn't kick in again before Dad drew blood. Mom was in another room, lying on her stomach, pretending some sort of discomfort, probably in order that the Princess not have to be bothered with the bullshit of the day.

As mentioned, I didn't care very much about the TV, and assumed that Dad would go get another one anyway. In those days, even though the scientists had been investigating television possibilities since the 1890's, they had not yet come up with a viable product; much like their contributions to US autos. There were thirteen channels available on the knob, five of which actually had some broadcasting behind them, and none of which ever came in for more than two consecutive days.

So, little me, not as a result of the decade away cynicism reinforced by Bob Dylan, stopped paying much attention to it and went back to my books, cards, and sports games. Besides, even if a miracle happened and the damn thing consistently did what it was supposed to, there were still no shows with cartoons, rock music, or entertaining Donald Trump shenanigans.

Those old TV's were a disappointing pain; at least those supplied by a light fingered uncle cop. They were full of some kind of tubes, maybe fifty, and the malfunction of any one of them would make the TV stop working. Dad would bring me with him to the electronics store on Broadway, a few blocks away. He'd bring the "tubes" which he thought might not be working and test them in a machine at the front of the store. After locating the right receptacle he'd plug them in. If they lit up they were okay. If not they had to be replaced. Even at that age I immediately figured that it was in the interest of the store owner to have nothing work, necessitating a purchase. This thought was confirmed after Dad had purchased some, installed them and the TV still didn't work. This was my earliest exposure to an easily rigged, entrepreneurial, capitalist approach to the demand-supply curve.

Firmly, but in an even tone Dad told Uncle Chesty to leave. To my knowledge Dad never hit anyone first. He'd get right in your face and hoped that you'd flinch or make some movement he could conveniently interpret as aggressive before he'd smack. You know, just like the cop game, and Dad had the benefit of having had two older brothers in the racket. But dejected Chesty just left as instructed; black face and all. Dad seemed disappointed and I started laughing again.

Dad angrily said; "What's so funny?"

Trying to deflect, I said; "Uncle Chesty's black face. He's going to walk home looking like that." That seemed to be okay with Dad and he just shrugged, as if to say; "Big deal."

Footnote #2. At this time it seems eminently fair, and despite that impediment, the uninvited annotator has chosen to make the reader aware that the remainder of this book seems to be consistent with that which may be logically interpreted as having been written or merely typed by a writer-typist with a complete disinterest in the corpus, insofar as that may be conveyed in words. The writer-typist has assured me that this was not the case, but according to learned critics in possession of unverified credentials and a marked lack of originality, the presumed writer-typist is, like other plebian essayists, in no position to accurately assess any such matters; that perception much akin to the sulphur which requires an un-definably provocative strike of sorts to flame, in the absence of the metaphorically, well-intentioned subterfuge provided electronically by an electric fireplace. End of Footnote #2.

#2- Bayonne

Before we go any further, it is best for the reader to know what a Bayonne was in 1954. It was a city in Hudson County, NJ, seven miles from Manhattan as the crow flies and 90 minutes by bus, situated on a peninsula located between Newark Bay, Kill Van Kull, and New York Bay. Each of these bodies of water was gelatinous near Bayonne and were considered undrinkable and of value only to swimmers who appreciated being slimed and were not disturbed by the dead fish floating on their sides at the surface.

That's what the affable residents said. Utilizing scientific studies done by political cronies at public expense, public officials found the water potable, swimmable, and an unsubstantiated, excellent separation from the western frontier called Newark.

I don't recall my age when it was announced that the town fathers were negotiating the establishment of a yacht club adjacent to baseball diamond #2 in City Park. However, I was sufficiently aged to personally think that it was perfectly understandable how the mob-contacted-politicos wanted to steal the people's money, but I got a bit miffed when they chose to get sarcastic about it, as if we were some kind of dopes. This early discovery of the facts of life might go a long way toward explaining my attitudes toward national politics in 2018.

But, forgetting that little pre-pubescent education which was quite common in Bayonne, I can testify to the virtues. Having been weaned on Bayonne water, I apparently became immune to those impurities and diseases which suburbanites find in their well water. Not having to purchase the Mafia bottled variety, 55% of which is filled from Bayonne taps, has saved me approximately $850 per annum.

Some of that may be gleaned in Wikipedia. What I find much more interesting in more travelled retrospect is how the place was viewed by its residents between 1949 and 1971, the years I lived there. Most curious to those not having been there is the prevalent attitude of the people, who did not give the slightest of fucks. This was no posture affected because of Bayonne's second or third rate position seven miles from all the glories of Manhattan. Bayonne-ites did not even give a tiny, respectful wet raspberry about what the hoi polloi considers to be status. Manhattan had their Tiffanys' and Met, while we had the back of Goldklang's and the public pool in City Park. Got a problem with that? No Bayonne-ite cared. Long before Pink Floyd made it international, we said; "I'm all right, Jack. Keep your hands off my stack."

There may be somewhat of a reason for this noblesse oblige. The two closest Jersey neighbors are Jersey City and Newark. Both have been marked, along with three other Jersey towns, as being on the list of top ten slums in the entire US. Bayonne was the oasis of the privileged. "Hey, Sal; you know; when you got it, flaunt it." Yet, despite all of the good reasons for haughtiness, egalitarianism prevailed. "Hey, you stuck up or sumthin'? ... Low class dipshit. Bedda git oudda here with that stuff. Yeah? Well fuck you and your fucking Rolex too. Shit."

Bayonne's population peaked at 89,000 in 1930, was about 75,000 when I was there, and has continued its general move toward exclusivity at 63,000 in 2010; apparently taking advantage of its proximity to Manhattan, exclusive waterfront properties, and the bulldozing of approximately five square blocks occupied by low income migrants from the rural South. This was quickly and efficiently accomplished in the earliest days of urban renewal; before the towns were burdened with the obligation to relocate the bulldozed. One has to admit that Bayonne politicos were very good at some things beside kickbacks and extortion.

The racial composition has changed over the years. When I was there my guess was that it was about 85% white, 15% black, a negligible smattering of others and virtually no Latinos. In 2010 the numbers have changed to 9% black, 8% Asian, 26% Latino, 38% white, and 19% Italian.

The density is said to be 11,000 per square mile. While that is a high number it must also be noted that about 1/3 of Bayonne is water and another 1/3 is home only to the oil storage tanks; suggesting a possible "real" density of 33,000 per square mile. It certainly felt that way.

Below is a street map of part of Bayonne to give you an idea of the layout. For the most part it is a grid with Avenues running from A to E, and streets going from 1st to 59th, or so. Wiki doesn't say and the streets get weird up there, but not sufficiently weird to have induced a child to do any exploring other than the bowling alley/billiard place/bar where Margie's mother and her friend hung out.

There are different neighborhoods, and if you walk three blocks you'll find another one. That long strip of land with no streets noted is locally called Hook Road, and is where the oil tanks reside. There are quite a few of them, and few people live nearby. 90% of the time the wind is blowing in another direction, so Bayonne-ites didn't have to suffer much of that Houston kind of stench.

Bayonne; property of the author.

Oil storage tanks; property of the author.

The map below puts Bayonne into the context of its neighbors. That's Jersey City to the north, Staten Island to the south, Newark and Elizabeth to the east, and Manhattan and Brooklyn to the west.

Bayonne; property of the author.

Bayonne has been home and/or birthplace to a surprising number of people of notable achievement. Athletes, artists, movie stars, organized crime leaders, and indicted politicians, as well as many who didn't get caught. Their fame may well be dwarfed by that of Richard Kuklinski. A reasonably complete list may be found on Wikipedia, but "Cookie" gets special note for being the subject of the 2012 movie; "The Iceman." He was allegedly a contract man for the DeCavalcante family of Newark and the Five Families of NYC, allegedly having performed more than 100 hits on guilty humans as well as having some minor involvement with other allegedly criminal activities. He'd have received my personal #1 rating had I not discovered that in his youth he also killed countless innocent cats.

So, my personal favorite is Billy Wondolowski and he didn't even make the Wiki list. He was a backup wide receiver on the 49ers for 3-4 years. It wasn't that which impressed me most. Billy lived right across the street from me in my earliest years, his family occupying the entire bottom floor of the house in which my maternal grandmother and grandfather rented the entire top. Frankly, this wasn't all that impressive, either. But being right there I became privy to things about Billy others didn't know. The boy absolutely loved his football. When he was about ten he blind side tackled his older brother on concrete. His brother received both a broken leg and a lifetime limp. That's one hell of a hit.

One of the nicest things about having grown up in Bayonne is the previously mentioned, catchy, relaxed attitudes of the residents. Nobody there gives the least bit of a fuck and everything's a total goof. It had at least one more advantage over modernity. Rather than cyber friends, every time you went outside there were at least six other kids already there ready to play and argue with.

Housing is quite unique. Most people lived on the Avenues in apartment buildings of various ages with no more than three floors, now often having achieved condominium status. Most single and two family homes were on the side streets and carry a description experts find difficult to nail down; but the few times we were paying any attention, we locals knew a bit better in terming it nondescript, and see it as a yet-to-be-recognized advancement of fashionable post-post modernism.

#3- My First Residence

I don't remember that much from this time, other than being plagued with sore throats and fevers. Dad was away much of the warm weather months playing softball for Burry's in the Tri-State League. I guess since she didn't have anything to do either, Mom taught me reading, writing, and arithmetic. My health got better by age 7 or so; and because of my prior training my first four years of school were a complete academic waste of time, though a revelation concerning "human" behavior.

We had an apartment of four "railroad" rooms on the corner of Avenue C and 20th Street. The heat was provided by a huge black stove in the kitchen at one end. In winters we'd shut off the fourth room and pull the blinds and shades as it just got too cold to be in there.

Maybe the most significant thing about the place was that it was on the second floor right over Hymie's Candy Store and Louie's Barber Shop. Hymie didn't sell much candy, but was reputed to be Bayonne's biggest numbers operator. For younger people, numbers were illegal at the time until the government took over the business. You're legally playing numbers when you buy a Lotto card.

The big event happened one winter day when all three of us were home. Some guys kicked in the door with guns drawn and headed to that shaded and blinded room which was actually the one right over the shops. I was too little to know that I should have been scared, so I wasn't. I don't know about Mom and Dad at the time of the break-in, but I know that they eventually got good and pissed.

It wasn't a strong armed thief; it was the FBI. After finding nothing but this weird frame with needles at the edges which Mom occasionally used for something to do with clothing or bedding and some of her girdles, they came out and apologized.

They said that they had the place staked out for some time. They had been trying to get the goods on Hymie and suspected that the windows with the shades drawn were hiding his operation. Before computers, the larger numbers guys kept records on a big blackboard; at least that's what I saw in some 1940's noir movies. Hymie must have been smart enough to keep everything in his head.

The G-men apologized and left, but also left the door wrecked. That's when Mom and dad got most pissed; especially Dad, because he had to fix it.

I later realized that if the FBI really did have the place under surveillance, that they must have been doing it from Dominick's Café across Avenue C. Dominick's was home to the Alky Gang; a loose configuration of harmless drunks who would occasionally sleep off their revelry in our hallway; much like your typical modern day writer. If you gave them a little kick they'd leave; much like your typical modern day writer. The only problem was that Mom wouldn't do it. She'd call Dad and he'd have to come back from wherever he was to do it.

Though she had much too soon imposed the disciplines of reading, writing, and arithmetic upon me, this woman had no personal interest whatsoever in writing, a smidgeon more in reading, though a genuine interest in arithmetic as it applies to money. Her library consisted of a few cook books, "The Late Great Planet Earth," the acquisition date forgotten, and some ostensibly religious book which was definitely not the Bible and was missing the first 1/3 of its pages which I found in a kitchen drawer. It may have had something to do with Charlemagne, but I found it to be confusing.

My reading supply came from the library on 30th Street and Classics Illustrated Comics Mom bought for me at the 5&10's. I recall liking "Swiss Family Robinson" and "The Velveteen Rabbit" in particular. I had about 75% of the Classics Illustrated repertoire, and the only ones I really didn't like were those written in some abomination of the English language by Shakespeare.

Cover of "Swiss Family Robinson;" public domain.

Cover of the 1922 edition of "The Velveteen Rabbit;" public domain.

Mom's biggest problem came in those days when there was no way for her to contact Dad. So she'd sit in the house and stew, checking every so often to see if the Alky had left of his own volition. Most eventually did.

#4- Watering Louie's Customers

I always had a fondness for water. I used to fill up the sink and play with my sailboats all the time. Pre-school age I tried to share my love of water by pouring it on people's heads. I guess that I did not yet know that John the Baptist has never gotten the credit he deserves. Besides, being about two feet tall not many opportunities presented themselves.

But, we lived on the second floor and one window was directly above the entry/exit of Louie's Barber Shop. Mom liked Louie as much as she did everyone else; not at all. I figured that if Louie caught me and complained, Mom would be on my side, and I turned out to be more right than your garden variety behavior research PhD.

As Louie's entrance/exit was indented a bit, the sound of it opening gave me a heads up on when the next customer would leave. I didn't pour on those entering, as they were more likely to mention something, while those leaving would probably just keep going. And I didn't pour a lot; just enough to get their attention.

I was laughing for an hour. Most men wore hats, and they'd sense the drip-drip-drip. They'd stop and look up to find the source. I'd back away to get a side view, hopefully un-noticed.

Then something went wrong. Louie followed one customer out. I had already poured when Louie looked up and yelled; "You stop that. I'll tell your mother."

Mom heard him yell, came to the window and yelled back; "Don't you dare yell at my son." She shut the window, no doubt seeing what had been going on, and in a typical conversational tone and volume, told me not to do that anymore. I think she was laughing as she walked away.

I was getting the idea that you can get away with some things if you pick your spots and recognize where the power lies.

#5\- Writing- A Memoir Covering the Years from 2018 to 2018

Writers talking about the writing process, as it relates to their self-growth.

Bllllloooghharttfarfel, without a throat finger. ................... Okay; politely suffered that. My turn.  
I sympathize with the many talented indies who bemoan various reasons for not being able to reach a wider market; one of them might actually have some validity. I really do. I understand their excitement at having their story accepted by the middle aged, bald headed loser at DillapidatedDogVomitPress.com. I really do. It periodically re-warms my heart.  
On the other hand, I can't help but wonder why the particular indie whining that particular day didn't do a modicum of research prior to devoting his well-being and personal view of himself to an industry which grants as much chance for providing a living wage as one might have of twice getting hit by lightning on a clear, sunny day, while indoors; instead of taking that not-yet-antiquated actuarial job.

"It's my art. It's a calling. It's life itself. It's human progression." they condescendingly respond to the Luddite.  
Whatever. Not my problem. I don't know or care of art, callings, life, or progression. I took that bean counting job and have me some money .......... unless something bad happens.

I suspect that the writers have an undisclosed inordinate need to feel "smart," using words not in plebian vocabulary, while unknowingly espousing thoughts which were played out by 1979. Then there are the "cool" phrasing ones who get their sci-fi efforts rejected by on-line zines which don't even pay.  
So how am I any different? Dare you ask? If you've been paying any attention the answer should be inferred, if not obvious by now. For one thing, I didn't start doing this charity work until I was retired from a legitimate paying job. Yes, you've heard of them. It's that easy stuff you do to get a regular paycheck; the most difficult aspect being the development of a high tolerance for boredom. Don't make light of that. All jobs lower than the top five are designed to be pathetically easy, and the only ones who mess up are those who freak over the boredom, the meaning of their lives, the need for an alarm clock, and a resentment for being sequestered all day in a room full of jerks, thinking it not a catchy disease.  
So, you wrote a decent or indecent book and so far got eight bucks for it. Boo fucking hoo. I suppose that now you can count on all your cyber "friends" to lay on the constant false praises, while you further nuance your degree of dissatisfaction, disdain for commerciality, and show your false humility. What moron could possibly want to have the income of James Patterson? Not you.

Might have some news for ya. No one cares, ace. Your writing sucks; you're an ugly nerd; and you can shove your gender issues right up your ballpoint. Now, properly thank me for being the only person who doesn't lie to you.  
Forget "Stoner." The poseur got exactly what he wanted and deserved. The book was actually intended as a satire on assholes. Writing is a cost free hobby designed for codgers who are most comfortable sitting. Problems always ensue when one defies Mother Nature.

#6- Dad Teaches Me Some of the Important Stuff- The Card Gambling Games

Gambling games like poker and blackjack are actually quite easy to learn. Dad showed me, beginning sometime about the age of three, when I had attained the mental capacity of a dog which knows how to cross the street. Many people learn them and then proceed to lose their drawers. How can I say? They're a bit deceptively simple, but not quite overtly moronic when the betting part kicks in. But, that's the subject for another book.

Dad also taught me pinochle sometime before I entered kindergarten. It's much more difficult than the previously mentioned gambling games, but a lot easier than Bridge.

I think Dad taught me as it can be used as a gambling game, usually with an alteration or two, and because it's also a bit of a polack tradition.

But an unexpected event took place. Know-it-all-TV-exploding Uncle Chesty got married in his mid-thirties to a Jewish woman from New York named Ida. At the time I thought that meant Manhattan, but now I'm not sure. Maybe it was Queens. I don't know.

Ida was a very nice woman, but I don't think she had much experience in socializing with uneducated polacks. I always thought that she was doing her best to fit in vocally, but frankly it never really worked all that well. It didn't bother me or Dad, but after every visit, and even sometimes during it, Mom would be in a fury saying that Ida was "putting on airs" or being condescending; apparently a rare, fine-tuned balance her disappointed expectation.

And it wasn't that Mom was any more anti-Jewish than her hatred for our two Jewish landlords who used some WWII inspired, but still existing legislation to cheap up on the heat. There were a few Jews in our neighborhood whom I'd eventually go to school with, and I never told her about Arnold J. Friedman, yet to come. As a matter of fact half the residents of our apartment building were Jewish survivors of Hitler's death camps; some of whom would only come out after dark, and hold each other as they walked slowly up and down one well-lit block, maybe rightfully afraid to turn the dark corner.

During our visits we'd play pinochle. Dad and I would partner against Ida and Chesty. He wasn't loud about it, but I could tell that Dad got annoyed the first time we played. I don't recall the details, but in deference to my age, Ida and Chesty played stupidly. Dad informed them; "You don't have to do that. He knows how to play the game."

And I did. Dad and I continued to beat them every game, every visit. I don't think that they ever won one. Re-thinking that now, I can't help but wonder if their initial stupid play was not for my benefit; but theirs. It might have been polite to let them "purposely" lose, as it must be quite embarrassing to legitimately try, and then lose to a five year old.

#7- Life Aspirations

When the first or second grade teachers wanted to have a goof off day by asking the class what they wanted to be when they grew up, Jeremiah and I were the only ones to say cowboy, and as a result of that became rootin' tootin' partners for a while. Never one to step on a dream, at that time I didn't tell Jerry that there were no black cowboys. I'm also glad that I didn't as there sure were. My incorrect perception probably came to be because the Hollywood directors didn't start to put blacks in cowboy movies until after some people made a stink more than a decade later.

For my end, I can't recall exactly when I learned that there were very few want ads for cowboys in Bayonne, but I sadly did have to make adjustments at some point .......... likely planned for some yet-to-be-determined future date.

This wasn't any sort of priority, and time passed until I neared college age and had to pick a major and minor. You'll have to understand that back in antiquity the urban colleges offered no cowboy majors or even minors.

The closest thing was when cowboy Kirk Douglas broke out of jail, got his horse, and with no small difficulty went over the mountain only to be demolished by Archie Bunker's toilet bowl truck on the highway; the toilet bowls winding up all over it. Okay, it got mixed reviews for being a little too arty and reminiscent of Marcel Duchamp, but I don't care because I liked it. Attempting to get back on the plebian notion of topic, I mean you couldn't even get much "Gun Studies" back then unless you went down South, and I never could take hot and humid at the same time.

Mom sent me to take some sort of test which would determine what one was best suited for. I must have gotten 100 on it as it asked questions like "Do you prefer to be outside or in?" and "Do you prefer a strict schedule?" No brainers, you know; maybe indicative of some value judgement made by someone else. But whatever, in truth you couldn't be wrong.

Maybe two weeks later the test results were mailed to us and it said; "No particular interest in anything." I was hoping they'd be a bit more helpful and mom was out and out pissed.

At first I thought that she was pissed at me, but somehow it came out in conversation that that was not the case at all, as she fully understood that feeling. Apparently unaware of management consulting SOP, she was pissed that she paid some expert $40 to tell her what she already knew.

But things always have an uncanny way of working out. When she considered my like disinterest for a while she concluded that I was suited for accounting. It is the perfect job for anyone who doesn't care. I took it and it proved to be the basis for a middling, commercial banking career. God bless America.

#8- Bad Pizza

When I was little, mom used to take me with her when she did her shopping on Broadway. She'd usually get me a charlotte reuse at the place on 21st Street. But, the charlotte reuse place closed up and in a few weeks Bayonne's first pizza place opened there. I had some trepidation at first about this new thing. But, I guess out of hunger one day I decided to try a slice. Man, it was the greatest thing I'd ever eaten, and it became a regular thing.

Okay, I realize that some of you jaded young sophisticates are sitting there thinking; "Who cares about this culturally deprived fossil's big deal with pizza? All you have to do is call Domino's and in ten minutes a pie will be delivered to your door. And what does pizza have to do with Bayonne anyway?"

I'd like to assure the jaded sophisticates that I think I understand their point of view; and would like to tell them; "Fuck you. If you don't like it you can get your big nose out of my book and go write your own. I don't give a fuck about your crummy two bucks, and I don't even give one of those wet raspberries about you. Kiss my ass in Amazon's window ....... "

Please excuse me. It's morning and the meds may not have kicked in yet. What I was trying to lead up to is the universal belief that there is no such thing as bad pizza. That is just plain wrong. No equivocations. No if's, and's or but's. Wrong. Wrong. Period. Fuggetaboudit. End of sentence. Case closed.

Admittedly it took me some time to figure this out; but after having come to a conclusion which now seems obvious, I'd have to respectfully say that anyone who believes that myth must not have eaten a whole lot of pizza.

Perhaps the story of my discovery day will illustrate this. I was at a party, and like every party, the attendees were all being merry and jovial; you know all that stuff you fake and the blessed one day find an acquired taste for. You can't say anything negative without being called a party pooper. So you kind of stand there and say stuff like; "Hey bro," "Lookin' good," "How's it hangin'", "Wild," (That's best used at parties with a jazz theme.) and pretend that the Subhumans' blasting top 1,000,000 hit "Slave to My Dick" is the greatest thing anyone ever heard. The grinning hostess approaches you with a gift of a slice of pizza. You're not particularly hungry, but not wanting to be a downer, you take the slice and thank her. She doesn't wait around and goes away offering slices to some other people. The first thing you notice of your pizza is that the thing doesn't bend and shows signs of terminal crusting. It's in your hand with all of the elasticity of a horticultural tool and you think about wanting to keep the rest of your front teeth. Its shape is consistent with that same tool, and its rounded head appears as if someone may have taken a tentative gentle bite before returning it to its place. You muse that this round-headed pizza may ostensibly still be capable of flesh penetration, but of more significance, it has an uncanny similarity to that archaic gardening tool invented by the Greeks, the use of which necessitated kneeling or bending over, since replaced by the use of a simple hoe. On top of the un-aesthetic nature of the thingy, if you're as dumb as I was and get it anywhere near your nose it smells like someone had their dirty ass on it.

Archaic Greek gardening tool; public domain.

In all fairness, I'd like to point out that this isn't always the fault of the pizza. Most of the time it's been sitting on the table with the other overlooked slices, and they've been re-heated five or six times in the last hour. However, that doesn't change the fact that you have a bit of a problem. The first time I was in this situation my first thought was to try to sneak it into a garbage can when no one was looking. That's not easy at some parties as it's difficult to get any privacy, and even if you did someone would likely see it later and yell out; "Hey, what asshole is throwing the pizza in the gobbidge?" and everything would come out, resulting in you being called a party pooper and go uninvited to the next joyous affair. So, in my case I decided to "groove" to the Subhumans and nonchalantly dance my way over to the table which held the other slices and put it back there when no one was looking. I mean people at these parties aren't counting, and may not even know six from seven slices to begin with. It worked.

A word to the wise is sufficient.

A sense of morality soon overcame me, and I thought it might be incumbent upon me to tell my best friends; "Hey, don't mess with that bad pizza." Maybe I should have said something, but ultimately decided that I didn't want to risk that party pooper charge, and quite frankly came to find it singularly funny when one of them did eat it.

I finally settled into a calm mental position, wherein I thought; "It's not my job to tell anyone what to do, and if you want to eat hard, crusty-ass pizza go ahead. I'd like to at least recommend watching out for the stiff end; but when you come right down to it I really don't care."

Those still here may still be wondering what this has to do with Bayonne as pizza was not invented there. Well, I don't know and submit that the questioner may be missing the pizza point. In addition, pizza may well have been invented in Bayonne. Who can surely say? Maybe the Italians kept the good stuff to themselves for a while before publicly putting it out on 21st Street at a price.

In closing to you modern sophisticates, up until the age of about 18, whenever I wanted some good pizza, I had to archaically haul my ass up to 21st Street. Your improvements are admirable, but "Fuck you and your Domino's." Capish?

#9- More Bayonne as this is what this Book is Purported to be About

I have to mention another illustrious group of people from Bayonne; the Vanilla Fudge. I'd have substituted the 1910 Fruitgum Company as my pal from 19th Street, Louie Gomez was their drummer. But the rest of the group came from lesser places and I don't even know why Louie bothered with them; but you quickly learn not to ask a lot of questions in Bayonne.

The Fudgies were all from Bayonne or claimed to be. They supposedly lived uptown somewhere, but I didn't know of them. Somebody who lived up there told me that they were a bunch of glue-heads. That makes sense as their music sounded that way. Some sources credit the Fudgies with having been the inventor or a pioneer of psychedelic music. There's no Bayonne boy worth his gelly water gonna knock a good scam; but the statute of limitations set in a long time ago. See, it's simple. Psychedelia is out there and glue is bogged down.

According to Wiki, Vanilla Fudge was managed by Phillip Basile of the Lucchese crime family. They used to be so close mouthed about this stuff, as I knew his daughter Marcy for a while, and she never told me shit.

Anyway back on the glue, VF took prior hit songs, the most memorable perhaps the Supremes "You Keep Me Hanging On," and slowed them down like a 78RPM record playing at 33RPM, and added some slurring voice and heavy drums. At one point Led Zeppelin opened for them and probably picked up a lot of their shit.

I never did glue, but Hudotowicz down the block was fucked up on it more often than the old bats in babushkas went to church.

One time we were hanging on the fire escape in the schoolyard, and somebody brought a forerunner to a boom box and blasted "You Keep Me Hanging On." You should have seen fucking Hudotowicz. He was back in Eden. He took off his shoes and socks, said he was a hippy, and just started doing a slow sort of dance all over the asphalt and broken glass; fucked up his feet like two weeks worth, but in the moment did not give the slightest of raspberries.

Big John was trying to make him stop, but Hudotowicz just said; "Fuck off, man. Mind your own fucking business." Since MYOFB is commandment numero uno in Bayonne, Big John fucked off and Hudotowicz's feet got fucked up.

That's some visceral fucking poetry fo' yo' ass.

#10- Obligatory Sex Propoganda Emanating from Early 1960's Pubescence and James Bond Movies

Things weren't always quite as exciting on the peninsula as I may have made them sound. Most of the time we male teenagers would be sitting on the tops of the park benches which lined the front of the schoolyard. Many summer afternoons were spent shooting shit and lying about all the good loving you'd been getting. The kids liked hearing these stories and never said that you were full of shit because you'd then tell them that they were too.

Having said that, some of the Bayonne girls were well ahead of the sexual revolution yet to come, just like their mothers. There were basically five types;

1) The ones who said; "What took you so long to bring it up? Your name is ...................... ? Oh, yeah. Right. Right."

2) The ones who said the same thing only when in a committed relationship and called you "Chubby Boy" when she forgot your name.

3) The ones who were still not 100% sure, and went somewhere in-between, often with nicknames which gave a hint of their dispositions. You might well guess that Rosalie; "HJR," was less popular than Mary; "BJM."

4) The ones who thought "going out" meant hanging out with her mother or sometimes even father, and discussing your future economic prospects.

5) The ones who stayed home after school and listened to "Mellow Yellow" while doing all their homework.

I'm going to attempt to be a bit unconventionally daring here. Every other writer I've seen says that every girl they ever met had her hand down their pants in about a minute after meeting. I'm going to be honest with you. I was a shy person and in my case I always made them wait at least an hour or two. "Whoa, whoa. Off that, Sharon. I just might report you in 35 years, if I remember."

I'm also going to risk being seen as not a literary macho man and tell you that I wasn't really interested in the number ones; perhaps a forerunner of my later noted general penchant for some sort of exclusivity. I was into somewhere between a 2 and a 3, depending on a number of things too long to mention; and even got a few 4's; though I would plead naiveté and/or being easily duped in the latter case. To tell you the truth some 5's would have been okay with me, but they seemed to think that I was horrible for no good reason. A ninth grade student, Nancy, once even cussed me out right in front of everyone at school, and I wasn't even bothering her.

The point here, if any, is that Bayonne seemed to have its priorities in order before most, and allowed for diversity; but I really don't know as everyone lies about this stuff, including me.

Homosexuality? ........ Homosexuality? ........ I'd really rather not go there, but it seems required to make some note of it in 2018. I was aware of two male homosexuals back then and had a suspicion about a third. The two overts consisted of a guy in his thirties who lived uptown and wanted a special friend in return for buying kids alcohol and one my age who seemed un-naturally happy all the time, especially when he was giving pimple-head Diskin a hand the year they were in my gym class. In senior year he was voted most popular, but the authorities had absolutely no sense of humor, and #2 got his straight face in the yearbook. The third suspicion is a story which fits better elsewhere. Female homosexuals did not exist in any male mind. We figured that Joan Crawford just liked to get on top.

In 2018 this little thing has become a big issue; at least on social media. I once called someone there a homo after he had opened the door by using the word "hetero," and generally advertising his stupidity through a severe misunderstanding of the topic at hand. Within an hour, approximately 100 times, I was called a homophobe, a racist, a Nazi, a nitwit, a troll, and something rudely involving my mother that I don't want to think about.

I'd like to take this opportunity to assure my friends in the gay community as well as the homos I don't know, that the rest of us don't care about what you want to do with your woo, maw, nay-nays, bum, or any other derivation invented by the instructive Millennials, with which I am likely to remain unfamiliar. You just like to think that we uncaring heteros do.

Just use your head a second and see it from our side. For every one of you there is one more potential female for us. Thank you. I'm not even going to argue with those who agree with Elton John, who matter-of-factly said that Jesus was obviously a gay man. You may well be right. I always thought that there was something hidden going on with his penchant to get on his knees and wash guys' feets. .......... Yeah, all right, every once in a while somebody gets strung up in rural Georgia; but hey, what the hell is anyone doing in rural Georgia in the first place? I mean like, it's a place for closeted fat faggots who can't get a girl to put on very-out-of-date white dresses and hats, and try to figure out which lever corresponds to Trump. That's all. And you know, no one ever has and no one ever will achieve 100% market share. So, for your own good just grow up and get over it. Okay? When he's ready, Jesus will provide highly localized floods.

I have no idea why this story made the national news, but it did. Well, yeah, so many of those CNN and MSNBC reporters are homos, but you're not supposed to say that. There was this teenager somewhere who had said that he was gay and then retracted it years later. He said that he originally said it because he wasn't getting enough attention, but apparently he was now cured of his attention deficit disorder. I can't help but get a bit cynical about these things. I mean you got this nerd kid nobody bothers with. Then he says that he "came out" and everybody is suddenly paying attention, just like that grinning, horny, pervert teacher he's in "Cosmetic Art" class with. And all of another sudden the weirdo School Counsellor is talking to him every day about his "feelings" and all that bullshit. I don't know. Maybe the story is true as presented; but in 1963 Bayonne it would have smelled just as bad as those fucking oil tanks with a westward wind.

I don't know if I should do this. It's just so common. But, since I know that you asked; I'm clairvoyant. The first time I made note of this was a painful though enlightening experience. Many tears flowed; somewhere. Being Catholic, my parents told me zippo about these things; but when I was 11 or 12 and taking a bath I discovered the secret to the universe; and consequently began to bathe more often than Saturday nights. I was certain that no one else knew of this miraculous thing, and almost immediately started to lose interest in baseball, making Dad ask millions of questions to which I either said; "I don't know," "I don't feel like it," "I just want to take a bath," and stuff like that I really can't recall.

To my surprise, apparently some other kids I knew had also found the Holy Grail and were saying some strange things, making me consider the humbling possibility that I was not unique. In fact, some of them obliquely referred to related activities they had engaged in with girls, which at the time, I could not possibly imagine as having been true.

With the help of Ms. Largay's wide hips and short, tight skirts, especially when she sat on the edge of her teacher's desk while I had a front row seat; she seeming to want to remain breezy and cool in the well heated room, I thought that I might have seen something not flesh colored all the way up there a few times. I started to recall the mystery of her curvy bottom half when bathing ............ Ah, you know.

I started to piece a theory of sorts together. I was initially skeptical as it just sounded too outrageous. The details can go on some and Boomers just don't seem to be as well informed as Millennials. Give us a break. We didn't have Wikipedia.

It didn't take all that long for my silent theory to find full rejection. I tried to put that theory into practice with Amelia. I didn't know then, but later saw that she was clearly a 2, who didn't like me all that much. So one day, she must have gotten fed up with my bothering her, and with the whole eighth grade class within earshot, proceeded to make fun of me, mimicking things I'd said to her in private. "Pretty Boy" Prontnitski was pointing at me and laughing as was everyone else.

It was so humiliating, that a lesser person might have begun an avocation of buying alcohol for kids. But, no; not me. I sat there calmly and said; "I don't care. I really want to go down on Barbara, and she's not here." I may have also called Prontnitski a faggot, as Dolores always used to show him her cunt, and all he could do was punch her; but I probably didn't say that in the context of 2018 as words change their meanings over time and most importantly that it would be unpopular with many readers.

There were two eighth grade classes, and Amelia, Pretty Boy, and I were in the smart one, and Barbara was in the dumb one. But, I did consider her quite attractive, maybe because she was an early bloomer and unlike libtard TV commentators, never said anything which was out and out retarded.

People gossip so much it's usually just atrocious, unless you can get paid for it. But, in this case a freelance loudmouth or two must have inadvertently helped out shy little me, as Barbara was made aware that I wanted to eat her. So, sometime in the next few days I was walking home alone from somewhere, and Barbara was by herself leaning against one of those old mailboxes without a hinged entry which the postal people used for something or other, hitting it with something I can't recall; saying that the vibrations felt so good, as she pushed her mid-range against the bass. I tried it too, and indeed they did.

We were enjoying the good vibrations for a few minutes, when Barbara told shy little me that her mother wasn't home. ....... I'm still much too shy to continue this; but I'll tell you that I didn't know it at the time, but Barbara was a #1 in training. She lived with her mother only, and moms used to frequent the navy base then in town; and I guess that we learn more than we initially suspect from our parents. In a short time I found out that Barbara was not one to discriminate, and I experienced my first heartbreak.

I was absolutely inconsolable until the day when I was standing on line play-fighting with Bork, and Lydia said; "You look good. Don't act like no fag." She was half Spanish and half black with curves like Art Nouveau, and .......... I stopped crying for a while; until the whole Capulet-Montague shit replayed.

Well, that's a pretentious writerly kind of statement; cutely demonstrating that they know some Shakespeare or "West Side Story." The truth was that it was just that Lydia had a big brother, and I mean big; damn Hector, who had some discriminatory reservations about inter-racial relationships. I think that Lydia was handling this reasonably well for a while, but succumbed when she found out that Satch had one below his knees and that the improvisation I'd made utilizing my bicycle pump started showing diminishing returns after the first two weeks.

I started crying again, unable to pinpoint the many possible sources of my dismay, and discovered that I had a distinct talent for it.

#11- Mom and Dad's Families

My aunt Jean was mom's oldest sister and mom blamed her early outrageously sluttish behavior as the reason their mother watched her like a hawk. By the time I knew Jean she had settled into a stable relationship and had my cousins Paulie, Joycie, Georgie, and Tommy; the latter my age.

She married Bennett, a sailor. Despite him not having a first name, they found perfection in the understanding that when they were together they were together and when they were apart they were apart. Almost didn't write that as it seems so simple.

Bennet died or absconded to Tahiti while he was still somewhere in his fifties. But Jean and Joycie were able to get good barmaid jobs at Petruzzio's Café up on 39th.

Things have a way of working out.

When it was still a no-no, Paulie used to hang around with black people. Though I never saw the events, he was also known to have an occasional alley fight with an overly rude dog. Outside of that he was ordinary to a fault. Georgie was stocky with the body of a gym man and for some amount of time the pimple bodied constant eruption was considered the toughest kid in Bayonne. I was little at that time and when I informed the big Wap who was picking on me of that, he stopped for a week, until Georgie said that he didn't give a fuck about me and the Wap could do whatever he wanted. This was a distinct and disconcerting personal problem until I took a course titled "Surreptitious CIA Tactics 101" and the Wap started to find slippery things, like stickball bats, in his path. I mean look, the fuck was about 17 when I was 5, used to take my ball and pretend that he was going to throw it on the school roof, and if he was too stupid to watch where he was walking, as far as I was concerned, the bully had chosen to risk a lifelong gimp. I didn't make this world.

I didn't know Dad's family much at all. I remember that he'd often go visit them on a Saturday afternoon and at first he wanted to take me with him. But mom insisted that he didn't as she didn't want me exposed to low class influences. I didn't understand that as a tyke, but later got some insight as two of dad's brothers were cops.

I do vaguely recall going to a wedding on Dad's side of the family. I found it absolutely hilarious. Someone at our table introduced me to one of the primary polack refrains; "Don't tell me what to do." He seemed to start out in a serious vein, and later moved into humor. One of the later times he said it resulted in the only time I spit up my soda. It was that good. He was responding to someone else's commentary which I didn't take as instructive until my soda dyed the tablecloth. It's truly amazing how much of people's conversations are actually giving advice, which no one requested. At the end, the guy who used a plastic bag to gather up all the partially full bottles from each table was kind of funny, but a distant second to the one who repeatedly felt a need to declare his independence.

Jean's son Tommy was the one I knew best, but that was sporadic. Mom would periodically decide that her sister Jean had slighted her, and would even cross the street to avoid her. In retrospect, I concluded that Mom was more "sensitive" than the most politically correct of Goodreads libtards.

Somewhere around the age of six, I pitched my first no-hitter against Tommy, though giving up about twenty runs through walks. In later years this made some sense, as I was always wilder with lefties. I think this was a vision imperfection which made me aim at righties in order to throw the ball over the plate. Lefties kind of resulted in a target of space.

We'd also play "cowboys and Indians," me always the cowboy, and "Zorro." I don't remember anything of the latter game, except that I had a whip.

During the Viet Nam years, Tommy joined up, and despite hating the first time through, couldn't resist the bonus offered for a second tour. He might have been swayed as a result of having a job in the pickle factory downtown. He once told me that the best thing about the job was that the workers would piss in the pickle barrels.

He had more luck in Viet Nam, as he got assigned to a supply depot. He was off duty when the Westmoreland managed forces mistakenly bombed it. We eventually lost all contact, when he moved to Texas and married a Latino woman. The fact that he died of leukemia, scientifically associated with exposure to agent orange, before age 40, probably had an effect.

I hope his family got a good lawyer.

#12\- We Move Downtown

Perhaps in anticipation of the anti-bourgeois things to soon come, a year or two after I started grammar school, Mom and Dad decided to move three blocks further downtown. The third floor apartment provided a view of the school and yard right across the street.

399 Avenue C; property of the author.

About half of the building's residents were survivors of Hitler's camps. They'd often go walking at night; up and down the street; men in fedoras and women in babushkas. They'd always stay on that one block of Avenue C, between Andrew and 17th Streets. I don't know anything of them as they never talked to me. I never saw them talking to anyone else either, and I don't blame them.

Max and Sam owned the building and lived a few blocks away. Both lawyers, they took advantage of some of the un-rescinded WWII laws aimed at fuel conservation. Heat levels were never exorbitant in the winters, and Mom would periodically say some choice words about the situation.

The building's janitor, Nick Devorek was in his thirties. He and his family of four got a free apartment for his services; which most of the time was nothing, except bringing the garbage cans from the creepy enclosure downstairs to somewhere else. Either that or he and his family ate them.

When I was about 15 he developed some kind of problem with me. A few time he approached me when I was alone saying; "You bad man," as if he was looking for a fight. My standard reply was to shrug my shoulders and say; "Well, you know." He'd then stand there a few seconds before leaving. I really didn't want to kick his ass, or even talk to him for that matter, as I was afraid I'd walk away smelling of garbage.

The first such encounter contained some amusing banter which I don't remember. He spoke English by way of Latvia or some other shithole Northern European country Putin owns, and I thought he had said; "You Batman."

#13- S.A. Roberson A/K/A #7

Now, the site of condominiums, this was my grammar school. There's really nothing to say about it. But, here's a picture, as seen from right across the street where I lived.

S.A. Roberson Grammar School; property of the author.

You're welcome.

#14- Florence, the Chicken Jailbreak, and the Advent of "In Your Face" Politics

Florence and Kathy were sisters. Most likely they still are. Florence was the one with the brain. Most likely she still has one. Kathy was a few years older, but despite Florence having only been left back once, both were in my 5th or 6th grade class. Kathy used to sit right next to me and wore tight skirts which had a penchant to reach for the sky.

I don't remember much of Florence from then, as I may have been preoccupied with other things. I don't really understand that other than to conjure up some idea of an instinct, as I had not yet discovered Nirvana in the bathtub. I guess my angels told me that something was there.

The sisters' family moved away, I assumed seeking the joys of the Levittown septic backups and its consequent greenery, as many did, either that year or the following one.

So, the story takes a kind of pause right here, until that fateful day when my tall basketball friend, 18 year old Sepanek and about 14-year-old-I were again outside ogling the female denizens of the town's public pool in the middle of City Park through a chain link fence.

Sepanek saw Florence, and remembered her from some past time when he used to frequent Kathy's gate. He called her over and while she was walking, he quickly said something to me like "Used to be with her big sister. Florence was sort of engaged to half retarded Benny until he did something that got him brought up to Meadowview in Secaucus. Florence has been broken hearted since."

Footnote #3- Meadowville was a psychiatric facility. Regardless, in the early seventies, all inmates who did not drool on themselves or have two "assault with a deadly weapon" allegations against them were liberated by the Liberals of the time, thereby many being put on their happy path to homelessness. Don't ever think that Democrats have no fiscal responsibility. End of Footnote #3.

Florence got over to us and said a weak "Hi," but was obviously despondent. You'll have to get an idea of the lay of the land to understand what happens or doesn't happen next. Sepanek was 18-19 and on his last summer of goofing off. I knew him from PAL basketball. He was one of the biggest guys in town and about a foot taller than me. So, picture this. He and I were standing on the grass, which was two feet below the level of the paved pool area. You'll further have to appreciate that Florence was wearing an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny bikini, and of most significance you have to visualize that whatever razor blades she may have had, they apparently did not work too well in Center City to my supreme adulation. What can a youngster do when a wet, marginally covered, infinitely armed octopus is all of two feet from his face, separated only by a chain link fence? It looked friendly.

So over to the "not-so-readily-apparents;" I guess that Sepanek was trying to set me up with Florence, who he thought was either too young for him or that he was trying to make an indirect connection to have a step into a possible replay with Kathy. He was carrying the outside end of the conversation and might have been a bit annoyed with me for clamming up. I'm not certain but that unprovable conjecture seemed a reasonable interpretation of him shooting me quick daggers and making sideways drop kicks on my ankle. But after the "Hi" I was just staring at, confined to, and thinking about those two inch curly strands emanating from her frayed old bikini bottom. I mean what can one reasonably expect? The poor girl needed some help and my heart went out. Or something did, as she boldly put it right in my shy face only inhibited by that despicably cold chain link fence which had some aversion to true romance stories.

Or maybe this was just random crotch movement necessitated by something under her feet, a dull razor, or her sister constantly demanding immediate bathroom access. How could my tortured mind be sure? Besides, maybe she had a thing for wackos. Any notion of certainty was obliterated by Lemmy Caution. This would soon be a more common event as the near future produced up front feminists, but at this early time I was no doubt limited to thoughts of; "This is too good to be true. This stuff just happens in movies. ....... Umm, okay; But Fellini does come reasonably close if you just read in a bit of what was cut back in those, non-triangular square days. I wish I wasn't so shy."

At some point I had sufficiently recovered from my mental problem, aided by a kicked ankle which was ready to completely capitulate and never again dunk, to be able to ask Florence's healthy and many branched savannah bush if she and I might get together after the pool closed, at the far side which had no lights.

Footnote #4- In the compelling interest of dishonesty, the reader should understand that "at the far side which had no lights" was not communicated to Florence, and is only stated here in hopes of reader clarity, an admittedly ambitious goal. In the actuality of the time, it was far too suggestive to openly state, as well as much too mutually understood to have any possible reason to state without simultaneously advertising one's retardation; not "cool" until at least 1983. End of Footnote #4.

The unlit far side was a great place to attain some semblance of privacy in a town infested with wall-to-wall-people-ing. I often went there on nights when I wanted to be alone and enjoyed the wonderful views of the moon playing shimmering reflections off the bay. Fifty feet away was that spot where people used to dump their old refrigerators and car parts. It probably helped the privacy aspect that people believed that rats populated the area. But, that was really just fear mongering. I must have been there fifty times and never saw one. Jeez. Rats don't need refrigerators and car parts. Come on. Use your head.

I was as attracted to Florence as one can be with a ground level view. Really. Later I'd discover that she looked like a movie star; that Brit star; Rita Tushingham. Pre-dating the conceptual wildness of Patti Smith, Rita made a number of sexy-intellectual-independent-free movies which found a miniscule, art-house, US audience for less time than Bergman.

In the future when I got glimpses of the rest of her this was confirmed beyond any doubt. But, at this point, I was still struggling with my cursed shyness, like a wishful turtle down under, consequently reticent to make any eye contact; with only the most noble and loving of intentions toward fuzzy Florence. I must in honesty confess that I think it was possible that my determining bottom line at the moment was that if I hadn't said something or other Sepanek was going to break my leg and ass. I have been forever grateful for his implied threat of mayhem.

A miracle happened. A voice from above declined the dark side of the pool, but suggested that I meet her in the pool tomorrow in the light of the morning. It would have been nice if we could have seen things eye to eye, but we never did; and I was successful in showing that bothered me no end.

Florence had long brown hair ........ on her head! You're absolutely disgusting. It clung to her noodle (Just grow up and stop it. Okay?) as we splashed and played at one side of the deep end of the pool trying our best to get some space for ourselves. I thought that she might have shared my taste for privacy, and thinking that we might have a big thing, no pun intended, in common, I mentioned it to her. She shook her head "No," but indicated her gray area when she said; "I just do it here," oh boy, "as people congregate in the shallows and always piss in the water." It was true. Up here we could float in abandon, still have a side to cling to, and only risked being disturbed by the infrequent splashes produced by a brave diver landing after takeoff from the high diving board in the center. They always exited the pool after their display; but I never told Florence that they did, and in fact have adequate time to take a good leak while they did, as I was in love; especially when she'd sit on the edge and I'd try to make her delectably frayed slices feel better. She may have pissed in the water or the general vicinity, but she was so sweet I never mentioned it, as mentioning the harmless event might have become an "issue," but more importantly afforded it much too much importance.

We chatted a bit. I realized that her family had not relocated to Levittown and asked her about it. I found out that her family had never attempted to get to the promised land, but had merely skipped out on the rent, and found a new place on 23rd Street between the Boulevard and Avenue C, on top of "Nunzio's Penned Hens." This put her in a different grammar school district, but she was now high school age. Since I had not seen her at public Bayonne High School, I was sure that she must be attending Holy Family Academy, the Catholic girl's high school. She said no to that too saying that she went to #14 on 24th Street and got left back a few times because her mother wanted to keep her getting the free lunches. "She says I eat too much. How about you?"

Half of my shyness dissipated, and I said; "Oh wow. Never enough of the best stuff." We got the passes to let us back in and went looking for a private spot to have a long lunch. We both ordered extra mustard.

I have no idea what happened between Sepanek and Kathy, and never cared in the least. I never saw him around Florence's and didn't even think of it until just now.

For the first time I paid visits to a block with which I had been previously unfamiliar. Florence's unchosen family abode was on one of Bayonne's weirdest blocks. 23rd Street between Avenue C and the Boulevard was the bastion of car repair facilities and places which sold live chickens, the latter perhaps a throwback to the First Officially Recognized US Depression. Her family's apartment was the only residential holdout there, and a floor above "Nunzio's Penned Hens."

Probably because the market for live chickens had been in decline for a few decades, Nunzio wasn't paying a whole lot of attention to his vocation. Possibly in a preview of a movie released a bit later; the resultant unlocked cages facilitated a mass chicken breakout. They seemed both tentative and anxious to stretch their legs on unknown 23rd Street, with no understanding of cars and traffic.

It was so sad that their few exhilhirating moments of freedom quickly turned them into roadkill. That they needed kind hearted protection is viewed by some as being contrary to their breakout. I don't want to engage in the discussion, and am 100% certain that I'd never agree with these contrarians, realizing that the thought is irrelevant, as this can never happen again.

Worse, all too soon Florence's betrothed was released from Meadowview after two weeks of observation, and I was back at the chain link fence. I heard that he was getting some free pills out of the deal, and despite taking them, Florence thought him more crazy than me.

My repetitive, lonely tendency to cry over what others might brag about became more observably pronounced. I didn't need a state-of-the-art "analysis." Little Anthony had already covered the territory.

#15- Barbara Bigpolski at the Wading Pool

Pre-school years, mom used to take me to a wading pool in City Park sometimes. I'd go in the water which was probably no more than 18 inches at the deepest part. Mom would stay out of the sun and sit with a few other women under a huge gazebo canopy lined with benches. I liked water and could stay there all day, but that apparently wasn't possible for mom.

The worst thing about it was that when we were finished mom would stand me up on the benches, remove my wading trunks, and dress me back into street clothes. I had already developed some ideas about social proprieties and was exhibiting some of my shyness, and was consequently sure that everyone there was inappropriately looking at my woo. As this embarrassment went on for some time, I'm certain that I must have suggested alternatives to public nudity, but I don't remember what they might have been, and any such plans were never adopted anyway.

On the worst day, a girl my age, I would later learn was named Barbara Bigpolski was there. She was bigger than me and did something I can't recall which made me cry. She probably was splashing me, and I was certain that I was getting this abusive treatment because she had seen my woo. That's the whole story, as mom took me out of the water, and changed me while I stood on the bench; and I'm sure that Barbara Bigpolski was looking at my woo as I saw her doing precisely that.

As Barbara aged she got pretty big and probably had forgotten all about my woo as we never spoke and she never seemed to be looking toward my clothed teenage body. She and another big friend eventually evolved to being girls who hung out by the men's room entrance at the movie theatre on 31st Street and Broadway. Most everyone in Bayonne knew them and had given them nicknames I won't state here out of a respect for females. Yet, when I was at the theatre in tandem with them, I would always hold it rather than risk having Barbara see my woo again.

Years later mom told me that Barbara got appointed to some high level local government job. The news was on the front page of the paper and somehow I was not surprised.

Mom asked me if I remembered Barbara from the wading pool and I said; "No."

#16- Reality or Some Reasonable Approximation Thereof

I'd imagine that the reader might take this writer's lies to be some sort of attempt to brag and make their life sound grandiose. The reader will make their own decision about that; but they might do well to consider this.

If one approximates the time covered for these events and compared it to the amount of time the writer was a teenager the result would be an infinitesimal portion of 1%, much akin to a brief highlight reel gathered from the "career" of a very less-than-ordinary, extremely forgettable, marginal pro most remembered for having an ability to hang on. The highlights may be true; as the all too brief moments are what is deemed more marketable as the party people will not tolerate a downer; for those incapable of adjusting for frequency; their incorrectness an unrecognized gift.

The majority of the time the writer spent with girls was in a group of guys and girls arguing about something like what was being played on the boombox, proper male attitudes about females, or trying to force a convincing guffaw over something which didn't strike me as being the least bit funny.

This should ring a bell of instinctive truth as one recalls their biology class lessons, which assert that much of youthful animal behavior is preparation for the future. They just don't tell you that the future rarely comes.

So difficult to accurately put feelings on paper or cyberspace. Off and on, my despondency was cured a little later, when I met my wife of 48 years. She has forbidden me to write of her, and I've done that for all those most adept at reading between a minimum of lines. She's now pre-emptively worried about the health issues I ignore, and has gotten me the weed now legal in Washington State as a possible "cure."

She is certain that if I have the time, the bullshit I write will at least re-attain the significance of my first self-published month, when the royalties came dangerously close to covering the property tax payment. Her trust and kindness have fulfilled me through the expression of her belief, especially as after having experienced a half century's worth of relationship, I know that she will give me super-sized shit when she thinks it appropriate. Credibility is desperately sought now, but cannot be a possibly randomized, short term consideration.

The oddest of things is that the faith she shows in me; makes me feel unworthy of that faith. The easiest approach is to pretend that she is joking. ....... The only thing that I really know is that I trust and love her; and that the best thing I can do is to make her life better, and get enough royalties to cover the mortgage payment. I'm a tolerated failure, that preferable to an intolerable predator in my mind, and I hope hers, though I know that she sometimes wavers without saying so. Neither of us made, or would have made this shit.

Though you have no reason, reader; trust me, despite having heard that a billion times before. If you mean well there will be setbacks; too many setbacks for the most Pollyanna-ish of logicians to make any sense of. But, if you bravely or stupidly persist it will all work out. It's just the derivative take on some sort of misperception which the scientists cannot explain otherwise. The bad times seem so much longer than the good; but they are likely not.

Didn't some smart person say that time is relative?

#17- Moe in the Little League Toilet

I really didn't want to go here as the story itself will no doubt be interpreted as one suggestion which I did not intend. But this is the entrée into an event which might serve as a convenient, logical ending to a haphazard book which will pop up later, and will seem to be of sufficient significance to have, by seeming chance, affected my entire life.

I'm sure that it's some function of universal laziness or writer ineptitude.

I was 12 years old and in the Little League. I used to go to the field even when not playing to watch others play; especially the two girls who didn't seem particularly lined of face, while one was precocious of breast. It truly was what brought me there on non-playing days, but like most times I was too shy to do anything other than watch the bigger one bounce when she got excited to see someone hit a liner between the outfielders. As a digression, I might note for the benefit of this chapter, my woo had already shown consistent signs of bathtub misbehavior.

There were adults in attendance, most all of them parents of players, team managers scouting the competition, or guys waiting to pick up five bucks for doing a crummy umpiring job on the next game.

Except Moe. He was in his thirties, a bachelor, swarthy of complexion, not bad looking, and about five foot four. The biggest thing the adults noted about him was that he was a successful entrepreneur, operating a dry cleaning business somewhere near the railroad tracks on 8th Street.

I can't personally attest to that, as I never wanted to go to 8th Street as the environs were the turf of a gang led by a triumvirate of Burke the Gimp, Frannie Dee, who approaching 30, was sometimes referred to as the oldest teenager in Bayonne, and relatively sane Richie Grywalski, who I knew somewhat, as probably the best one dimensional basketball player in town, when he wasn't skipping games because of the blinding headaches.

I may have been cynically precocious to a fault when I made some note that it struck me as a bit unusual, that Moe, with all his female attracting assets, perhaps supplementable with lifts, was spending all his evenings watching little boys play baseball.

There was one ahead-of-it's-time co-ed, gender tolerant, bathroom under the two story press box, scoring area, perennial card game, and hangout for severely ageing guys who claimed to recall each other's former weighty sporting stature; much of that still obviously present in their bellies. Moe didn't go there, but always chose to sit in the bleachers with the kind hearted, succinct player evaluating folks. They would call the ordinary "good," and reserve other less complimentary estimations for those who might actually have professional potential. "He's gonna be sumthin' when he gets that breaker over" or "When he loses those rabbit ears ........ " were common compliments difficult to explain as a non-troll to those who have not been there, other than saying that it may parallel any evaluation rendered using the highest of standards. In the literary world, this commonly interpreted as an inverse complimentary dynamic is reserved for those with the ability to be solicited for the inconvenience of getting five figures for potentially being able to add to the bullshit rendered on intelligencia through middle-brow popular TV; the highest award; DFW, Franzen, Saunders, too early DeLillo, elusive Gaiman, and maybe Green the recipients, even if in edited YouTube format, made necessary by DFW's Hendrix reprise; that impossible to follow without the sympathetic crutch often provided by false humility, organized religion, or the mere mention of a Trumping position played against those holding no cards.

One day; I was using the facilities for all of a standing ten seconds, when Moe came in, and with his little guy in hand approached my bowl. Moe eyed me and seemed not to have humor in mind when he said; "We're both men here. Aren't we?"

I'd liked to have answered him with a deflecting equivocation, but I was a shocked 12 year old at the time, not yet a social-media sophisticate. Damn, at the time I didn't even know that Plato was anything more than a minor character in a James Dean movie. I reacted with a possibly un-necessary rejection; the only possible tears not a ripple producing swimmer in the still unflushed water below. Not really, though this comment is undeniably prompted and quickly twisted by an overwhelming desire to be absurdly seen as another 69 year old, Corvette owning, 2018 hip person; thereby worthy of purchase with its lusted after thirty-five cent through two dollar purchase.

But I wasn't quite sure at that 12 year old moment. As a matter of fact, my thingy just showed a reticence to pee. So I zipped up and left Moe with sole access to the bowl in needlessly intruded upon silence.

You may think that story isn't shit, and I won't argue strenuously against that. But if you keep on with this book, near the end, you'll see that this event was more of a formative experience than prior potty training was; and probably the most significant event in my choice not to seek employment at the pickle factory in town. I hope you'll all bear with me. If not, it's also okay with me if you divert to Mary Karr's late life discovery of Jesus.

#18- Bayonne June 1, 2017 as per "The New York Post"

Rather than completely rendering the reader subject to that which attempts to depict the experience of one who lived there for 21 years in antiquity, I originally intended to put this reasonably current article here. It was written by a retail real estate agent with an associate on the Post, which surprise, surprise invited duplication has herein been consensually duplicated in the slight hope that it might portray something about Bayonne's residential inventory, insofar as that may contribute to the physically unchanged "quality of life" which is of more meta relevance to the tail end of the second decade of the 21st century, at least in terms of price and bullshit. Make your own judgements and pay right through your nose.

I changed my mind when I realized that it was no different in substance from the many "rah rah" articles you've seen, standardly penned by realtors. Its only possible twist was its focus on a mixed race gay couple who had moved there from "artsy" Chelsea ten years prior, who had not yet been the victims of gender based, tribal intolerance. There was that incident with the restaurant which was temporarily out of quiche, but that was satisfactorily resolved through the owner's kind gift of a free fruit medley.

If you'd like the article's details try googling "New York Post 6-1-17. If as interested as me, suffice to read the following bullet point synopsis of the lengthy article;

1) Population 65,000 Bayonne is the southernmost point on New Jersey's "Gold Coast."

2) Residents of Bayonne have now all acquired waterfront and city (meaning Manhattan) views, and easy public access to the grandeur.

3) Bayonne is now "ripe" for tons of high priced construction.

4) The addition of a Costco retail store is providing some sort of unexplained addition to the already abundant local cachet.

5) Bayonne is "humming," that ostensibly having something to do with rumors of the re-opening of the Navy base.

6) Bayonne is a great buy. Its average house prices are half that of the $800,000 registered in adjacent Jersey City; which presumably has joyously been removed from the Federal Government's list of top 10 slums in the nation.

7) The two gay ex-Manhattanites explained their motivation for moving to Bayonne. This included their loss of jobs, and the affordable amenities attendant to residing in the long defunct Maidenform Bra factory on Fourth Street. Absolutely Warhol-esque factory cool ahead of its time.

8) The Kushner Real Estate Group was said to be soon involving itself in Bayonne. Russia's mob had a turf dispute with the third generation Bayonne Italian variety. This is expected to be resolved any day now, through Federal level laundering, pardons, and yuge largesse, with the promise of lucrative relocated connections.

9) Longtime residents such as Tsay and his husband are hoping more real estate means more grocery stores and eateries. "We want the town to change more and be more progressive," Tsay says. "We want a Trader Joe's. We want a Whole Foods. We want a Starbucks. There are none of those right now."

Sorry to end the synopsis with a downer, but it was really Tsay's fault. The NY Post real estate tout invited all to "share this article." So, I sort of did that, at the same time attempting to spare the reader the oldest of yadda yadda BS. Sometimes all one needs to become a prominent figure is the ability to keep a straight face during the farce. The writer is proud and confident that he has accomplished his goals, and done both sides a well-deserved dis-service.

Footnote #6. In the interest of readability, some changes were made to the grammar, but not content. End of Footnote #6.

#19- Sounding; a Precursor to Rap

"Sound around them sounding grounds. Shit." said Cheryl, stamping her feet and clapping her hands after she heard a particularly good one.

One of the irregular impromptu "sounding sessions" was underway in the schoolyard of #7 in 1961 Bayonne. It is not a racist comment to say that this event always had only black "sounders" at the center. Along with the rest of the white people, I never participated in these contests, simply because we were totally outclassed.

"If yo nose get any wider, it gonna look like the hair is growing out of yo ears."

Calls rang out from many of the watchers who had formed a circle around the two guys who were telling each other what they thought of them. The noise was words I'd usually find indecipherable as they blended together, "shit" the exception.

"Now you name Jones, las year it be Dorsey; befo that Miller. Ain't there nobody but that honky mailboy Blum yo mama ain't ....... ? The last word purposely trailed off.

Something like that was the closest to provoking an actual physical fight I ever saw. It was okay to say all kinds of "mutha fuckas," but a specific reference to someone's mama entered dangerous territory. "Yo bitch so ugly that when she try to wash her face the muthafuggin water won't get out the pipe" struck me as if it should be borderline, though I never saw an adverse reaction from anyone other than the bitch.

I often wonder how long the "sounders" lasted on social media. By the time I got there, they mus bin fuggin ree low kated. Unowhumsayin?

Many of the black kids who went to #7 were not born in Bayonne. Their families had come up from the deep south. I say that to point out the possibility that this art form did not actually originate in Bayonne, though it might have. At the time I guess that I wasn't much interested in history and never asked anybody.

Rhyming always added something to the cheers the comment commanded. You probably think it an easy thing to do, but it is not. The immediacy required by sounding left no time to google anything.

"Leon big head got dem giant lips which said dat dem eyelids mus be mufuggin lead to get dem slits dat gives duh Chink tits un-remediated fits when they try to find Leon dits."

I suspect you have an idea of what was going on by now. While its inclusion in this book guaranties a sales level countable on an amputee's absent toes, it is the truth, and I don't care. Its purpose is to recognize the as yet ignored contribution to music, literature, and poetry.

If you think that not true, here's an overt fuck you. Hehehe.

#20- Bayonne's Renaissance- A Mayor not in the Mob

I'm getting a bit ahead of myself here, but can't help it because I'm bursting with the memory of the good news. I was about 22 at the time, married, and living elsewhere; when Mom called me to say that Bayonne had elected a mayor who was not Italian or a funeral director.

Not yet fully awake, I made the standard reply; "You're shittin' me."

Mom said; "No. No bullshit. It's in today's goddam paper and they even have a picture of him. He's skinny with a pencil neck, wears thick glasses, and looks like one of those faggot teachers you see at the colleges."

I said; "Sounds like the real deal. How the fuck did that ever happen?"

I should note her that one of the reasons Mom always liked talking to me was because that I not only didn't object to them, but that I used many of her favorite words. Other people and even Dad objected to them and just would not allow it. Dad was still going to church on Sundays by himself, probably figuring that if he keeps it up something good would happen; you know, the odds seemed in his favor. And he has that silly Catholic interpretation of the Ten Commandments which said that using words like fuck and shit, et al was some kind of sin. Personally, I think that he was just embarrassed to be out-cussed by a woman and had a thing for this big chick with a midget husband who went to mass the same time he did. Mom had allowed me to quit when I turned 16, saying that she only went before that to set a good example for me. ........ I think I digressed.

So anyway, she started wondering out loud how pencil-necked Mr. Rogers was going to be able to handle all the disreputable entrenched forces in Bayonne; especially that consortium of Polack funeral home owners and directors and that Italian monopoly on the lunchmeat stores. She thought that maybe Mr. Rogers would be able to negotiate an honorable deal on the caskets and the liverwurst.

I wasn't as optimistic, and started thinking of all those guys encased in the concrete at the bases of the bridges. But, I didn't want to curb her enthusiasm by saying that. But come on. You get your people saying that's a myth, but one side of one of their fucking heads actually popped out due to erosion when I was about nine. Well, all right; they covered it back up quickly; but I saw the thing with my own eyes when Dad was trying to teach me baseball at County Park. He saw it too, but you know, he always likes to be non-committal on controversial matters, and used to ask me how I could be so sure that it wasn't the pet monkey that cement contractor Gargullio got pissed at for throwing shit on his walls. He had a point. But, I'm digressing again.

I guess that basically Mom was considering the possibility of the dawning of the age of Aquarius, while I had already seen "death of hippie" and Altamont; some kind of weird reversal there. It didn't matter. All the questions and speculations were settled in three months when it was determined that Rogers was really Calabrese, a member of the lighter skinned, northern Italy mob, as one of the distraught liverwurst guys sang all over him when Rogers left his ass exposed during delivery negotiations with the Meat and Packing Union.

To tell you the truth, it was probably some vindictive bullshit as I knew from Tijo that those dark skinned Sicilians had a serious hatred for those "higher class" light skins from up north, and it didn't take a whole lot to set things in motion; a darkie guy having a liaison with a whitie girl or vice-versa would get things moving well beyond the scope of this book; and Rogers had appointed one of those Sophia Loren standout types as his Minister of Ms.Information.

At any rate, Four Fingers Massiello, the guy Rogers-Calabrese had defeated in the Democratic primary was back in office. For those readers not yet sufficiently travelled to know Bayonne, the Democratic primaries are the race; as with 60,000-80,000 residents Bayonne has consistently hovered around 2,000-3,000 Republicans; commendably an indication of the town's belief in freedom, democracy, the American way, and the inevitability of organized crime.

Normality once again reared its ugly head in 1971 Bayonne. Beauty is in the eye of what the mob has told the beholder to see.

#21- Arnold J. Friedman

I owe Arnold J. Friedman ........ something ....... Perhaps for an education ....... Perhaps for a great life lesson. We were classmates in either kindergarten or the first grade, I don't remember. He was one of those kids who got a round stomach prematurely, and was shaped something like one of those large based cat toys that rock when you smack them. For some reason I never determined he also commanded the respect of always being called Arnold J. Friedman. In those days anyone else would have been called Arnie, Chubs, or some other term of overly familiar endearment.

Arnold J. Friedman and I had never spoken in class or any other time, for that matter. Then one memorable day I was standing in the schoolyard after lunch, waiting for the bell to ring when we'd all line up to go back in.

I saw Arnold J. Friedman rotunding in my direction. Arnold J. Friedman's face showed neither warmth nor ill will. He may have been focusing upon the relocation his parents were soon to be undertaking. I saw this as an opportunity to make a new friend and took a step in Arnold J. Friedman's direction. I may have also considered my obligation to appear social.

Arnold J. Friedman punched me right in my unprepared stomach and kept walking. It seemed to be quite an accomplished uppercut. If he didn't become a boxer, he went against the grain of his natural abilities.

I recall going down on at least one knee with the wind completely knocked out of me for the first time.

Arnold J. Friedman and his family moved away soon thereafter. I was glad that the neighborhood had lost one of its vicious marauders.

But, wherever Arnold J. Friedman is today, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank Arnold J. Friedman for being the first to teach me not to drop my guard around anything remotely human in appearance.

It helped.

#22- Senior Math

I did surprisingly well in junior year Algebra; a B+, ....... maybe a B, but no lower. Trust me. Middle aged + Mrs. Wright was a stickler for getting the easy parts right and hammering in the formulas. That didn't bother me anywhere near as much as the new wave of younger teachers who invariably expected class participation inclusive of pupil "insights."

My problem with Mrs. Wright was one of logistics caused by the stupid people who are paid to work out efficient class scheduling. Bayonne High School was actually a large one housed in three different buildings; and my prior class was at the furthest point possible from Algebra.

It was impossible to get from one place to the other in the allotted five minutes. So, I was late every day, and I'm sure that rule bound Mrs. Wright took this "slight" personally and made deductions from my grade, as the tests were so easy, I probably got 100 on all of them.

I was not alone in my problem. This is not just some excuse made up by one person hoping to cover a personal inadequacy by advertising it. Not at all. There were 6-7 of us in the same boat; one of them Bernie, who had the distinction of being the only person to ever beat me in a bowling money match. He was a good friend though we rarely spoke; that a guaranty of losing one's buzz.

In fact, had we followed school rules we'd have been even later. We were not supposed to leave the confines of the three buildings under the severe possible penalty of expulsion. To get from one to another we had to use the bridge between two of them, and take the undocumented risk of taking a fifty foot outside jaunt between the other two. The "bridge" existed only between two second floors, necessitated a congested traffic slowdown similar to that unnecessarily imposed at a lane reducing, unoccupied, road repair site with a fines doubled 15MPH speed limit, and was the most indirect route possible. We thereby got an insight into the secret of a totalitarian society; "Make everything illegal and enforce the law selectively." It was either that or the manifestation of a desire to learn how one obtains a special pass.

So, in an attempt to not suffer one form of the ire of the authorities, we broke their rules by going outside to utilize the most direct route to Algebra. In retrospect this was not the wisest of choices, as we risked expulsion in order to try to avoid the lesser penalty of a lower grade in a math class, of consequence only to MIT aspirants. The only caveat I might imagine is that some of us smoked while outside, another "reason" for expulsion, but one which in these circumstances added no further potential penalty.

Despite her blackness, Mrs. Wright had chosen to be contrary to the easy, popular stances adopted and often "enlighteningly" spouted at the drop of a chapeau by the majority of liberals. At the root she was a wicked operative of the oppressive system who imposed her views upon her class. Having spent my grammar school years in a half black school, that was not a personal surprise at the time; and is just noted in recognition of gleaned libtard statements cheered by the current owners of "social" media and their petty dupes.

Footnote #5. This is actually an apology, hopefully marginally informative, the result of having recently watched TV for the first time in close to two decades. In the relative realm of social media, my oft criticized "Goodreads" gets an A+, prior personal objections true as GR has not yet attained perfection, but the result of uninformed "me bad" reactions to what can be seen as a simple setup done by any GR cretin so inclined and moderately well web versed. The "key" with which I was previously unaware is just a matter of being stupid enough to take the bait. A "social media" attack should never be responded to in kind, as the lack of time available for proper website investigation of similarly inconsequential site users, necessitates their scrutiny of whatever objectionable single post you wrote, with no regard to its supposed antecedents. So, if you take this stuff seriously, you would do well to consider your potentially contentious post in the very real context of it being seen and judged as a very limited and non-contextual, stand-alone statement.

You know that or state as such. Okay. My degree of belief gets nuanced, not-herein-commented-upon, and best left unsaid. If one expands on that line of thought, it might be viewed as a bit contentious, petty, or both.

What may not be petty is that the surfacing wannabe authorities do not consider GR to be a provider of social media; at least not one they choose to mention on their top six list, two of which no one ever previously heard of, confirming some of my suspicions or political views learned in Bayonne.

The "top" six standardly employ stringent and free-speech-intimidating policies. Much more tolerant Goodreads is a source of light in a technological return to the dark Ages. Their necessarily cursory policies may hate and delete me, but inconsequential me can still applaud their relative degree of import to a much larger picture; their lack of personal monetary influence perhaps a complicating non-issue.

Soar on, Goodreads. End of Footnote #5.

I had to choose a few electives for senior year, and to tell you the truth I wasn't interested in any of them; no aspersions intended to be cast upon their shared relative degree of overall unimportance. Bookkeeping got my attention for a minute, because that's one of the subjects that the sluts gravitated toward; like those tight skirted Bernardi twins from 19th Street who were a year ahead of me.

But, just like the Bernardi twins, I figured that the Bookkeeping sluts wore those thick glasses that if you got the right sideways angle made their eyes explode to bug proportions. I guess it was my fault, as I was one of those stupid "sensitive" guys who looked at their faces once in a while.

At the bottom line, in fear or boredom, I eventually opted for my usual calculating route, and took Senior Math, because I thought it would be easy. Boy, did I get a non-math based education. The course included calculus, geometry, and all that stuff with the sins, cosins, angles, lengths, triangles, squares, rectangles, and hypotenuses which I had not seen anywhere near the brick and concrete of 17th Street. I had directly interfaced with the incalculable meta beast, and discovered that the prospect of infinity had its limitations.

On top of that the competition was top notch as I had finally gotten into the smart class, which basically means that I was the only polack and was entirely surrounded by stylish Jews, whose parents had long ago taught them all the angles and their derivations.

I'm not complaining, mind you, as I had a seat at the furthest edge of the boys section and a small aisle away were a bevy of Jewish girls I didn't previously know who were meticulous in their personal grooming. It wasn't just makeup, they had those stockings which still looked like flesh but hid the bruises and mini-skirts were in style. And Omigod, leggy Martha Sonnenschein was only two feet away.

Words fail, and those legs never did. You know what I mean? Once you get started thinking about it ......... Ah, shit; got something I gotta take care of.

Hi again. And I just knew that Martha was flirting with me as she'd always sit sideways on her seat, giving me the hint of a smile every time she crossed and uncrossed her legs. After about three weeks of this I got over my shyness and asked her something about her hypotenuse and cosin, and we got to be good friends.

But, at the same time Senior Math was driving me crazy whenever I wasn't looking at Martha's support systems. Class standard operating procedure was that Mr. Goldfarb would chalk a triangle, a degree, a length, a rate of speed, or something like that and then turn to the class and ask; "How long will it take for "A" to meet "B?" I don't like to brag about my inability or reticence to grasp some over-studied subjects, but I'd be sitting there thinking; "What the fuck?" while 2/3 of the class were almost ready to take off from Canaveral, with a hand in the air and an audible "Ooooo," and an implied; "Oh please call on me Mr. Goldfarb; I know the answer. Ooh. Ooh. Please. Please."

It was intimidating at first. The only other people who weren't waving was fat-Shipitofsky-in-the-back-of the-room and the guys who sucked up to him for being the only Jew able to make the JV basketball team last year, ostensibly some injuries depleting his expected senior year advancement. But, hey, I'm not raggin' on Ship. He had some trouble beyond eight feet, but he kept you honest, cause he'd give you one mother of a memorable shot if you came into his space with abandon.

After a while I became convinced that Goldfarb was selling the answers to the kids or their parents. No way, this was anything natural. I quit thinking about that when sweet Martha started to whisper the answers to me.

Mr. Goldfarb was really a good guy. I didn't have any easy way for Martha to help me on the tests; but Goldfarb set them up in a manner in which if you wrote down the givens correctly that was enough for a C; and I was cool with that. Hey, many people do a lot worse.

By now, you should know that I could easily make a reasonable case for perfection minus one in being distracted from the subject matter; and probably will when I figure out what the subject matter is. I'm open to absurd guesses as long as they are not painfully stupid.

I really got to like Martha better and better as the year progressed and thought about the possibility of marrying her. One spaced out day I was talking to her and said; "This is so weird. You know, we act like we're going to be together forever. But, if you look at the record, that's got about a chance in a million of happening." I guess I was kind of in one of my patented depressions.

Martha brought me right out of it when she said; "I really don't know what you're talking about. Jewish girls are destined to marry some funny looking Jewish guy someday. That's just the way it is. So, before the inevitable misery sets in we try to have all the fun we can."

I had a million questions I didn't articulate; maybe because Martha drew away my attention when she got one of those itches not curable with a scratch. I was sad again; and did my best to keep my tears close to my eyes; but managed to tough-it-out while feeling very used, as once again I kissed her unhypotenused, hirsute, and tasty right triangle.

For years, from time to time I'd consider departed Martha's outlook; and always concluded that it was sadly wrong. Then when I was in my early twenties I went to work for a Jewish bank in Manhattan; 75% of the employees born Jewish; 25% of them still with the misery inducing, hopeful and loving dogma. I kept hearing the same "joke" from a myriad of "Jewish" guys: "How do you stop a Jewish girl from fucking?" The answer was; "You marry her."

And what Martha told me then all made sense, in a flagellant sort of way.

Now, I'm sitting here wondering if this wasn't just me. You know, like every once in a while you just have to sneeze and it comes upon you quickly. You're down in the hole and can't quickly extricate your arms from under her ass, so best you can do is stop for a second and turn your head. It has its advantages in prolonging the event. No big shit most of the time, but if I had any complaints about her, Martha was a bit of a clean freak. She didn't mind if it came out just spraying her thighs, but if I got a green goober with some substance in the environs, she'd act all kinds of prissy. I mean I would lick the damn thing off, but maybe that made it worse. But there really is no better option, as I was kind of locked in place and didn't want it to dry there. After a few prissy reactions, I found it both meta logical and physically neutral to conclude that Martha was just lovingly playing with me in anticipation of new heights-lows. I was never tempted to ruin the mood with words destined to turn off. I think she understood and appreciated this reaction, wanted it that way, and was happy to find me complicit. It's just necessitated by the ancient story of mother taught female reticence which obliges the lovely ladies to register some historically documentable degree of necessarily safe reserve. I'll stop here as fully explored, this subject is capable of prompting many of George Saunders' short stories when at his peak. Suffice to say that the culinary approach seems to feed the hungry without sacrificing the interest of the tax payer, while minimizing "issues;" those becoming the bastion of cranks best avoided.   
I mean there are some things that just sort of happen before, during, or after sex; and a good partner doesn't risk turning the other one off with an unnecessary reaction or condition. Martha and her followers, including my long term wifey, were the Queens and Courts of Pussy Farts and I'd just pretend that nothing happened; and nothing other than a brief zephyr did. Hurricane Florence had long ago blown over. It was just that it was talkin' to me; a whisper of the glories of imperfectly seen mutual interest.

Besides, the ladies do talk among themselves of things which we backward, monkey-assed guys still consider to be taboo; the result being more friends, still unattainable on the best of "social media."  
I've been thinking of writing about this, but can't help but wonder if an expansion upon the "subject" might be too common for the wizened Millennial market I have learned to recently and properly say that I seek.

#23- Prontnitski and Duprakowski

I really hated both these assholes; but was stuck with them on almost a daily basis during my grammar school years. Some moron paid to be government union incompetent at these things consistently put them in the "smart" class of a "dumb" school, as they also did me.

I thought that I'd do a short blurb on the assholes as it's a lead in to something of much more significance. The duo always hung around together from fifth grade through eighth. The only funny thing I recall was that when two guys were exchanging words that might lead to a fight, Duprakowski used to yell out; "Hit em," and believe it or not that often ended the bullshit session. I was no big deal fighter, but got into one with Duprakowski once, and the first time I punched him in the head he fell to the ground crying and holding his ear like a genuine pussy; this prior to the premier of the "Peppermint" series, which actually did get my attention for two minutes. My ADD took over when I remembered Pam Grier.

Prontnitski got the reputation of being the toughest white guy at #7 through a lack of competition for the dubious honor and a better than average ability to push.

You see, half of #7 was black and many of them had been left back a few times, and there just ain't no way that a 12 year old honky is gonna be a match for a 16 year old nigga, especially when he wouldn't even have been a match at identical ages.

So Prontnitski was pushing around white boys for a few years. He's put his hands up by your shoulders and shove. No punches, that's all. But, some people fell on the backs of their heads and stuff.

He didn't bother me and I didn't give a shit about winning his "title," until the eighth grade.

It was early in the year and for the first time he started pushing me. Now again, I was no kind of fighter, probably having lost 60% of those I'd been in, though sometimes it's hard to tell in the 80-90 pound division. But, having said that qualification, there is no doubt that I was getting my ass near kicked a bit too much for Cus D'Amato to have taken any commercial interest; my boxing future apparently estimated to be as valuable as that of an incompetent indie writer with an uncontrollable penchant to competently try to piss everyone off.

I don't know. Maybe it was because that the baseball season had just ended and my arms were stronger than usual from throwing the ball and swinging bats, but when I pushed back, after about five exchanges Prontnitski was on his head, and I had apparently won his dubious honor.

This would escalate. The next day, my buddy Alonzo, who was considered the toughest kid in school, wanted to have a play fight with me. I don't know what they called these things if anything, but it was like this. You basically had a boxing match where you could punch to the body, but had to open your hand if you went to the head, and everyone else would form a circle, watch, and call out shit.

These things were almost a daily event at #7, and the closest anyone ever came to getting really hurt was me when Solan caught me in the mouth and the edge of it bled for a few minutes.

But, this time things got a little weird. Oh, I'd like you to know that I was very untrained in boxing, but it didn't seem to matter all that much, unless you were up against somebody who was.

So, dear reader, if you have any interest, I invite you to read the next chapter which is about the Alonzo-Ed match and its surprising and life-changing aftermath.

Yeah; I am well aware that this had temporary significance at best. And yeah; I am also well aware that this may have had an effect on no more than a small contingent of the usual suspects. And yeah; the aftereffects may be entirely the figment of my unsubstantiated imagination. But in 2018, about 2/3 of the books are advertised as the tale of a surprising, life changing event. The ones I have previewed did not surprise me, and left me with a feeling that if the event chronicled changed anyone's life, they must have been previously not in possession of one.

This will be no worse, and if you want to criticize, criticize all the others first. A pre-emptive "fuck you" may be in order.

#24- Alonzo

If I didn't previously indicate it except through inference, please allow me to clarify by saying that Alonzo was black, and for increased information of 16 years of age. I had previously been in his acquaintance through our attendance at the same school, the basketball games there, and the higher level basketball games held at the Police Athletic League (PAL) on 23rd Street, which I may never elaborate upon as it's a long ass story, and probably of no interest to anyone, other than the only female who ever frequented the rude boy joint; Linda Smith. That girl was absolutely gorgeous, and she used to come there by herself from 4th Street, and to tell you the truth. I don't even think she knew all that much about basketball, but just seemed to have a shifting and redeeming superfluity of favorite players.

But anyway, back to Alonzo. Like I said he was black, but he was light skinned with a similar complexion to that of Lydia. So sometimes I thought that he was half Latino, but who gives a fuck, and I only thought that kind of crap when I was bored enough to watch Mr. Rodgers. His most distinctive physical feature was a well-rounded ass that Kim Kardashian would die for. So, his black friends called him "Poopy," but honky me wouldn't dare.

So, you know, we start the shit and we're actually smiling at each other, and like most always start out slow. Fucking crowd ain't paying a nickel, so if they got a problem with that they can fuck off. But, like always the pace picked up, roughly proportionate to the time elapsed, adjusted by the off-the-graph lulls, sometimes induced by an exchange one whacked participant wants to use to take some time to re-assess their strategy.

I can't go blow by blow today, and I couldn't even have done that in the time. But I can tell you what was in my head. I think. I had nothing to lose. If Alonzo whapped the piss out of me that was what was expected. I was proud to be at the event. As the "fight" progressed I got the idea that I wasn't doing all that miserably. Not winning, mind you, but landing some head shots and being more credible than anyone expected.

That temporary joy disappeared when the bell rang for line up and Alonzo informed me that; "This is going to continue, and the next time it ain't gonna be for play."

I surmised that the amount of head shots he had gotten in on me were not sufficiently greater than those I had gotten in on him to impress his non-participating, black "friends." Beyond the intellectual estimation, I was thinking; "I am in the deepest shit I've ever been in my life, which might soon end. I have raised my estimate 10%, and am now 100% certain that God hates me."

We all lined up and went in. Alonzo and I had a first class of Wood Shop with Mr. Dixon. This was a long time ago and I've since learned that this was a less-than-average income area and the tools we used in Wood Shop were old, beginning to show a desire to depart from their cracked wooden handles, and that the black metal ends of the files and rasps weighed about five times as much as their 2017 progeny. It was also 1962, the time of the Cuban Missile Crisis. I didn't exactly know, and confess that I still don't know what a Communist is. But in 1962 I knew that they were some irrational nuts who were coming to get us, and am not sure how much I have tweaked that early, naïve position.

I was standing at a shop table with some people I don't recall and had an overweight rasp in my hand. I pointed it toward the door and announced to whoever was at the table that if a Communist came through that door I'd ....... and made a throwing motion with the rasp in hand.

Well, wouldn't you know it? My day's bad luck continued when the metal part made its final split from the wood and went sailing across the room, coming to rest after smashing the shit out of the wire re-enforced glass part of the entryway, leaving me holding a split wood handle.

I truly forgot about my impending doom, and started to think about the bill my parents were going to get, the possible school disciplinary procedures I would be soon made aware of, and most of all me having to explain how stupid I could possibly be to mom and dad for three months. You might well imagine that with all that on my mind, I was just staring at the smashed door, oblivious to all else.

My faith in God resurrected. When I was able to take one step away from my predicament, I saw that Alonzo was standing near the door, and assuming that he wasn't dancing around a whole lot, the metal end of the flying, bad rasp must have missed his head by all of two feet. I think Alonzo's eyes were imitating the size and appearance of a Franklin half dollar, and that he might have competitively been upping my former cricket eye bug to something fancifully out and out Kafka-esque.

No matter the possible literary or anti-literary allusions, it soon became hearteningly clear to me that Mr. Dixon was not going to involve my parents and made it a class project to sweep up the broken glass and replace it with a precisely fitted piece of plywood. Even better, Alonzo and the rest of the kids erroneously concluded that I was some kind of legitimate nut and that they shouldn't fuck with me under any circumstances.

As a result I never had to have another fight, and will always be grateful to Fidel and Nikita for that. You know, there are Communists and there are communists.

In retrospect, I am sure that scary, misunderstood, and twisted experience forever freed me to think only of beautiful and pure thoughts of the most divine of peaces and loves.

#25- Tijo, Vincenzo, and the Orange 440

By now, you may have noted that this book is out of order if one limits themselves to thinking in a totally plebian chronological manner. This particular chapter is not an egregious offender in that regard, but I just thought of it right now, and it seems appropriate to mention it here. Otherwise I'd have forgotten about it. If you haven't already, you'll learn that the intelligencia fawn over writing which is most likely sloppy and/or inept; often deeming it new and creative. Their possible intent of being disingenuous, sarcastic, or condescending is competently hidden by the best of them; and the others are not worthy of any more discussion than is supplied by their Goodreads suck-ups.

High-brow literary considerations temporarily aside, Tijo was my best friend at different times of my early life; I guess something like a cereal you abandon once in a while only to discover worse. He was as Italian as anyone whose family came from Sicily and felt the standard need to deny it under the implied threat of mayhem; especially when in the presence of other Italians. I'm not certain, but often consider the possibility that he may have been an early consultant for Lina Wertmuller. Before I speak of Tijo himself, I want to speak of Vincenzo, who Tijo brought me in contact with.

The neighborhood had its share of organized crime members. Probably. As with most everything, including literature; those of significance don't talk about it and those of none do. No big thing with the mob; as if you don't renege on some money/promise kind of deal with them, you may just as well be discussing gardeners with your accountant neighbor in Teaneck. It's the ones who aspire to the heights that you have to be a little careful with.

Vincenzo was one of those guys who always carried a wad with the hundred on the outside, and could tell you of the details about last night's break-in today; even if you didn't ask. Like Tijo, he also lived on 18th Street between Avenue C and the Boulevard with his parents. Unlike fifteen year old Tijo, he was 40+ at a time when the Millennial excuse had not yet been invented. It's hard to be precise when half the hair on one's head has relocated to one's back and what remains is long, stringy, and no fan of Rothfuss' youth oriented "The Name of the Wind." You're welcome, Patrick.

Indeed, had someone used the word "Millennial" in the early sixties, those within luckless earshot would have thought it to be a reference to some obscure sci-fi comic book headlined by a super complainer able to spew "gender issues" in a single blurb. It was truly un-intended, but in re-reading the immediately prior, I apologize for appearing to have done a self-serving imitation of Nostradamus. Some repetitions are truly un-avoidable.

Tijo knew him somewhat, and often when we were walking on Avenue C we'd run into Vincenzo, who was always off on some time constrained secret mission, but could un-graciously afford to spend a few minutes with us impressionable snots.

It's impossible for me to recall the details of the conversations, but beyond vague allusions to yesterday's news and the important, nefarious, secret mission Vincenzo was hurrying off to he'd flash his wad of hidden Washingtons, and ask if we needed anymore tax exempted cigarettes.

For those uninitiated you might be thinking that Vincenzo was an asshole. And you'd be right. But you'd be wrong too if you didn't treat him with the utmost seriousness and respect, as Vincenzo had nothing to lose. Skipping a few other steps and possibilities, if you dissed him he'd smack you some kind of way; maybe even going back home to get the baseball bat from his garlick necklaced mother to do so.

If you just think about it a second, you'll see the simplicity of the logic. Primarily, Vincenzo would like to be respected like a "made man," but if you are inclined toward some silly notion of truth, he would like nothing better than to be arrested for fucking you up. He'll be away from his nagging Italian mother for a change and assault and battery carries more status in the pen than being a little mama's boy who runs the lunchmeat slicing machine over at Mario's on 24th Street does in the neighborhood.

Cut some here. Half a pound of the fresh pastrami. So Tijo and I always acted appropriately around Vincenzo, and when he departed he'd always say; "Hey; you guys ever need anything you know who to talk to," and we'd thank him for his generosity. It wasn't until we got half a block away that we'd crack up.

This chapter may be a bit misleading, as there really isn't much to the story of Tijo and me. We shared an interest in sports and ways to rig a card game. After I'd have a few bucks in my pocket, I'd go off asking girls for dates, my accumulation seldom depleted. He'd go off on a mission to become the oldest stickball player in the schoolyard. Despite periodic success, complete dream realization was deferred until his early twenties.

The orange 440 was a muscle car driven by another resident of Tijo's block, Squale (pronounced skwal-ay). This thing was so orange, it made Trump's hair look yellow. You could always hear it coming from ten hovels away. Though I'd seen it before, one day I was sitting with Tijo on his steps, going over last minute plans for the fixed card game soon to begin there, when it drove by.

Totally out of character, I said something derisive about the car and its driver, which I can no longer recall. Since we were always goofing on someone or something, I was surprised when he seemed to get "defensive." In a gravely serious voice, he informed me that Squale was a made man. Therefore I was 90% sure that he was kidding me.

There weren't many Mafia movies yet, and if I had seen any of them I must not have been paying much attention, as I had not previously heard the term. I thought that Tijo was saying "maid man," and followed up with a comment I considered to be consistent with the unusually bright car color. Even if I remembered it, it would not be stated here in fear of literary rejection on the grounds of gender insensitivity.

Tijo then educated me as to how much of a big deal that was before the card game broke out. I believed him as Squale never tried to sell me any un-taxed cigarettes. In fact he never even spoke to me and just continued to go on gunning "big broad orange."

#26- Kaporinski Whack in the Head

Anthony, often said as Antny was one of the guys who I'm sure gave rise to the invention of the words nerd and dork. I personally am not aware of any precedents; but rest assured that someone is capable of finding something which will seem to be a precursor, much like simian nut accumulation is considered emblematic of the human penchant to hoard dead presidents. I'd rather not get into the whole irrelevant drawn out matter. Antny was a nerd-dork and that's all there was to it. If he had predecessors to emulate, let the audience-challenged panel at Cambridge impress each other with their couched and speculative theories.

Antny was a USA born, Bayonne residing jerk. I never really noticed much of him in the early years of grammar school. He kind of got 85 in everything and didn't play any sports, despite being the tallest or near-tallest white guy in the class.

I could go on with possibilities of why when Antny got into the eighth grade his focus became his desire to be a "cool" guy. His musical talents led his parents to get him an accordion, which he eventually used to get a few gigs at some polack weddings.

I'd just like you to know that I don't think I'm exaggerating much when I refer to Antny as founding father of nerdism and dorkism. He was so un-coordinated that when he picked up a pen it was even money whether he'd write something on the paper or his pimpled head. Everybody "kindly" dealt with that as it wasn't going to get anybody any kind of increase in stature to successfully goof on King Nerd-Dork.

But things changed when in Nord-Dork year 13 Antny said that his name was Tony Kay rather than Anthony Kaporinski, slicked his modest length hair back and parked his ass with the "cool" kids who hung at the candy store, telling everybody about Murray the K.

People tolerated that. We weren't mean just for the hell of it. But then Tony K started to fuck us up with the girls. At the time the area was a "cool" hangout for kids from all over Bayonne. It probably would never have happened, but the visitors tended not to be guys, as being unfamiliar with the territory they thought that they'd get their asses kicked. The girls were much braver, and as a result their asses were more or less adored.

Then Tony K, trying to be "cool," would fuck up the whole thing. It would go something like this. Four guys would be standing there with four girls down from 35th Street getting to know each other a bit; and then Tony the K would put his hand right up one of their dresses. Even though most of these girls had been around a bit of the block, none except Iva Lipsky was going to stand for that kind of shit and they'd leave.

So the guys started to regularly whack Tony the K in the back of his head. At first it would be when there was a group behind him. One would whack and Tony wouldn't be able to tell which one. He'd say; "Hey," and everybody would ignore him. He started absorbing better shots to which his "Hey" corresponded with some of the grease on his head flying off, necessitating a re-comb in one of the empty store front window reflections.

Tony didn't take the increasingly less gentle hints and eventually crazy ass Manny wouldn't even wait for the safety of numbers. He'd just walk right up to Tony and slap him in the back of the head as he passed by without stopping. When Tony would utter his usual "Hey," Manny would just keep walking and say "Fuck you."

I don't know what happened to Tony the K. He stopped hanging around there and I heard that he joined the CYO and got a job for one of the undertaker-politicians. He always wanted to be a big shot. But, I also heard that the job didn't last more than a few weeks, as Tony allegedly did something objectionable with a corpse. That was at the funeral home.

The stories varied and I don't even want to think about any of them. But, he then got a job with a guy who rented tuxedos, cummerbunds, and drees-up shit like that on Broadway. The guy once told me that Antny's job was to suck all the farts out of the old men's pants.

I don't know and I don't care. I heard that Tony the K was finally happy with his stature in the CYO.

#27- My Non-Life not on Goodreads

This entire, weird chain of events had no clearly defined starting point. But I suppose that if you choose to commence yapping that you are stuck in having to pick some arbitrary point to start the yap at. ......... Never mind; I guess I already have. ....... But, not really. That's got nothing to do with the story. It's just one of those clever lead-ins a competent writer tries to hook innocent readers with.

In fact whether or not there is a story is in itself a highly debatable subject for anyone paying any attention whatsoever; with the possible exception of that person who keeps leaving those messages folded under the red flag attached to my mail box. Inconclusive "proof" of that allegation is offered in the absence of an actual photo and is displayed thusly below, "enhanced," and very much more or less Adobe.

Mailbox; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license; modified.

Got the picture? Not exactly. The color picture has been rendered black and white, as color printing results in the cost of printing to quadruple; and I'd much rather my fans use their imaginations a bit and not feed the printer. As a hint, the flag is actually a vivid red.

No, it is not the hanging of Frosty the Snowman. It's my fabrication of a letter attached to my mailbox.

Excellent. You may have already astutely noted that this book is a periodic, attempted condescension to the many dissertations upon post-modern literature written by people no one ever heard of, and published in consideration of the "necessary" $35,000 annual fee extracted in the interest of great literature by Dalkey Archive Press, insofar as the genre which came to fruition with DFW and died when he did is still lionized by two or three septegenarian critics; their anticipated raves not personally measured in Jacksons; not even in Washingtons, the fathers of this great country; but in brilliant un-elected Franklins. I am confident that the disserters will approve. Hope does indeed spring eternal.

All that out of the way, please allow me to go back a few months ......... or years. I don't recall where or when it was. I don't recall who else might have been there. The inconsequential details have faded. But, I know that it's true because I briefly mentioned it to my psychiatrist 32 years ago. It doesn't matter all that much anyway; except to the "democrats" who are using and abusing me only for their own gain; or possibly their own perverse desire to thwart and malign someone else. Then I took their advice and got this lying butch lawyer. Me bad. Right now, I wish that I had never gotten involved in the whole thing, but it's too late for me; as the market has already been swamped with these incorrectly deemed-to-be same genre things; and I can only get a percentage deal. No advance at all. I really shouldn't speak until the old, unspecific matter has been thoroughly investigated by a neutral source; if one exists. In the absence of "good" choices, I guess that I'd like to suggest the engagement of a metaphysicist. Bottom line, I wish that I had never written anything, but .........

A Condensed Recollection of Banalities Which Trigger Thoughts of Suicide in Silly Seekers of Elation; an Illegal and Insistent Intrusion from Another Book; Proceed at Your Own Peril

As soon as I came back home from my Walmart excursion I flipped on my laptop and shuffled around anxiously while the contrary thing took forever to boot up. What seemed like an hour later, I finally navigated to Kindle Direct Publishing. I put in my e-mail address, the password, and clicked "Reports." At the bottom of the screen, in very small letters, I got the message; "There are no sales to report for this period."

Being a rational person I concluded that there was some sort of mistake.

Hi, precious and possibly non-existent reader. The name's Ed; and the first thing I'd like to do is complement you on your good taste.

The second thing I'd like to do is dash off this e-mail to Kindle Direct Publishing, saying that they will not be allowed to steal from me. There is no possibility that in this entire world of five hundred billion English proficient people; if you count the Brits; that not one of them has purchased my book.

Fraud!!

Every single one of the other dog walkers I met while walking Daisy down by the river said that I'd soon be on TV with the likes of Franzen and DeLillo; Wallace had he chosen to continue to hang around in hope of the laurels disproportionately attendant to posthumousity. Okay, they didn't specify that it would be on the same show; so I sort of made a reasonable assumption about that, if you have to get picky. It certainly wasn't Jerry Springer, as that was cancelled by then.

Hi again, astute reader pal. I just want to be clear that that e-mail I mentioned sending out was in the past. It has already been sent, and was truly intended to mean the exact opposite of what it actually said. But, my hi to you is in the present and true, for the second time. ............... Don't ask. You may have already noted that I'm easily confused. It's not lying mind you; it's confusion. I have a doctor's note.

Those mailbox messages were a continuing thing. I remember the first one well. I had just written and self-published my first book; "Deadly Doornails," a month prior. I was really bummed out over having had no sales. This is a little bit later than what went before, but is conceptually the same as what went on that very first day and now conveniently defies criticism of any kind, except for that trolling mailbox message.

It was still September, but well on the way to October, the time when Albuquerque has its biggest event, the Balloon Fiesta. I don't live in Albuquerque, just nearby, but that doesn't really matter as every year that I've been here, someone puts a flyer in my mail box flag around this time to say that they're having a 7AM breakfast party on the first day of Mass Ascension, and that I've been invited.

It is not nice to point out that some of these genteel, butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth, re-located mid-Westerners can be quite sarcastic. Besides, you always have to bring your own breakfast booze, and I can see the balloons from my own windows, without the benefit of any invitations, anyway.

So, it was like that; but instead of one of many identical "bring-your-own-breakfast-invites" the paper on the box was handwritten and unsigned. It said that this person appreciated having read "Deadly Doornails." I was excited at first, and reproduce the note here.

"I know how most writers go unappreciated. I wanted to drop this note just to say thank you for the fine work you've done on 'Deadly Doornails.' I enjoyed it immensely and look forward to your next offering."

Well, the second thing I thought was that the brat from two doors down who doesn't like me was making fun of me. My third thought concerned how anyone had seen a book which had zero sales. My excitement was impaired by the creepy aspect.

Perhaps by now my sweet reader is wondering why I didn't put Goodreads in the title of this chapter. Actually I did, and perhaps preceding it with a "not" was confusing to one of us. In either case, that's too good a question for me to pretend that I know the entire answer. Why hasn't Goodreads been mentioned in the body yet? I don't know that either. I may have intended to once, but now I've forgotten.

But since you didn't ask, I'll tell you all I know. I had already been writing books for three years as well as reading them for a somewhat longer time when somebody introduced me to Goodreads. That event coincided with a severe drop off in both the quantity and quality of my work; and if I ever remember who the saboteur was I'm going to crack an egg in their mailbox.

That website contains some of the horniest devils on the planet. And despite all the direct and inferred lewd commentary allowed, GR went out of their way to delete me. You see, there are rules of conduct imposed by the management, rather than the owners, of the "social media" sites; which are implemented by disinterested and self-important flunkies; on Goodreads designated as librarians; feral adjective generally unspoken. As a result, you can actually be convicted of a crime for saying something on social media which is perfectly legal to say out loud. Mercifully, there is no punishment other than being banished from hell.

By the way, does anyone else agree that the old, face-lifted, Senator from Connecticut would make the perfect lead if anyone decides to do "Nosferatu III"?

#28- Bombers

Bayonne had one public high school appropriately named Bayonne High School which covered grades 9-12, and had four possible itineraries; college preparatory (one called academic, which academics hated), technical (machine shop, auto body, et al), general (for future book-keepers, seamstresses, nurses, aspiring and existing sluts), and Bombers.

Bombers was the one that wasn't well defined and I doubt if that was its official name. It occupied the first floor of one of the school's buildings, and I never saw anyone enter or exit; though I did know that it housed one of the school's varsity basketball players. Today it would probably be called "Special Education," but back then nobody talked about it except Robert Maguire. He was one of about 13 members of the Catholic Maguire family who lived on 17th Street between Avenue C and Broadway. I knew a number of them and Robert was the one who got shorted in the brain department. He wasn't retarded or anything serious I don't think. It was just that his voice sounded slow and dumb, and he was talking all the time.

He'd tell jokes no one found funny and say things like; "You see that dog jump that curb." I was never looking for any trouble; so I'd politely laugh whenever he did. But some people didn't and eventually a sort of argument would break out. There were always a group of kids around, so these arguments didn't get resolved like a one on one tete a tete or a Senate Supreme Court approval. The arguers would play to the crowd trying to get them laughing at their opponent. ....... Maybe it was like a 2018 Senate hearing, but we didn't know that yet.

Invariably Robert Maguire would start losing the argument. He'd then put his arm on one of the observers, point at his opponent, and say; "He goes to Bombers." I could never help but laugh, perhaps giving the wrong signal as to whose side I was supporting. I mean when he said it he would sound as if he went to Bombers.

However, it would be a mistake to sell Robert short. He may merely have been displaying a superior sense of humor which always won the "argument." I'm sure that if he was a commentator today, he'd ask an unanswerable question like; "If that wasn't supposed to happen, why did anyone bother to invent roofies?" or "How old does a girl have to be before she figures out what's going to happen being the only girl at a drinking-drugging party? She must go to Bombers."

The few times his older brother was around, he wouldn't argue. He'd slap Robert in the head. Robert would start crying, and big brother would repeat "Stop whining," until Robert went back home threatening to tell their Dad.

#29- Bad Pizza Revisited

Bad pizza has taken on a more complicated posture in Millennial enlightened 2018. Inferences are drawn from imagined metaphors. Jeez. I was just talking about pizza. Okay?

I'm sorry that I brought the whole thing up, as it doesn't even happen all that often. ....... Hehehe. You're supposed to say that. Right?

#30- The Beginnings of My Fabulous Writing Career

After Amazon made it excruciatingly easy for any idiot to self-publish and sell one or two of their books on their website, every idiot did; including me.

That being the whole story, I figured that I'd fill out this chapter by skipping to the end; that requiring a context not herein provided. I guess that makes it either experimental or a Nabokovian puzzle; either stupid or extremely high brow stuff. Any other assessments are most welcomed if accompanied by a proof of purchase.

I noticed that in the course of one of the Attorney General's (hereafter referred to as AG) reviews he helped out the author, by suggesting he delete some word and put another one in its place, ostensibly after AG looked it up, thereby assuring the accuracy of his assessment. I knew the word and didn't understand the fuss at first. But I'd like to return the favor.  
There is one word AG often uses which always throws me; solipsism or solopsism, solipsistic, and even some other derivations. I don't know what that word means and have never heard it or read it in the course of my 69 years, and therefore doubt if anyone else has. The first time I saw AG use it I looked it up. Since I had forgotten what I read I did that the second and third times too. I'm not doing it again.  
So, if AG still has any literary aspirations beyond doing on-line reviews; and may even want to dare to be an "accessible" writer, he should do himself a favor and use another word. And, please don't tell me what it means because I NO LONGER GIVE THE SLIGHTEST OF FUCKS, YOU PRETENTIOUS PURPLE BASTARD.

#31\- Brooklyn John Gives the Rubes an Education

In my humble opinion the best story is the one about the guy who moved to the neighborhood from Brooklyn, ostensibly after having romanced every woman there except that 800 pounder who never got out of bed and had like 15 rosaries. Bayonne, NJ must have represented a new pasture. He proceeded to help out the love lives of the rest of us yokels.

But, I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's circle around the beginning and preface for a bit. Though the ending is surprising, which would allow it to stand on its own, the telling of the story is greatly enhanced by the skillful writing dashed off in the writer's customary manner. If you fail to make note of that, I am certain that you will not be able to miss the entertaining utilization of objectionable profanity, sufficient to obtain "InfoWars" treatment from the prudes at Facebook.

We first saw John when he'd ride his bicycle around the block. That wouldn't have gotten much attention had he not done it on the sidewalk while blowing his whistle. It was not only his receding hairline and grotesque clothing that made us think that he was at least forty, and induced many parents to keep their distaff progeny off the street. One side block he seemed to like was already the domicile of two demented male adults, one supposedly having relocated from Sing Sing, under some Liberal promoted non-work release program. The mid-sixties will always be remembered as a time of liberation.

We and the rest of the neighborhood experienced good fortune when an irreparable bicycle issue later coincided with a lack of funds needed for tire replacement. This resulted in John's coming around on foot. When I wasn't there someone apparently talked to him, which he chose to interpret as a welcome. John informed us that he was 16. It was not until much later that we realized that John supplemented his Turret's Syndrome with a bit of a futuristic issue concerning the truth.

He interspersed his infinite supply of "romantic" stories with periodic dabs at the puss oozing from his terminal acne craters. I couldn't resist being encouraged that maybe one day; I too might be able to attract so many women. It seemed that at some point John felt un-explicably challenged, as he suddenly began supplementing his tales with action demonstrations.  
When he saw a girl or a group of them walking by, he'd get up, do a bit of a pelvic thrust, rub his crotch and yell out; "Come on over here and suck on this a while." He was really ahead of his time as Michael Jackson copied it and didn't do a watered down version until the 80's or so.

John's big day came when he was doing his thing to get the attention of the old polock chick walking across the street. She must have been 19 at the time and didn't speak any English. She stopped and looked at John for a few seconds probably not comprehending his overture and thinking about how the romantic rituals might be different in the USA. Whatever, but after a few seconds of motionless thought she started rubbing her crotch too. .............

It goes on some, and my conclusion involves some interpretation, which could well be wrong. But, what happened surprised inexperienced me. Rather than crossing the street, John animatedly started asking the rest of us; "Did you see what she just did? Did you see what she just did? Did you see that?" She was about 100 feet away, so I couldn't imagine how anyone missed it. Consequently, as was the case with the rest of the group, I made no reply; thinking something sophisticated was going on. In a few seconds the polack walked on and John sat back down.

I have no doubt that the lesson female irresistible John taught us was; "Get their attention and interest. Then play hard to get."

The woman who had walked on was the oldest of two sisters. The younger was one who kept more to herself. She went to high school, spoke English adequately, and most of all communicated perfectly through her eyes and facial expressions. One day she was packing up her things at a back table after math class. I was entering the room for the next one. I saw her and tentatively thought that I might try to get her attention and then play hard to get, but I was much too shy for that. So, I just said; "hello," as after all we were neighbors of sorts. I veered in her direction and when I was about three feet away she looked up at me with a face which clearly said; "How'd you like this protractor in your eye?"

Well, you may have detected that I'm generally liberal about these things, but like everyone I do have my limits. As I darted away from her instinctively utilizing a Dracula-like-light-protective posture, I pondered the social aspects of the event. I thought that it was quite unfair that she was probably judging me as lacking, by the standards of the company I kept. They're not me. But, for the sake of social proprieties I considered an upgrade in hopes it would make skinny, frizz-head, polack bitches at least say hello to me. Sadly, within a few more minutes my mind was totally overwhelmed with how Mrs. Wright's blackboard demonstrated how through operations which obliterated A and B, one could solve for X.  
Anyway, got this on another subject if one thinks that there is another subject. So I hope you have enjoyed this while I return to my shy and lonely toil.

#32- Respect

Eventually, I came to understand that some girls wanted to see me, but didn't want everyone else to know about it. Respect. Like that older woman who worked in the lunchroom, Tasheeka. Ahead of her times with that Afro Bermuda Triangle and later her more conventional even older friend Tawanda with the hairnet. I used to call them T&T, and that I would not be tittered at.

Sometimes the pictures tell the whole story, but I took them out of here because I'd like to retain an aura of mystery. Frankly, Amazon expressed some reservations about them too. I really didn't understand how they could allow certain types of alleged pornography, while simultaneously getting all fussy about a few dark fuzzies. But the Huge Snake is not one who responds well to questions; so I didn't ask any.

The reader is thereby condemned to the oubliette of obscure words. T1, T2, and I would get together at T1's apartment on 21st Street between Broadway and Avenue C. Insert your own perverted fantasies.

#33- Show and Tell, Scavone Re-runs, and the Necessity of Guns and Knives

Mrs. Moran's second grade "show and tell" was the first and last time I got to participate in one. That was a personal disappointment as the day was spent without having to again go through the times tables I had memorized 3-4 years prior. Mild amusement was occasionally obtained when someone fucked up the sixes, for some strange reason difficult for many when approaching the sevens and eights.

I brought in Dad's old baseball glove, which he had turned over to me. He had been playing the game, teaching where needed, with and to me for a few years I have lost exact track of. I really wanted to show the other kids what a big deal playing baseball was, as I could not play the game anywhere, but with Dad. The Little League had a minimum age of eight; and in those days, they had not yet sponsored tee ball or small fry leagues. Frankly, the tee ball configuration would have been beneath my dignity.

To my chagrin I received blank stares and even window gazes when I explained the intricacies involved in catching a ball. There is a lot to it, and is nowhere near as easy as it looks. I mean when the throw comes in high you have to have fingers up and when it comes in low you have to have fingers down. Most dexterity is required when it comes in in-between, as you have to make up your mind quickly or risk a shot in the balls. I won't even explain how one can easily "smother" a short hop as the kids didn't care either.

Fatty Giambrone was the day's big hitter, as he brought in his father's gun. Just imagine the ramifications if that happened today. It was new then and didn't yet have all the built in assumptions. Mrs. Moran seemed more un-prepared than scared or brave, and the other kids were cooing over how cool Fatty's show was, which made me jealous.

At some point Mrs. Moran left the room and came back with Mr. Scavone, the gym teacher. His early, style-conscious bald head shining in the morning sun, he went to Fatty, took his gun, and checked it. "It's not loaded," he said, as he walked back to the front of the room.

He stood there, slowly shaking his head from side to side. He then struck a boxing pose worthy of a John L. Sullivan photograph, and started jumping around while saying; "When I was a kid we only needed these." He then recounted a story or two from when he used to train boxers down in Puerto Rico, before going back to teaching some disinterested kids how to take a basketball free throw underhanded.

This was to be my first introduction to a routine he had perfected and would later replay whenever a kid initiated his own show and tell performance with a knife.

#34- The Time Dad Whacked Me

Broadway was the center of activity, most heavily between 19th and 25th Streets. Before malls and Walmarts women did their shopping there. It was time consuming as they'd have to stop in 5-6 different stores to get all of what they needed.

By the evening the flurry of shopping activity was diminished, though most of the stores remained open. Some guys my father hung out with pre-marriage were still stationed on 25th Street. There was a movie theatre, a bowling alley underneath, and a hot dog and news stand outside.

Mom, Dad and I would drive there most every night to pick up the paper from "Newsboy" Rackley, and Dad would shoot some shit with whoever of his old cronies was around.

Most of the guys wore hats back then. No baseball caps yet, but something I'd call a fedora; like in a Bogart noir. Dad would always take it off while driving and place it on the back seat with me.

Well, one day I got one of my bright ideas. Actually, I can't take full credit for it, as there was a goofy character on "The Jackie Gleason Show" who always had the brims turned down on his hat. It looked stupid, and I guess that was the point. I think that this character was called "The Poor Soul," but I'm far from sure of that.

One evening I was sitting there looking at my hat-back-seat-companion, and thought it would be the height of hilarity; and if not seen as quite that; certainly seen as worthy of a regular, weekly, if somewhat brief TV spot, to invert the brims. Worst case, it was of more artistic merit than a commercial. The only possible glitch was that Dad might notice the deformity before putting it back on his head, and in that case any possible repercussions were dependent upon a consortium of factors, each speculative, and none compelling in the no-harm – no-foul sense. Oddly, my only risk to life and limb lied in if I succeeded at making a monkey of my father. At the time it naively seemed a reasonable risk-reward tradeoff, which would later be math verified in Grad school.

Anyway, back to 1954 or three; Dad put the absurdly brimmed hat on his head, got out of the car, bought the paper, and shot some shit with the usual suspects. When he came back Mom started laughing. He saw what happened to his hat and somehow he deduced that this was my doing. Without giving me the benefit of due process or the right to an attorney, he whacked me in the head, and said; "Don't you EVER do that again." The whack didn't hurt all that much, but I thought it best to feign a whimper and a promise to never do that again.

Though there were no specifics in mind, I figured that the future would present other ways to ruin his little day or night.

I don't recall the circumstances or what this might specifically have to do with the foregoing, but in my teenage years my mother once said; "I hope that when you grow up you'll have a kid just like you."

That inspired my first thought of remaining childless. There is a solution to most problems.

#35- Back to Bayonne Stuff Again

This started as a long ass story about the mob war started by Joe Bananas in the early seventies. The writer intended this as a lead in to Bayonne Joe Zicarelli, a minor player in the messy affair. But the story was kind of boring and most likely Scorsese did a movie jazzing it all up, which you all saw by now.

Bayonne Joe was born there and remained with his parents until he made enough money to afford his own place out of town. He subsequently lived in nearby North Bergen under various aliases, one of them once claiming to have spoken with Jimmy Breslin.

Of possible other note Zicarelli is said to have been involved in supplying arms to Castro and Che; and is one of 150,000 suspects in the assassination of JFK. Further details may be gleaned on any of your standard conspiracy sites.

I didn't know him or any other members of his family.

#36- Walmart Can-Can

The following event occurred today in number seven. No; it didn't happen at my grammar school. It happened more than half a century later at Walmart. But, it was really a replay of the former event which I can no longer recall. You know what I mean.

I'd rather not get all kinds of artsy, non-linear on you, but given the advancing rate of dementia, I thought it best to write it down before I forgot it again.

I'll be the first to admit that I may have had a minority level of culpability, as this AM wasn't exactly one of those ace mornings in the privy. In retrospect I probably should have skipped my scheduled trip to Walmart. I didn't need anything for a couple of days, but I can get stubborn sometimes. Just to be obstinate, ever since a few women derisively told me that men always seek routines, I've been going out of my way to do precisely that. I figured that if I was going to be found guilty, that I might as well have had the fun of committing the "crime."

It was going as well as a trip to Walmart can, when this idiot who had no idea of where he was going got in front of me and started to jackass around as if he and his fucking cart were on "Dancing with the Stars." I have no idea how old he was as he was one of those all too common baldheads with a beard easy to touch up.

Every time he started to do the boogaloo, I'd try to get around him on the other side; and every time I tried to get around him on the other side he led his partner into a backstep, me getting closer to him with each gyration.

This was absolutely absurd as we were near the checkout lines. I mean that's a no-brainer over there as the only choices you have to make are whether you want some Bic product, a deck of cards, one of the scandal sheets, or a coloring book. And, of most significance, it was wasting my time. So after his fifth or sixth display of clumsy footwork, I instinctively issued an audible, saying; "Fuckin' asshole."

That seemed to throw off his game plan and he got over to the side, but was staring at me; and he didn't seem to be conveying good tidings. So just to show that I hadn't issued that audible in error, I stared back at him and repeated it.

I got on line, checked out, and when I got to the parking area guess who was there? He seemed to not notice me, but was apparently on his way to a car which was reasonably near mine.

So, I reissued my audible.

This baldhead must have thought that he was mufuggin Popeye or some shit, because he stopped, looked directly at me, and asked me that stupid question you so often hear; "You got a problem?"

Since like all, I had previous experience handling this one, I quickly said; "I got this addiction to speaking with morons." I got a good look at him and if he thought that those gym induced arms were anything like Popeye, he must be some sort of recluse, as he never before met Bluto.

Things got a tad ugly after that as .......... Damn, you'll have to excuse me for a while as the old bat nurse wants to do something or other with the IV needles. It's damn annoying that this old bat thinks that I want to exchange some sort of "pleasantries" with her, as she's got to be at least 45, got a bun on her head, and a union card over what was presumably once tits. I mean if she was one of the young ones, I'd be glad to be shooting shit with her. But, come on.

Ostensibly, she had detected my disinterest, and sarcastically said; "Got fucked up pretty good, didn't ya?"

I said; "You think I'm bad. You oughta see him."

And I wasn't lying. You see baldy-beardo-Popeye got himself arrested. And we're gonna be in court whenever they let me out of here. And I'm gonna be one hell of a sympathetic case; eighteen years into AARP territory and wearing that cancer survivor's T-shirt I got off this scam artist I know. Mufugga goan be dancin' to at least ninety days of jail dick up his ass, as well as monetary damages, pain, suffering, and the whole yadda yadda.

Hehehehe.

#37- Trolling

In simpler times, we used to think that we knew what trolling was. However, its relatively recent internet popularity led to a break down into a billion subgenres. Even Facebook and the other providers of social media cannot come to agreement, but in a show of consonance or conformity have taken to the practice of reciprocity. Ostensibly, their favorite phrase has become; "Whut he said." If you don't believe me, just ask Alex Jones.

In a futile attempt to restore some semblance of order, let's consider the dictionary definition. I wasn't going to, but if you do scholarly-type stuff someone always throws the fussy definition at you. Reading is optional as far as I'm concerned until you get to "I think that you might appreciate the extent of the problem" a few pages hence.

Verb (used with object):

1) To sing or utter in a full, rolling voice.

2) To sing in the manner of a round or catch.

3) To fish for or in with a moving line, working the line up or down with a rod, as in fishing for pike, or trailing the line behind a slow-moving boat.

4) To move (the line or bait) in doing this.

5) To cause to turn round and round; roll.

6) Obsolete. To hand around, as a bowl of liquor at table.

7) Digital Technology. Informal.

a) To post inflammatory or inappropriate messages or comments on (the Internet, especially a message board) for the purpose of upsetting other users and provoking a response.

b) To upset or provoke (other users) by posting such messages or comments.

Verb (used without object):

8) To sing with a full, rolling voice; give forth full, rolling tones.

9) To be uttered or sounded in such tones.

10) To fish by trolling.

11) To roll; turn round and round.

12) To move nimbly, as the tongue in speaking.

13) Digital Technology. Informal. To post inflammatory or inappropriate messages or comments online for the purpose of upsetting other users and provoking a response.

Noun:

14) A song whose parts are sung in succession; a round.

15) The act of trolling.

16) A lure used in trolling for fish.

17) The fishing line containing the lure and hook for use in trolling.

18) Digital Technology. Informal. A person who posts inflammatory or inappropriate messages or comments online for the purpose of upsetting other users and provoking a response.

Writer's Note. With respect to 7a, 7b, 13, and 18; these may seem a reasonable definition upon first reading, though upon further reflection it becomes obvious that these definitions miss the nuances attendant to at least half of that it would purport to include; that being all in the reverse pejorative sense. On a more concrete level, we all know damn well that it is not considered trolling if the target is a Republican, some other type of right wing fascist, or your everyday-household-variety cretin.

I think that you might now appreciate Level 1 of the problem, and sincerely hope that you didn't read through all that to come to that conclusion. I'm going to take a bold leap of faith here; and assume that if you're fashion conscious, as evidenced by your superb taste in books, you are only interested in cutting-edge, internet trolling, and that you weren't seeking to expand your knowledge about fishing, moving, or rolling your tongue at the moment. So, allow me to again focus in on numbers 7a, 7b, 13, and 18. That narrows things a bit, but in the humble opinion of the writer, is still very lacking, as apparently whoever wrote this crap thinks that he is clairvoyant, and assumes he can read your mind's intent.

To simplify matters a bit, for all intents and simple purposes, here's the working definition. "Trolling is whatever is said to be such in a complaining commentary which is written on the internet by any severely limited, opinionated, overly sensitive, humorless person with no life, and a passing grade in a high school typing course, or whatever prompted the remedial rule dictated by Facebook policy to belittle or delete that which they determine to be as such or that which might offend their libtard base."

Not to go all credential on ya, but, when the writer won the first Troll of the Year award back further than the writer would like to remember, trolling on the net was admittedly easy. There weren't many of us and we were generalists. And to tell you the truth any "competitor" at the time started bawling after two exchanges.

But, things had become a lot more difficult by 2018 as there were more players and they often specialized in one sub-genre for the most part, and often know damn near everything about their chosen niche. To give you some idea, here are some of the broad sub-genres;

1) Trumptrolling

2) Nazitrolling

3) Homotrolling

4) Heterotrolling

5) Dumbbooktrolling

6) Dumbreviewtrolling

7) Malemillennialtrolling, sometimes abbreviated as M-Mtrolling. I'd just like to note that this current usage of the M-M abbreviation has absolutely nothing to do with the 1950's and the early 1960's reference to Mantle and Maris, the Yankee's powerful home run hitting duo as "The M&M Boys." There were no petunia putzes around then, boy. In addition, it also makes no reference to the chocolate covered candy, neither in its original form or its subsequent nutty deviations. One would hope that once one took all the trouble to write the dictionary that the least the goddam thing could do was to stay written. But, no.

8) Femalemillennialtrolling

9) Fakestupidtrolling

10) Realstupidtrolling

11) Rightwingtrolling

12) Liberaltrolling (They responsible for my personal candidate for the word of the year, 2010, libtard.)

13) Muslimtrolling

You may have noted that 13 is not yet generally considered to be near a billion. But, for each broad genre there are at least five underlying sub-genres; 1) Stupid, 2) High School or GED equivalent, 3) College, 4) Grad school, and 5) Spectrum; a difficult sub-group you don't want to get bogged down with. You know 'em when you see 'em. If you multiply all those numbers together, including the dictionary definitions the result will be reasonably close to a billion.

Let me stop here. Sorry I started it. You can see why I semi-retired. I can't keep up with all of this. So let me advise you that to get a full listing of all the sub-genres of trolling take the nouns from the dictionary and some of the adjectives and write trolling after them.

You might be interested to know that right now I'm almost entirely working in the #7 Malemillennialtrolling area with dilletantish occasional dalliances into numbers 1, 6 and 10. There are overlaps.

Malemillennialtrolling is a safe area, as with good reasons nobody likes the whiny jerkass millennials. So, I would contend that what I do is more of an occasionally humorous public service rather than any real trolling. I would also like to make one distinction clear. I rarely troll any female Millennials as I truly sympathize with their plight. I mean the poor girls are going out of their ways to be nice to these guys, pretending that all their dick jokes are hilarious, that they get excited over the 100 enhanced dick pictures they get e-mailed, and then say that the disheveled jerk in yesterday's draws is "hawt." That is nothing short of heroic.

Unless they have made other arrangements, which in their place I sure as hell would have, it seems to me that they're putting up with a lot of crap in the apparent hope that they might get to spend some time with the monkey asses; at least until the child support payments become feasible anyway. Those sweet things extend olive branches, and if it was me, I'd reciprocate and extend it right up their asses. Great girls.

I mean like who really needs this shit? The guys have these "Guy Bars" all over the place now. You know, with the "awesome" 500 inch TV screen on the goddam wall, and when it's not playing "Health Matters" with Dr. Motumbo Bernstein-Rosenzweig it's got some boring ass football game on and the guys get all kinds of excited, high fiving, yo duding, and rump bumping whenever Tom Brady completes a short pass. They got their "Cowboy" jersey tops on and there's only one chick in the room, and she's just watching to see that her husband Lance doesn't get into some after-hours rump bumping with Lyle. It seems fair for the ladies to have their own bars with HGTV on the screen, whenever Dr. Phil is off the air, and rump bumping at every spiffy, Remo Brothers kitchen cabinet installation. And if one Percy wants to watch, fine.

NOTE TO ME. Remember to alter or remove preceding paragraph.

Once I couldn't find the lightbulbs in Walmart. I really looked, 'cause I was afraid to ask these bad looking dudes for help, but they were the only Walmart minimum wage flunkies in the area. I was expecting one to say; "D'fuk yu wan', man?" Instead he said "Helloooooo, " in a Barney Phyfe nervous falsetto. I'm making no fun. It ain't his fault that his "pappy" split for the Tenderloin and his mammy got stiffed with the Barney Phyfe at the sperm bank.

Let the experts worry about the subgenres; because we really don't care, and I'm stopping right here.

#38- Bayonne High Literary Curriculum

I don't remember what Freshman, Sophomore, and Junior English encompassed. It probably was verb conjugation, the requirements of a sentence, and stuff like that. Yes, I'm sure that I passed. Earth Science with that big fat woman teacher and her cropped hair was the only one I came close to failing. And frankly it was no fault of hers, as I just had severe difficulty with concepts like stratums and layers when all I had seen was concrete sidewalks and asphalt roads.

Still I know that is no excuse as my classmates were subjected to the same realities. Whatever. Once they pave it over, it doesn't matter what's underneath. To quote Joni Mitchell; "They paved paradise and put up a parking lot."

Digressed again. Sorry. Back to English. I think that I got put in the "smart" class for Senior English, and as a consequence became very familiar with "Great Expectations."

Mr. Drennan had the class read it out loud, a paragraph to a student, all year long. I really liked the book, but had a little difficulty when visualizing all those icky cobwebs. Mr. Drennan liked to belt a bit. He'd usually leave the room as we read; I guess him having a stash somewhere nearby. He was all right and nothing like that geography teacher Mr. Gebus. Gebus would pass out right on his desk, no matter how many spitballs careened off his head.

Thanks to Drennan we learned the piss out of expectations.

Some of you might find this and a few other recollections contained herein as sad scenes from a life culturally deprived. Actually, I never even heard the term until age 40, when it was uttered by a bawling "New Age" guy with an archaic alcohol "issue." However, your good heart is appreciated as much as it is also irrelevant. You see, gentle reader, that everything has two sides. In this case, the student concludes that things are easy, and develops a confidence; at least as long as he can fend off being otherwise educated.

Yuck. Tangential again. Anyway, I don't remember what the points were supposed to be if there were any. "Great Expectations" is a book worth spending some time with. It's distinctly possible that we students never finished the book in class as some people would read the wrong paragraph and the other students would start correcting. This would lead to a joke, and much less so an occasional argument. And Mr. Red-Faced-Not-From-the-Sun Drennan didn't choose to play referee.

And we all wound up in some college; even stupid Sharkey.

#39- Girl Talk

When guys bullshit with other guys, it is rare for anyone to go into the graphic details. Maybe times have changed, but I was very accustomed to the use of poetic allusions.

At some point I was shocked to find out that these girls have no sense of discretion whatsoever. They say everything!

From then on, I found it difficult to say "the gentler sex" without intending sarcasm. Really. Thoughts flurried, and at first I had my doubts. But, it finally made perfect sense when Terry from 13th Street used to roll up her skirt and pull on my head in front of her friends.

I was totally appalled. I was also embarrassed when shy little me imagined the grinning female faces. I assure you that I got away from Terry as soon as I found someone who did the same thing in private.

#40\- A Bayonne Political Primer

I noticed that the last three Bayonne mayors were owners of funeral homes and asked Dad about it. He told me that it was this way because they knew where the bodies were buried.

To a little kid that was both insightful and funny. It wasn't until many years later that I realized it had something to do with their ownership of plots. Bayonne was just once again ahead of its time in foreshadowing the political takeover of the real estate moguls and their mob "friends."

#41- Timothy Leary

Quite frankly, most of Bayonne was nonplussed when they heard; "Turn on, tune in, and drop out." They, their grandparents, and their grandparents before them had turned on and dropped out long before the Harvard professor got all the credit. And further frankly most completely disagreed with the "tune in" aspect. "Tune out" is like common sense for any shot at happiness.

#42- Jeanie

Jeanie always seemed to be unbalanced. It could have been that it took her feet two steps to catch up to where her tits already were. Outside of that only interesting thing about her was that she talked funny, and did it incessantly. She had something like a lisp, couldn't say an "L," and said some words incorrectly.

For example she called Slivocka Sivocka, and me Jabinski. The sustained and lingering humor made one have to leave, for fear of laughing one's self to death.

Yep, you're right. Under a pen name, Jeanie eventually became a Bizarro writer.

#43\- My Murder

By the time you read this I will be dead. I have been deliberately infected with a killing cocktail which has no known antidote. The virus is supplemented by the collateral damage of a lethal dose of sarcasm. My "crime" was to be lazy, apolitical, avaricious, and a critic of social media. Or maybe it was that voting fraud thing.

Maybe I can start my story in the middle. This is where it is of most significance to you, though not necessarily to me. For me the significance is only in that with no help from Mueller, I confirmed that Putin's people are not trustworthy.

In the 2016 US Presidential election I cast 37,500,000 votes for Donald Trump; targeting the swing states. Yes, it was me. It was not the unemployed, not the Religious Right, not the racists, not the misogynists. It was me. No one except Special Agent Yetbipe, or something like that, knows. Use some of your common sense. All the polls predicted a wide-margined Clinton victory. Now there are various unsatisfying theories about what happened. What happened was me, me, and me.

And I have no remorse for the act. I got enough rubles to buy a condo in Hackensack. The unexpected cocktail is another story. And it makes no sense. I mean if Yetti, as I had gotten to affectionately call him, wanted me out of the way, he should have done it quickly. No, instead he left me alive for a few days so that I could tell everyone about it. Duh? Goddam stupid Rooskies. Mark my words; that shithole country will go belly up again

Ah, screw them. Now it's all of this for me. I privately informed Herr Robert, and he complied by indicting someone outside of his jurisdiction. Some asshole in Kaliningrad, Novosibasibirk, Nizhny Nanunanuvgorodoburg, or some shit like that what makes Hackensack look like Paradise. By the way, my wife got those curtains and we'll no longer have that dumpster view. And it wasn't even Yetti. Herr Robert did kindly recommend that I see a good, democratic doctor. But, while I was on my way to DC, I .......................

#44- Joanie, Joyce, and My Hanging

I'm really not sure, but I must have been about 15. It was a typical year; publicly hanging around the neighborhood sharing tall stories with the other assholes; and privately thinking about suicide over the lack of a girlfriend.

My prayers were answered. Out of the blue love came bursting. Sort of. ....... Not really. Joanie Vitrioni apparently got less interested in her biology homework and started to consistently frequent the candy store she lived above five minutes after I got there.

The scenario might become more apparent to you when I disclose that Joanie was one of those girls "with a nice personality." But, that's not entirely it. It's difficult to explain. I like girls with nice personalities, for one reason because I prematurely realized that no one was going to ever confuse me with Clark Gable or Johnny Depp.

And that's not to say that Joanie was bad looking at all. She was a bit chubby, which is actually a plus with me. She was half Irish and freckled which is a neutral. When girls were still wearing dresses she wore tight pants and had an ass that seemed to shift ten pounds from cheek to cheek with every step she took.

So, you again wonder what was wrong with Joanie, and I don't know, but at the time had some reservations I no longer recall. The only thing I can imagine now was that I was probably as stupid as all fucking hell and wanted to be depressed.

No bullshit, Joanie really had a thing for me and it would show all the time, especially when she'd gaze up at me in admiration, and ask me questions about myself.

Maybe that was it as I never liked talking about myself until in desperation I tried writing this book. After a few days of this adulation I suspected that she might be goofing on me with the; "Oooh, what is it like to have so much talent?" horseshit. It was either that or that her mother always stood out in front of their apartment building in a housedress, armed with a broom, and weighed in at about 300 unwashed pounds.

It didn't first occur to me, but Joanie's mom was the Irish side while her dad was Italian; until my mother noticed us together a few times and chose that time to subtly inform me that girls often turned out just like their mothers.

I did my best to get that picture out of my head; but no matter what I did to my bean, that unwanted image stubbornly remained like Marley's ghost.

Joanie and I were together about two celibate months, when I finally said that "I've had it." It was an interesting experience in retrospect as it was the only time it wasn't the girl doing the leaving.  
Anyway Joanie was bawling and all of that and when 300 pound Mrs. Vitrioni found out about it she came looking for me and found me by the pinball machine with a few guys. She waddled into the place as fast as a mallard with a dog on its tail. With her non-broom hand she grabbed me by the collar, proceeded to lift me a foot off the ground, pinned me against the wall, and gave me some advice. In my elevated position, eyes imitating a startled cricket, and as scared as I was the time we got all those cockroaches in my room, I heard her quack; "If you ever again start following my Joanie around again ........ "

I briefly considered issuing a point of order at this point as the way I saw it Joanie was following me, but I politely held my tongue while the other person was speaking. "I'm going to pants your skinny ass right out on the street and shove this broom all the way up it, bristles first. You understand me?" Well actually I was having a bit of difficulty in visualizing how that can be done bristle end first, as it would seem that they'd splay and inhibit it from getting all the way up. But, I figured that it might be possible with some KY, so I just nodded a somewhat vigorous "Yes."

Mrs. Vitrioni then turned around the Queen Mary with no small difficulty and waddled back toward the door. Now, it is worthy of note to point out that off-screen, Bald Head George, the owner of the candy store and supposedly a twenty year military veteran on a pension was too busy dicking around with his ice cream canisters during Mrs. Vitrioni's assault to get involved. That was the first time that I gave some consideration to the rumor that some military people have brains. As soon as Mrs. Vitrioni successfully sidewayed her ass out the front door, George came over to me and with fire in his eyes said; "I don't want no bullshit in my store. If you got a problem with somebody take the shit outside. Next time this happens you're banned from this store." I guess that since he didn't ask any question he didn't want any answers. So, I made no reply and Bald Head George went back to dicking with his ice cream canisters, head down, and shining in my eyes.

You might imagine my consternation; 1) The other guys there were laughing their asses off about me and making some sort of crude jokes about the size of my asshole which will forever remain in posterity; 2) I really didn't give a zephyr force raspberry about whether or not I had access to George's crummy fucking candy store or not and considered him quite a presumptuous fellow; 3) I was obsessing about the degree of filth on Mrs. Vitrioni's broom; 4) I was figuring that my ass and her broom were destined to meet, as if I was Joanie and I was one day in a really bad mood and wanted to see something humorous, I'd tell my mother that Ed was bothering me again; 5) The Marquis de Sade was right in saying that no good deed goes unpunished; and 6) I was probably unduly disturbed that I was beginning to feel more attracted to Mrs. Vitrioni than I ever was to Joanie.

Up until then it was this way for me. Joanie was quite fine, but I just didn't feel that special thing for her. It was nice that she was there when I had no other girlfriend; especially since I already knew that girls were weird; in that they tend to do things in twos; even going to the bathroom. And girls who might not like me when I'm alone are more likely to like me when I'm with someone else; as it's some kind of reverse approval or something. Anyway, that was the theory some unremembered girl told me during the course of a brief, yet torrid intellectual relationship; but my non-liason with Joanie must have been the exception to the case.

I mean I really tried and have always been depressed that this didn't happen. For practice I used to think of her when bathing, and that wouldn't work as her image would morph into that of her mother. And by then the water would be getting cold, and my mother would be knocking at the door asking; "What are you doing in there so long?" What the hell did she think? And now it was worth another shot as I was starting to get fantasies about Mrs. Vitrioni; 300 pounds right on my face. Goddam. I was very confused.

Since Mrs. Vitrioni never did her broom thing on me I took that as evidence that Joanie really loved me. If I had to do it over again, and with uncanny hindsight, I'd have just married Joanie and spent a lot of time munching and waiting for the mother-daughter things that would soon be happening.

Sometimes I still cry over having been so shy and backward back then.

#45- A Fish Story

"Gawumpki Brothers Fish Emporium" occupied the lowest level of a three story apartment building on transitional 15th Street and Avenue C since before anybody was born. I'd be over there sometimes, but most often had to look away from Gawumpki's when I'd see the bowls in the windows populated by little fish floating at tank top.

No joke, I found this extremely upsetting and would have liked to have torture-killed all three of the Gawumpki brothers whose criminal inattention allowed this to happen.

When I got a little older I saw things differently. There was no way the Gawumpki's were making a living by selling little fish for nineteen cents apiece, especially with the declining market value for the floaters. The place was a money laundering operation for the mob. Logical, inevitable, well-positioned, yet still on my stupidly depressed days, a suitable candidate for protracted and painful Gawumpki death if I could only figure a foolproof way not to get caught.

#46- Going Down the Shore

If you've seen a map of New Jersey you might have noticed that there's a lot of shore bordering the Atlantic. But, believe me much of it is not the kind you want to go down to. The water's okay when the garbage doesn't wash up on the beach, though when it does it kills off the clustering jellyfish.

Despite its convenience, many Jerseyans from other parts of the state never go there. With small exceptions, in the summer it is populated by loud, wasted kids, and sundry other undesirables. In the off season months the hotels and motels house loud, wasted welfare recipients, undocumented aliens and sundry other undesirables.

But if you insist and think you are an adult, you might want to google some "research," and hope that the first ten spots have not been purchased by the lying purveyors of cheap summer "fun." Just one hint; verify the advertised distance from the boardwalk that "affordable" motel claims or you might wind up next to the Jersey Devil in the Pinelands.   
Back in the day of the pterodactyls teenage guys would break up with their girlfriends for the summer so that they could check out what was playing down on the shore. I always thought that this was a really shitty thing to do and vowed that I never would act like that. I would do the best I could for my girl. Of course this was speculative as I never had a girlfriend. But, if I did .....................

Anyway, one miraculous year I did have this girlfriend named Helen Protokowitz. In senior high school year we'd go to movies sometimes. So, true to my word I didn't break up with my movie mate when summer came.  
She broke up with me and went down the shore.  
Buncha sluts; I swear to God. And then they wonder why guys treat them so badly.

#47- Joanie II, her Pals, and her Daddy

Joanie II showed up on 17th Street accompanied by too female pals; one of whom approached me to inform me that Joanie II liked me. Thrilled and desperate. Joanie II didn't speak, but merely moved her head regally around extracting worship and compliments. This was fine with me until the game remained the same for the third month. I was worried that Joanie II might be mute.

I was running out of suitable avenues of worship and compliment, and was seriously considering; "That's a great Jesus medal you have between your tits."

Since they blame their mothers for their inordinate compulsion to feel pretty, I rarely would say that one was not. And Joanie II was, though its degree was probably a bit less than her "worship me" attitude. Her top always seemed a bit large, not for the reason you might first think, but because she seemed disproportionately top sided due to slightly bowed legs and feet which were too big to fit into high heels before the days of specialty transvestite shops.

She'd really get on my nerves sometimes, but would only visit Bayonne weekly, by which time I had returned to being depressed and suicidal, consequently glad to again see and worship the mute. It's a vicious cycle.

In retrospect the best thing that happened was when one of her pals brought over a battery operated phonograph and I heard Hendrix for the first time. I forgot her name, but I started to like Ms. Phono a bit more than Joanie II after getting over her short hair, but #3 told me that she was "special" and that I ought to fuck off or something like that.

I like to think that #3's candor had something to do with her replacement by Winnie's older piss faced sister. It wasn't only a matter of the piss, she didn't talk either. So, it became like a mausoleum as the only ones left capable of speech were me and the special one I wasn't supposed to talk to. Sartre could have done wonders with this scenario.

Winnie's older sister was short, never smiled, never spoke, and whenever I said something she'd curl her mouth like; "How stupid," making a face comparable to the one made by someone nauseated and on the verge of a hurl. You may have guessed that eventually she became a college professor; of English.

Joanie II's mother called to inform me that at this point it was appropriate for me to be grilled by her dad. She kind of instructed me to be at their Newark apartment two-ish Saturday afternoon. She hung up before I had a chance to confirm that I was available at that time. But, despite a few tentative conflicts, I decided to put them on hold as I thought it likely that this appointment would be necessary for me to continue to be a beneficiary of Joanie II's largasse.

At a time designed to be fashionably 12 minutes late I took the buses necessary to get to Newark, having to transfer at Journal Square in Jersey City. I got to their apartment approximately as calculated and Mrs. Krupinski silently let me in and ushered me into the kitchen, offering me one of the cushioned, bent wire chairs. My thoughts immediately became Art Deco shaded.

After sitting a minute or two Mr. Krupinski came in with a Bud in hand, wearing his best Boxer draws. I wasn't sure if I had overdressed.

This was my first father grill, and since my parents never taught me any of the protocols of courtship, I had made a few guesses about what would happen based on what I had seen on TV. The father would ask the suitor what were his intentions toward his daughter. I'm generally a truthful person, but I figured it best not to tell Mr. Krupinski that. So, I had prepared using the St. Francis book they gave us in Sunday School and even had bookmarks in place to easily extrapolate nice quotes. I mean if the guy's dumb enough to be asking those kinds of questions, he's probably dumb enough to buy the shit in the St. Francis book. Right?

He sat opposite me and told me that he worked hard to afford his family this comfortable four room apartment three blocks away from the closest nigger and something or other which struck me as being erroneous about how America values hard work, that it was good for you, and all that kind of garbage. He paused a second, as he must have realized that I may have seen a few on the way in, and added; "Yeah, we got a couple of those Hindus or some shit with the dots on the head. But, they keep to themselves and don't bother anybody. And at Joanie II's Ironbound Catholic Academy high school the goddam liberal archdiocese had recently commenced allowing in some niggers, but only the ones who could count above ten with their shoes and socks on."

I think that he may have been attempting to be mirthful with that last one and I worked up a polite smile, even after having heard the same one about a million times about polacks. But I was glad to hear him speak, as I figured that the longer he did that, the less time I'd have to fill up with how I intended to take Joanie II to church all the time, buy her topnotch rosaries, and share "All in the Family" with her without cracking up.

Regarding economic realities, you might well imagine that I was quite impressed as my dad had not achieved such things, and said something complimentary, hoping it wouldn't be taken as obsequious.

We smiled at each other, and he got another Bud from someplace I'd rather not imagine, popped it open and slid it like a pro across the plasticized wood finish on the table, only spilling maybe 10% of it. I caught it like a pro and toasted him with a few swigs. You might be further enlightened that in that time it was okay for 14 year olds to get pissin'-pukin' loaded on beer or whiskey, as long as they didn't smoke that wacky weed, and god forbid that stuff which made you jump out windows. Trying to infer my compliance with social norms, I said; "Favorite brand."

I tried to keep him talking by asking if he was a member of any union, and this proved to be a trickier question than I had anticipated, as Mr. Krupinski seemed cautious in saying that indeed he was, but went on to point out that it wasn't one of those commie organizations which were antagonistic toward the business owners.

Perhaps wanting to take the focus off himself, Mr. Krupinski then threw me what I considered an unexpected curveball. Rather than asking my intentions, he asked me some adult phrasing of "Head, ... er Ed, what do you want to be when you grow up?"

I knew I was in trouble as I couldn't rely on St. Francis and had to improvise something on the spot.

You may find similarities in the two questions, and I believe you're right. But, to me it's like one of those logic and set theory 15% set overlaps in the middle, but 85% different answers. I wanted some excuse to refer to my St. Francis book, but I figured that if I tried to explain why I was saying "I love all the beasts of the earth" instead of the related career plans, he just not quite get it. So, I had to wing it, my first thought the most truthful version.

To tell you the truth I hadn't given it a whole lot of thought. When I discovered that I wasn't going to be a professional baseball player, I figured that I'd graduate high school, have one more summer of fun; and then either commit suicide or get married, get a jackass job at the pickle factory or the equivalent, and fart around bill collectors, just like everyone else. In my free time I'd attempt to maximize the amount of time I was smoking and in contact with my wife's soul kitchen, just like everyone else. ........ That might be better phrased.

Some instinct made me back off that one; so I substituted another truth, hoping that Mr. Krupinski didn't interpret it as being upper middle class pretentious. I said; "I'm taking college preparatory courses and have gotten sufficiently high grades to ensure my acceptance at a number of second tier colleges, and I'm planning to hang around there until they stop drafting people into this Viet Nam debacle."

Mr. Krupiski's stare made me think that he took my goal as being a tad pompous or that it surprised him, hindering planned follow ups a, b, c, d, and e. His eye to eye silent stare intimidated me after a minute. I just had to break away, so I looked out the window at the Hopper clothesline, alley view. It was quite pretty and engaging and I tried to guess whether the clothespinned female draws were that of Joanie II or her mother.

#48- Right Place Wrong Time- Skip This as it fell out of Another Stupid Book

The world was all green yesterday. I'm sure it was.

"Insonsolable."

"Stop it."

"Sorry. Wish I could."

"The time is long gone."

"Yes, inconsolable."

"Dreams."

"The worst."

" .......... "

"Looking for you. Always."

"Gotta go."

"Way out?"

"Follow the road. Right on Old Church."

"Funny words."

"The dogs call."

"Vossy still here?"

"Yes. Cody's gone."

"The special one."

"You well know."

"I'm staying."

Sigh.

****************************

"Has its points."

"What doesn't?"

"In that mood again?"

"You tell me. Are you?"

"Off and on."

" ........ "

" ........ "

"A DFW stasis?"

"A Franzen flip-flop."

"How about a Saunders miracle?"

"Oh, back in the mood."

"You tell me."

"Off and on."

"We're just playing 2016 ennui."

"Is that on Youtube?"

"Isn't everything? Just gotta know the keywords."

"Tough stuff. Names change."

"We can try a few. In a rush?"

"Compared to what?"

"I think we switched sides."

"Sides?"

"Necessary parlance. Be on mine, I'll be on yours."

"Oooooooooh. ............. That's a great line. Where did you learn it?"

"Neil Young."

"Grumble."

"Well, would it make a difference if I lied and said that I made it up? I want to be straight with you."

"I don't know. Anyway, the moment has passed."

" ........ "

"Look. I've been around the block."

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

"Really."

"Yes, really. The garden path is circular."

"Been at the bend lately."

To be continued. After all, it's only 9AM.

****************************

"You had to wait until now?"

"It wasn't my choice."

"You could have done more searching?"

"In the Canal Zone? Come on. The only thing I knew about it was that they were making a big hole somewhere. The only Panama I knew was Red."

"When I was there I saw the red tide."

Thinking the opposite; "You must have been mistaken."

"You were near New York City."

"Not Governor's Island?"

"Hmmnnn. I went back there recently. My old building is still standing. I saw the windows I used to look out when I was little."

"Oh, that's when the bird watching began, I guess."

"No. Not yet. Then I used to watch the boats and the tugs."

"I wish I could have been there."

"Most of the time I was reading my books."

"Like me at that age. My mother taught me to read and would walk me to the library. I'd always bring back more books than I could carry. I was kind of alone, but didn't yet realize it. I had more books than anybody."

"I had more."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"Yes."

"My mother used to take me into Manhattan when I had to go to the dentist and I'd see all these big stores. Some had Superman comics. I'd insist and mom would buy them for me. I had quite a collection, but now it's gone."

"I never got into Superman. I used to get into some fantasy, ghost, sci-fi stuff and Batman. With all his faults and lack of super powers he seemed more real. ........ Oh damn. Can we stop this dancing? I love you. I dreamed of you before I ever met you."

"Why do we have to get old?"

"I don't know. I just know that we're not dead yet; and the whole thing could go on for decades. I remember the first time I saw you. You were up on the levy walking briskly and pretending you didn't notice me. You were swinging your arms so confidently I thought; 'Look at this little rich girl. I bet she's used to getting just everything she wants.' You were wearing blue jeans which must have been four sizes too small."

"I was being bad."

"You were being beautiful."

"Stop it."

"I can't. I wish I could."

"This is in your head. I know a good psychiatrist. I've talked to him about this. It would do you some good ....... "

"No. No. No. I don't want a psychiatrist. I just want to find a way back. Salmon go against the current. Remember that day I first said that I loved you. You recoiled, your expressive face in shock, and a minute later you apologized for that. By the way, your face always gives you away and I love it. At the time, I tried not to show my hurt, and went into a slight divergence, telling you about that Alan Rudolph 'Made In Heaven' movie; feeling as if and also saying that we were the primary characters in it. In the movie, he risked oblivion for the infinitesimal chance that he would find her. In truth, it didn't seem like any risk at all; as oblivion seems eminently better than living without her. I found some solace in thinking that I had met the minimum requirement of finally finding her; you; only you."

"I remember. At the time I said; "If you're looking for tranquility, it's not me."

"Yes. And at the time I wondered how you might have equated your existence to a changeable concept; thereby selling yourself short. Later that day I ruminated on 'tranquility' finding two aspects. I took your word about things and while I cried I also was able to conclude that I was being detrimental to you, and vowed not to make it worse."

"After having time to reflect, the next morning I had wine rather than coffee, and unlike the recent me, I dressed in clothing which accentuated my female attributes; as if I was again a high school girl at the prom no one invited me to. You were already there when I came down the road. When you saw my car, you hesitated a second, then turned away, walking downhill toward the river. I realized that you were respecting the wishes I had said; but not the wishes in my hidden heart. At the same time I loved and hated you for that. I blew my horn continuously and you turned back and waited. You're so damn shy that sometimes I'd like to just slap the infuriating shit out of you; at the same time knowing that your shyness is something which attracts me; also being shy, thinking I know the dynamic myself."

"I was encouraged and also scared. It was just us there that early summer morning. The sun had not even yet set foot on the highlands of Rio Rancho. You bounded over as if there had never been a yesterday. I don't remember exactly what anyone said; until with seemingly genuine concern, stupidity, and possibly a shy subterfuge, I gave you a lecture on the dangers of alcoholism. Can anyone be more of a nerd?"

"Only me. There I was with five pounds of padding stuffed into the bra under the tight sweater I hadn't worn since high school rejections, hoping this guy would find it irresistible to not cop a feel. When he didn't do that, I felt undesirable, like I always have, exacerbated by when he didn't pounce; jackass him resorting to some sort of lecture about the self-interest inherent in propriety."

"Because I love you, my primary concern was you; always was and always will be; no matter the outcome; and I do know that this feeling is also one which is self-serving. All I can possibly say, is that I truly believe that were it not, I'd have it anyway. It's a feeling dammit; not a scientific study. There is no way to test that. ................ That day will always be with me. Had I a second chance, I'd have tried to overcome my deep seated fear of rejection and done it differently. ...... Forgive me. For one thing it's really hard to speak of this."  
"I love you too. Didn't you know? All those hints must have been noticed. All the metaphors led in only one direction. All those questions I asked just as we departed, were a last minute shy design to make you think of me until the next."

"Yes. I considered that, and shy me unfortunately prevailed. It's kind of hard to say, but, not that it was any huge number, but it was easier with them. You were the most important, and as a consequence I guess I tensed up and did stupid things. It was so important to me to get it right that I got it wrong."

"Two shy people don't have a chance. It's so unfair. God got the whole thing wrong."

"I remember the first time I heard you say that. We hardly knew each other at the time. I was completely thrown; and wondered why this girl was confiding this in me. Of necessity, I had settled into a comfortable life or death with no considerations other than those theorized in economic textbooks, supplemented by an early Dylan depiction of reality. It was no fun, but it was easy and efficient, with no chance of heartbreak."

"Yes. Where I went in my turnaround at 35. It took some time. Back to school. I could no longer stand teaching those second graders, when I knew I'd never have one of my own."

"That's a thought which has passed through my mind that I want to get out. I can't stand it. Like the day I found you sitting and crying at river's edge. We were just getting to know each other better and we were flirting as best we could. The day before I thought that it was fair to tell you that I was married, details too convoluted to add, so that you could proceed or not with all information possible. Then, the next morning, I saw you crying, blaming some paint ballers, and I was forever lost."

"Bringing this stuff up just makes it worse."

"Yeah. ......... See any more red tanagers? ....... Umnnn. Sorry. Read any good books lately?"

"Nabokov."

"'Ada?'"

"Love 'Ada.'"

#49- Bayonne Hits Big Oil; then Lets It Slip Through Their Governor's Fingers

In the much later year of 2015, depending upon the reader's predilection for cohesive time or not or my regard or disregard for it depending, during one of our weekly phone conversations, my mother was as usual telling me the Bayonne news. But, rather than that which was of the insanity-copping-pleas/travails of small time local hoods I went to grammar school with, it was big stuff this time. There had been a state-filed lawsuit against Exxon, which if having any legal validity, stood to make every past, present, but not necessarily future Bayonne residents millionaires; or at least free from the bi-weekly stench which gave rise to the local breathing mask industry.

After again complaining that the "Bayonne Times" had been purchased by the non-local idiots at "The Jersey Journal," stationed all the way over in the former pig farm town, but still stinking Secaucus, she added that they never get Bayonne right anymore.

It's a bit disconcerting at first, but you get used to it after a while. 91 year olds have a strange sense of time. That "purchase" was actually affected in 1971 when mom was 46, but it still seems recent to her; and it's best to just not make an issue of it, under peril of laboriously re-counting every 'significant' Bayonne event coupled with their dates from then till now. It's kind of cute, and has absolutely nothing to do with Alzheimer's or dementia. The lady well knows her way home. It's just that at 91 years of age, a decade goes by as quickly as three months does for an eight year old. Hey! Einstein told you that everything is relative. So listen up to some science already.

I didn't want to ruin her day, so I didn't tell her the bad news. The "Jersey Journal" is owned by a private holding company called "Advance Publications," which also owns newspapers and magazines in New York, Pennsylvania, Oregon, Alabama, Louisiana, Ohio, and Michigan; an apparent forerunner to Murdoch.

Her headline news was "Exxon Settles Nine Billion Pollution Case in New Jersey for Far Less." In and of itself that is not all that unusual in legal cases, as plaintiffs customarily ask for much more than they would settle for. But, this one had a particular odor to it, or maybe that was the bay's "perfume" coming through the phone line.

Magnified westward view from Bayonne on a typical fall day; property of the author.

The 4-1-15 Jersey Journal article said as follows.

"The Bayway refinery in Linden, NJ, the site of extensive environmental damage is the subject of a legal battle between Exxon and the state. Long fought, the suit to recover $8.9 billion in damages from Exxon Mobil Corporation for the contamination and loss of use of a disputed amount, ranging from 1,500 to 4,000 acres of wetlands, marshes, meadows, and waters in northern New Jersey has been quietly settled by the state for around $250 million; roughly 3% of the claim.

The lawsuits filed by the State Department of Environmental Capitulation in 2004 had been litigated by the administrations of four former NJ governors, finally advancing last year to trial. By then Exxon's liability was no longer in dispute. The only issue was how much it would pay in damages. No comments from the former governors could be obtained, as officials at Rahway State Prison said that the facility was under lockdown for reasons as yet undisclosed.

The stakes were high and 'The scope of the environmental damage resulting from the discharges is as obvious as it is staggering and unprecedented in New Jersey,' the administration of Governor Chris Christie said in a court brief filed in November.

But, a month ago, with a State Superior Court judge believed to be close to a decision on damages, the Christie administration twice petitioned the court to hold off on a ruling because settlement talks were underway.

Governor Christie outflanked by two mobsters; one supposedly deceased; property of the author.

Exxon did contribute $500,000 to the Republican Governors Association in May, 2014, when Mr. Christie was serving a one year term as its chairman and another $500,000 contribution was made to Mr. Christie's campaign fund subsequent to his election.

Purported Exxon spokesman, Carmine D'Alessio said; "Hey, we give money to every player. This is SOP. Fazool." Exxon officially stated; 'We have no relationship with Mr. D'Alessio, and we make suitable contributions to those candidates we believe to be friends of the environment.'

Oil tanks on Bayonne's Hook Road after landscaping; property of the author.

One critic of the settlement said; 'Today, many of these dredge fill areas still look and smell like petroleum waste dumps. The oil tanks in Bayonne, NJ have produced a 2,500 acre marshland of tar and another 450 acres of sludge lagoons; onetime tidal marshes used as hazardous waste disposal facilities. Restoration estimates far exceed ............... '"

The article continued with the usual quotes from the usual suspects, naively outraged citizens, and representatives of two state funded study groups. Always an egalitarian state, NJ had one to represent each side.

Troma was good, no question. But, if you think that their shit required any creativity, you don't know your film or New Jersey history. They're undisclosed documentaries.

Mom is nobody's fool. She was putting me on with her initial optimism. She said; "You don't really think that they're going to pay. Do you?"

I said; "Well, Christie got some of his up front. But, I expect they'll screw him on the back end."

#50- Manhattan's Specialty Bars

I was about 21 when I was working at the same Manhattan bank with McConnell from Irish 13th Street. We were in different areas and I didn't know him all that well in either place. But he approached me about accompanying him to a bar in Manhattan. The bars in Manhattan are of four types; 1) Upscale chic, 2) De Classe chic, 3) Specialties; like "Cheaters," and 4) Gay with differing degrees of intensity.  
He wanted me to go with him to one specializing in older women who liked to have young guys go down on them. When he said that my face turned beet red and he started laughing. He said; "You didn't know that everybody knows that's your thing. Shit. Ha ha, and ha."  
Well, I didn't go and I didn't bother to correct his simplistic assumption by adding the other aspects of my affection. I was kind of resentful of a stupid mind which only sees one of them.  
Later that day I figured out that some of those women must talk to each other with more crudity than the guys do. I was shocked. Bunch of big mouthed sluts.

#51- My Future With Moe

Things were a bit different then. I had been accepted to all three of the colleges I had applied to. But that was no particular cause for celebration for me as so was Charles Sharkey. Charles was in a number of my high school classes and always did his best to imitate a deaf mute, with a specialty in saying a blank faced; "Whut?"

Before I knew him better, I asked him something like; "Did you do all of Mrs. Wright's algebra homework?" Charles just stared at me; right in the face. I was intimidated at first, or considered that he might be too cool to talk to me. That may well have been the case, but his silent gaze soon proceeded to gather in the surroundings to our left, right, and the heavens. So, I cut my losses and said; "Me either," and extricated myself from the situation. Charles was at a loss without his good buddy Sweeney.

It was a perfect relationship. Sweeney never shut up and Charles didn't seem to know or care about what anyone was talking about. I guess college trained him to do something useful.

I decided that I'd rather get a job, in that way the income generated would make me independent, though also making me susceptible to residing in a Viet Nam body bag. I asked my father about the job and he told me to go see Moe. ........ I didn't want to go see Moe, and didn't understand what Moe had to do with the whole thing anyway.

I'd later learn that Moe was some sort of filter between aspiring employees and companies which considered the new EEOC laws a burden and a distasteful excursion into the unknown. Businesses have always preferred "predictable" expectations. Most jobs were listed in the local paper. But without Moe's blessing you wouldn't even get an interview.

I remembered Moe from that time he "happened" to enter the Little League bathroom when I was 12; showing me his tiny friend, and saying "We're both men here. Aren't we?" {If a refresher is required, please see Chapter 17.} I really didn't want to see Moe again, and if that was what was required to get a job in Bayonne, I'd have preferred options 2, 3, 4, etc. Working in New York City was one of them, but they required that one had at least "attended some college" or be in possession of a union card.

So, the decision was rather easy. Foregoing financial independence and having to see Moe again, I opted for college, and the deferral and possible elimination (which turned out to be the case) of a shrapnelled ass in Viet Nam.

Three out of four ain't bad.

#52- Loss

This jocular diatribe has probably made some readers wonder if the writer has been disingenuous in not speaking of the sad times. Their suspicions are well founded. Like the victims of sexual abuse, these things are hard to talk about and in most cases are left unsaid.

However, in the interest of truth, the writer is compelled to lay on the maudlin stuff through the tears.

I had my first girlfriend at the age of seven. She was 32 and similarly experienced in matters of the heart. No, she was seven and in my second grade class. Madonna and I kissed a few times, and spent more time holding hands and skipping down the street. I don't recall how it started, but it lasted at least a few months, until one day I went to school and found out that she and her family had moved away. It was quite a shock. I felt empty, alone, and wondered why she had not told me. At the least we could have become pen pals. She must have known. After a few days I realized that this was no bad dream. This was the reality and without explanation, it sometimes ends.

I had some preparation, though. When I was five or so, I used to play with a group of kids, and my best friend was Johnny. We all had hula hoops and did all sorts of things with them.

One day, the group leader, Sharon approached me in a seeming show of surprise and concern, much like your standard TV "news" reporter of 2018. She told me that Johnny's real name was Juan, as if we had been improperly been exposed to a crime. I didn't understand at the time and was thinking "So what?" but thought that the wrong thing to say and remained quiet. Johnny-Juan never again came out to play and in about a month his family moved away.

The same group had a member with Downe's Syndrome. Richie was fat and very un-coordinated. He could never get the hula hoop to spin around him more than twice. Sometimes, in apparent frustration, he'd get angry with the others, say "I'm gonna get you," and chase after us. We'd run and dodge. It was easy to do as he lumbered so slowly. Sometimes he'd even fall.

Then some boy I don't remember moved to the area, and refused to run. He stood there and punched Richie. Richie tried again and got punched again. He was bleeding when his mother took him back in. Richie never came out again and moved away.

My family stayed there, and I began to lose some of the zeal I had in going out.

Just a bit later my mother took me to the park. Some older boys were chasing a frightened kitten. After ten minutes and apparently tired, the kitten tried to hide in the middle of a bush. The fat boy leader dropped a sizable rock in it, breaking its back. He picked up the kitten, now howling in agony, and carried it to the park monitor, asking if she could help this poor kitten he had just found. She called the police, and the cop came within an hour and put the kitten out of its misery with one gunshot.

For some reason this is the story in this chapter which I've never been able to forget. It might be because it solidified my suspicions about male humans. Fatso may not have yet known it, but he was a natural for politics.

So there.

#53- A Serious Ending? Not a Chance

I made a lot of fun of Bayonne during the course of this book. It is far from revelatory. No doubt it could have better been done by any of a number of my half-century-passed friends, were any of them reasonably literate. Haha. By now, the reader must understand that Bruce Springsteen nailed it when he wrote; "The poets down here don't say nuthin' at all. They just stand back and let it all be."

So did many of the other antiquated residents in their mis-remembered youths. As far as I know none of them has yet chosen to tell the tale even though a bit of it is common and actually true. Having been there I know that the residents would make even more fun and laugh about it. Some of it is actually warranted.

I never specifically said what a great place I think Bayonne was for a kid to grow up. Kids didn't need cyber "friends" or "reality" games for fun in old Bayonne. There were loads of other kids to play with on safe streets. That's a relative judgement, using the-preponderance-of-the-evidence's lower legal standard.

If you're anything like me and have forgotten most all of the things which the functionaries deem "significant"; and if you don't fear the ensuing recriminations; and if you have a good lawyer capable of keeping you out of supervised "care" facilities, don't worry. You'll be all right if you just remember where you came from and that; "If you really love your cat, prove it and just put an armpit on her."

The Final End

